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What I Did on My Summer Vacation or Don’t Sit on the Sting Ray September 12, 2011

Posted by Dindy in Animals, humor, Personal.
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A former boss once introduced me at a staff meeting saying, “Dindy has a love/hate relationship with animals. She LOVES them, and they HATE her.” I can see why he might think that as within the previous six months I had been bitten by a brown recluse spider and had also missed several days of work after my cat gave me a severe concussion by dropping a book on my head. I also have a scar on my stomach from when a different cat tried to eviscerate me when I tried to give him a flea bath. In addition, my current dog has on various occasions broken my glasses, given me a black eye, busted my lip, broken my toe (more than once actually) and broken my collar bone. And after tripping over a previous dog, said dog then proceeded to joyously ride my body down a tall, steep hill as though it were a sled, resulting in several cracked ribs on my part  as well as my losing copious amounts of skin on my knees, hands, face and other exposed portions of my anatomy.

So I can see where some people might get the idea that animals don’t exactly consider me to be their best friend. I maintain, however, that despite my various mishaps at the paws or mouths of various animals, their actions against me are not personal. Take, for instance, my experience with a sting ray in Jamaica. Yes, my husband and I finally celebrated our 25th anniversary with a week’s vacation in Costa Rica– almost. We were only six years late and 734 miles off, somehow managing to end up in Montego Bay, Jamaica instead. However, they say good things are worth waiting for, and this trip certainly was as it will probably be  25 years before we get another one.

From the moment we deplaned in Montego Bay, we were impressed by the beauty of Jamaica. Well, actually, we weren’t really impressed until we got out of the airport because it wasn’t particularly pretty inside the terminal. In fact, it was rather hot, muggy and uncomfortable. However, once we got onto the shuttle to our hotel, we realized we were in paradise. We realized it because our driver told us so. “Jamaica is a paradise,” he said. “Our beaches are better than those in the US because we don’t have anything here that can hurt you. No sharks, no jellyfish, no sting rays.”

During the course of our week, he was not the only one who would tell us that. Several tour guides said the same thing– “No sharks, no jellyfish, no sting rays.”

And they were right about Jamaica being paradise. It’s easily one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen: a lush, tropical garden of fruit trees, ferns and palms, set in the midst of a sapphire sea. Our hotel was on the beach, and on our first day I waded out for a quick swim. The still water felt nice, peaceful and quiet. In fact, it was rather boring because there was no surf. I realized that this was due to a coral island about 40 yards from the beach that served as a barrier to the ocean waves. We could hear the surf but not experience it.

Well, that was okay. There were plenty of other things to do. We went tubing down one of the rivers and took a jeep safari and walked up to a nearby shopping center to stimulate the Jamaica economy. We swam in the pool, splashed in a mountain spring and sat under a waterfall. At night we sat out on the beach and looked at the night sky and listened to the distant surf while we chatted idly about nothing in particular. We noticed that there were Jamaicans on the little coral island, fishing in the surf, and as the days passed, I decided that I really wanted to go out to this little island.

Before I booked our hotel rooms, I read an online review from some travelers who said they had swam out to the little island one day. If they could do it, I decided, we could too, so on our last day my husband and I pulled on our swimsuits and water shoes, pointed ourselves at the island and took the plunge. It was a lovely day for a swim; the water was nice and warm and the pelicans circled idly over our heads and occasionally plunged into the water nearby to grab a snack. Bill and I alternated between the side stroke and a modified breast stroke, not in any real hurry, but just enjoying the water and the experience.

Then we felt something at our feet. It wasn’t fish, we realized quickly, but kelp. The water grew decidedly more and more shallow until we were no longer able to swim but were forced to wade through the kelp. Ewwwwwww! It felt pretty gross, actually, but we figured it was only about 20 more yards to the island so we squunched forward.

