“Hope everything comes out okay!”
Or from my boss Eva, the delicate German flower, “How’s the poop-chute, Charlie?”
As age 55 approaches, I have had to make concessions about staying young forever. My youthful smile is now 75% prosthetic, my formerly twelve-pack abs are now holding a forty or so. My hair is mostly still red. In order to keep this old ball a rolling, I have to stay ahead of the game. Hence, preventive medicine.
Doctors have been coming at me with the garden hose for five years now. “Let us have a look up there?” I have had no symptoms or history, but when Obamacare kicked in, and I could start doing some of these things regular people do? I jumped on the chance.
Did I say jumped? More like I stepped up cautiously…
We are right on schedule. My face is smooth as a baby’s butt until 5 PM, after which sandpaper-grading is required. And Rain has left the building. She’s been gone three nights, and I am happy about it.
I am also sad about it.
But mostly happy….
There are a lot of new people at work. Last weekend I told people I wasn’t memorizing any new names until Monday. I saved three spaces in my lump of cranial Swiss cheese. One quit, one gave notice, and one has diarrhea.
One of the newbies has promise. He’s the former fiancé of another new hire, and more on the ball than usual. Yesterday he was called to work just as he arrived home from work. He did an about-face and worked until midnight. Then came back for day shift.
Lord Diarrhea called in again. Southie was running the operation, as Master P and Grinder were taking long weekends. After exhausting his options, he called the new guy and left a message: “Can you work three more hours?”
There was no answer. I told Southie, “The last thing I said was: “Don’t answer the phone. ”
Oh well. After fifteen -hour days a kid needs a nap. He was smart enough to let the call go to voicemail.
A few minutes later, after Southie had called or texted everyone possible, an alternative had been found. It cost Southie an extra twenty bucks cash, but the shift was covered. I texted Festus, who was in the cashier protection program. (Day off.) “You can come out now, it’s been taken care of. ”
Southie retreated to the office, and I patted myself on the back for resisting a more managerial position. It can be lonely at the top.
A few minutes later, as I was texting Festus the gossip, I noticed a blur in my line of vision. What’s this, a Big Mac?
Nope. When the new kid was finishing his long-ass day, I had shared a fair portion of my cinnamon roll with him. It was a free one that Weird Steven had dropped off. “Free is a very good price! ” as Tom Peterson used to say. The new kid agreed, and I told him of some of our roadkill victories, and especially where he could a good deal on cinnamon rolls. I thought no more about it until I saw the flash.That’s no Big Mac, though it probably has as many calories. What that is, is a $4 cinnamon roll that costs $2.50 after 3 PM. I share this only because if I don’t stop eating them I will once again weigh 528 pounds.
And now the night is in transition. It’s already dark, and the wine thieves are wandering like zombies.
I don’t care. Anything to keep my mind off that cinnamon roll. .
“Nah, I’m good, but thank you sir.” I was as old as he was, but I looked better. And he was trying to sell me Altoids. See, the tiny wintergreen ones look just like boner pills.
So the other day when we were on the bus, and Rain asked me for an Altoid, I smiled mischievously.
“Nothing,” I said. Still grinning.
“Oh, come on!”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out my traveling medicine chest, and gave her two Altoids. And then I told her why I was laughing…
It was my day off, and I was ready to be up and out of the house. The library trip is a nice ride. I insist on using the downtown Central Library, even though there are closer ones. There are none closer to my heart, or my work, and it gave me an excuse to check in at The Mothership.
Pre-concert rituals ain’t what they used to be.Yesterday was the Slipknot show, and it was a glorious visit to a time past, when the music was loud and fans were excited. Corey Taylor mentioned right off the bat how the band had once been banned from Portland. (Specifically the Roseland, who didn’t appreciate the boys spraying each other with lighter fluid onstage in such tight quarters. That was before Great White became America’s hottest band.) This was not the ‘Knot of 1999. These boys had grown, musically and otherwise, into thoughtful men.
With big explosive noisemakers!
Ah, lovely Sunday morning. Spent most of the night curled up next to my lovely girlfriend. We went out for Saturday night dinner. I spared no expense, we dined IN at the Taco Bell on 50th & Powell, and I bought a 12-pack! I ordered incorrectly, so we didn’t get to try the Dorito-flavored tacos, which was my intention. Oh well. Rain was okay with that, and it was more of an event than usual for us on a Saturday night.
Saturday started with a four-hour work shift. I’d just finished my week, but folks quit, and it was payday, so we were short-staffed to the extreme. Southie was stuck working the day shift at the Nightclub Store. This cuts deep into his college football-watching time, and a crabby manager is less than optimal, so I offered to cover for a few hours. As long as the night guy shows up.
I was blessed with a four-day weekend, minus a four-hour lunch shift smack-dab in the middle. When the cats are away, the mice will play.
Southie went on a two-week vacation, leaving the inmates in charge of the asylum. There are usually enough veterans to keep the children (new hires) in line and behaving. But, that’s like dealing with six-year-olds. You have to be firm, persistent and loving.
Then there are the Dirt Urchins, who act like retarded four-year-olds. They need to be spanked like sorry-assed stepchildren.
Welcome to math class! Today we will be discussing subtraction. Specifically, the equation above.
In May 1996 I went to Providence Emergency, after collapsing at the bus stop, unable to breathe after walking two blocks. When I checked in, they weighed me on the freight scale at the clinic.
528 pounds. I had a meat-apron that hung almost to my knees, boobs like Aunt Jemima, and each leg was bigger around than the waist of my current girlfriend. I gurgled when I breathed at night. (*When* I breathed at night.) Sleep apnea was a big issue; my nighttime oxygen levels dipped into death territory. Time to turn things around.
I went in for a check-up the other day. I hadn’t had my diabetic numbers looked at in a couple years; I wanted to make sure I wasn’t undoing good work with my imbibing of cookies and ice cream. My number came back 5.2. 4-6 is normal. 7.0 is diabetic. 6.9 was my number in 1996.
I killed diabetes!
The doctor, reading my chart, marveled at my weight-loss numbers. I’ve lost 48 pounds in the last year. And not a speck of meth!
I must confess, I was disappointed when the scale stopped at 216. I wanted to be under 200, but I will take 216. At one time that’s probably how much one leg weighed. The fact that I can look down and see my ‘leetle frenn’ is a big reward. The fact that others can see it is probably close to a miracle.
I have lost a total of 312 pounds. That’s two fully grown adults.
I’m keeping my pass aboard the health-train. Gonna get ‘scoped here soon. No one has looked up my ass since the teen years when I got arrested. I’m going to let someone with a little more business up there take a look this time. I’m sure I’ll share the gory details.
And… My new doctor okayed a test-drive of Viagra. After an amusing question and answer session, she said I am good to go. (Or come, actually.) I just got to make sure I don’t piss Rain off when I take it. That’s not the kind of stiffness in the joints I want to use to score pain pills…
The previous post was written from my smartphone while waiting for a dental appointment. While I can’t say I like the aesthetics completely, I will have fewer excuses for not writing. If nothing else, I can do rough drafts while on the road.
I love being a future old-timer during this era.