Then we hit something worse than kelp– silt. The last 10-15 yards to the island consisted of a thick layer of silt. Deep, oozy, sucky, squunchy, slimy, quicksand-y silt.We’d take a step and our foot would go down, down, down into the mud, mud, mud until we were sunk almost to our knees. We’d pull our foot out- pop! — and then have to bend down and find our water shoe, pull it out of the silt and put it back on our foot. Behind us were 5, 10, 15 yards of silt and then kelp. In front of us was more silt and then island. We discussed turning back but bravely decided we had come so far, we might as well go all the way, so on we went. Step forward. Sink in mud. Pull foot up. Pop out of mud. Feel for shoe. Put shoe on foot. Over and over and over again.

“This is great!” we said to each other repeatedly.

“An adventure!”

“And we’re really getting our aerobic exercise too!”

Finally we made it to the island. I admit, by that time I wanted nothing more than to fling myself down on the beach and sleep for about ten years, exhausted by my trudge through the silt. However, the surface of the island was not conducive to such activities as it consisted of rocks- large rocks. We couldn’t even sit on the rocks as they all had sharp, spiky, pointed surfaces that promised severe pain to anyone who attempted to perch on one of them. So instead we explored the island. We took 5 steps and were on the other side. There right in front of us, the waves crashed into the rocks, rolling in from the ocean deep. I watched happily for several minutes. Ahhh! This is what I had come to Jamaica for! Now my vacation was complete– crashing waves, the mist from the ocean spattering against my face, the fresh smell of the ocean breeze.

Finally Bill convinced me that it was time to go back. We stepped back to the other side and looked out at the deceptively tranquil surface that lay between the island and the shore. We were about to take the plunge again– 20 yards of hard slogging before we could get out of the silt and kelp and swim unimpeded to the hotel beach.

Bill set out first– seeing as how he is almost a foot taller than me, he didn’t sink quite as deep as I did. While the silt pulled him in up to his ankles, it would grab me and suck me in up to my knees. Consequently he was able to keep his shoes on most of the time and was able to move faster than me. We were both focused only on one thing- getting out of the silt and kelp, so he moved rapidly ahead. He claims that he was unaware of how far behind I was, but it really wouldn’t have made any difference if he had. There was no way he could have prevented what happened.

So there we were again. Step forward. Sink in mud. Pull foot up. Pop out of mud. Feel for shoe. Pull shoe out of mud. Put shoe on foot. Except it was becoming more and more difficult for me to put my shoe back on because I had to lift one leg out of the water while the other leg was busily sinking into the silt, and because I was tired, I was having a harder time keeping my balance. So I added a new element to the routine. I started falling on my butt.

So the new gait went like this: Step forward. Sink in mud. Pull foot up. Pop out of mud. Feel for shoe. Pull shoe out of mud. Fall on butt. Put shoe on foot. Slow? Yes. Cumbersome? Yes. Effective? Actually, yes. Until the sting ray took offense.

I swear, I didn’t know it was there. How could I when all the guides had assured me that Jamaica was a paradise with no dangerous animals? No sharks. No jellyfish. No sting rays. And technically speaking, I guess the sting ray was not actually on Jamaica, it was in the silt surrounding an island off the shore of Jamaica. But whatever,  technically or non-technically, there it was, buried in the silt. The same silt through which I was slowly and tediously slogging with my version of the Jamaican two step. And since I didn’t know it was there, I wasn’t able to avoid it, and consequently I added a new step to my little routine.

Step forward. Sink in mud. Pull foot up. Pop out of mud. Feel for shoe. Pull shoe out of mud. Fall on butt. Sit on sting ray. Feel excruciating, taser-like pain shoot through my entire leg.

Mercifully, my entire leg and the right side of my butt quickly went numb, so I was unable to feel the venom surging through my veins. I decided that wearing my swim shoes for the protection of my feet was kind of a moot point by then so I took them off, and carried them as I rather more quickly slogged out beyond the kelp and silt to where I could swim to shore– albeit rather awkwardly since my right leg was completely useless. I kept telling Bill that I needed him to look at my butt because something had stung me, and while Bill is normally more than happy to look at my butt, for some reason he was reluctant to do so this time. I’m sure that this had nothing to do with the fact that we were about 20 yards off shore in water that was over both of our heads.

Once in our room, a hotel manager came up to render first aid, but when he realized where on my body I had been stung, he refused to look at my sting and started directing all his questions about the injury to Bill instead of to me. He called a taxi to take us to a local urgent care clinic where we received a fascinating tour of the Jamaican medical system. I’ll spare you the gory details of the ammonium bath to which I was subjected, as well as the absolutely delightful experience of getting on an airplane the next day and spending 8 hours trying to avoid sitting on the right side of my butt during the long flight home.

And yes, I am well aware that Steve Irwin died from  being stung by a sting ray. If I hadn’t known before, I certainly would now because every single person who has heard about what happened to me has mentioned it. I’ve also heard every variation of, “It will turn out right in the end,” that you can think of.

But back to the point of my story– the sting ray didn’t sting me because it hated me. It didn’t even know me. It stung me because there it was, minding its own business, taking a snooze in the ooze when I came along and sat on it. And I’m sure if I look back at all my previous mishaps with animals, the animals will all have perfectly reasonable explanations for why they have tried to kill me in various ways.

All except the concussion. That cat was just plain mean, and he hated everybody. Including me.

The Ramblings of a Grumpy Grandpa September 1, 2011

Posted by Bill in Family Values, humor, Parenting, Personal, Uncategorized.
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This country is in serious trouble because there is a problem that, as far as I can tell, is NOT being addressed.   Of course, given our current situation in Washington D. C.  (the septic tank overfloweth) it’s a problem that is going to have to be solved by you and me – the people both common (you) and uncommon (me). 

And the problem is:

Mail Carriers.

Fed Ex, UPS, and USPS – all of them.  Each and every one. 

 Today I was babysitting my grandson while my daughter went to work.  Brent  (my grandson, although I do occasionally allow my wife to claim partial ownership) woke up too early and as a result was in a very grouchy, fussy, unhappy mood.  And he likes to share. 

Finally though I had him down for his first nap (he is 9 months old in case you’re wondering).  Just 5 minutes after getting him down my daughter comes home from her work.  Fortunately he slept through her coming home. 

My daughter had a client to see in three hours and since she was tired from a lack of sleep (she’s a partying type of gal and although she claims it’s the result of developing lesson planes and Brent’s midnight feedings and such she don’t fool me none).

Well since Brent was asleep in his crib in his room and my daughter was asleep in her bed in her bedroom and since I was also a bit tuckered out from the constant studying needed to maintain my A average in college I decided to lay down on the couch and get a bit of a nap myself. 

For 23 minutes that plan worked like a charm.  And then the doorbell rang.

Actually, it didn’t just ring.  It gonged.  My daughter and her husband have  the loudest doorbell I have ever been woke up by.  I will say though that it did get results.

I jumped off the couch before my eyes were even open.  My daughter comes charging out of the bedroom.  And their dog, Amelia, started barking up a storm, even louder than their doorbell and a whole lot more insistent. 

All three of us rush the door to keep whoever had rung the doorbell from ringing the dag-nabbed thing again.  And despite being atheists we were all praying that the noise had not woken Brent up.  Well, two of us were.  I think Amelia didn’t care – she was just having a good old doggy time having an excuse to bark. 

Anyway, my daughter reached the door second (Amelia was first).  She pushes Amelia aside and flings open the door to accost, browbeat, kick, hit, spit on, slap, yell at and in general make whoever was on the other side of the door miserable and forever regretful for daring to ring  her doorbell.  Opening the door she (and myself) discovered that the craven coward had fled and that no one was there. 

However there was a package.

Now, it don’t really matter which carrier delivered it cause they all do the same thing.  Put it on the porch, ring the doorbell, and then high tail it out of there. 

Let me just ask this one itty bitty question – WHY????!!!!!

I mean, if you’re not going to wait for the person to get to the door and hand it off to them then WHY ring the bell?  Do you ring the bell when you put mail in our mailbox?   Heck No!

Just leave the blasted package on the porch.  We’ll see it at some point when going in and out and without all the grief and suffering caused by ringing the doorbell and running.  I can’t begin to count the times when I have run out the bathroom pulling up my pants and trying to get the belt buckled and zipper done before I reach the door(that’s hard to do without falling down).   Only to find a package instead of a person.   Then I have to go back to the bathroom and start up where I left off.  At my age that can be kinda hard to do sometimes. 

I swear that the head of each of these three outfits must have been one of those annoying kids who think it funny to go up to a house, ring the doorbell, and then run away.  It wouldn’t surprise me at all to find out that they have all gotten together and set a date when every house in the United States of America – or heck, the world for all I know – receive a package on the same day so that all of their mail carriers can drop it off on the porches of hundreds of millions of homes, ring the doorbell, and run away.  They must be rolling around laughing inside their penthouse office suites, thinking about this doggummed, obnoxious, juvenile prank being done on a world wide scale – their fantasies writ large. 

Anyway, my daughter brought the package in.  As she did there came from the back of the house the sound we both dreaded most – Brent’s wailing.  Actually I dreaded it more than my daughter cause since I was the babysitter I was the one who got to stay up with him while she went to finish off her nap. 

Crabby and grouchy Brent from the morning was gone now.  Now I was dealing with the Very Grouchy, Upset, I Don’t Like Anything Not Even Grandpa Brent. 

Not fun.

So – since our politicians for sure aren’t going to deal with this issue I’m taking matters into my own hands.  I’m creating a sign to put over the doorbell which reads:

DO NOT RING THIS

DOORBELL

Quietly put the package on the porch, back up softly and quietly and then just plain go AWAY!

Just in case that don’t work I’m learning how to shoot a gun.  Once I get that down I’ll get me one.  And a silencer.

Dagburned mail carriers.

Postscript – Just now noticed that although I named my grandson and the dog I didn’t name my daughter.  Well, actually I did name my daughter and now that I think about it my daughter and her husband named Brent and Amelia.  What I meant though is that in this blog I provided the names of the dog and grandson but not my daughter.  But that’s OK, cause as long as you get the big stuff right the little, unimportant details can slide right on by.   Right Fritha?

New and Modern Ways of Becoming Embarrassed August 29, 2011

Posted by Bill in humor, Manners, Uncategorized.
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Today I witnessed a behavior that caused a young woman some embarrassment and thought I would disseminate that behavior in order that others might profit from her mistake. 

The first day of fall semester started at TCC today.  This semester my classes are at Trinity River Campus – the campus by the Trinity River (seems an appropriate name).  Beautiful grounds and so, so buildings. 

Anyway, my morning class was in a lecture hall that was right next to the river.  What is really nice is that the wall behind the instructor is glass – the omnipresent mirrored glass – so that we had a good view of the river going by. 

The first I realized that something else was going by – being a good student and paying attention to what the instructor was saying – was when several members of the class started laughing.  Looking around I quickly realized why.

There was a young woman who had been walking on the walkway between the river and the building.  Before coming in she apparently wanted to make sure she looked her best.   Looking straight into the class she hitched up her blue jeans and checked them out.  Then she adjusted her blouse and worked on her hair before leaving. 

And I must say that she looked good when she walked into our door a moment later.  I hope someone told her why so many people were laughing when she came in.   If not, she must have thought us a jolly class with a witty instructor.  Oh, were that only true.   

As I write this it occurs to me that modern life affords us many new ways to fall into embarrassment that did not exist 100 years ago.  Given that be warned that – whether it embarrasses me or not – I might post some more on modern ways of being embarrassed.

Marx Brothers and Child Birth September 27, 2009

Posted by Bill in Memories, Personal, Uncategorized.
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Now my wife and I agree on most things – religion, money, politics, and so forth.  But there is one huge issue that has been a chink in our marital harmony and bliss. 

I love the Marx Brothers and she does not. 

In fact she has a rather irrational dislike for them.

When we were dating and  first married she wasn’t like this.  She was not wild about the Marx Brothers, but she didn’t dislike them either.  Kind of a neutral “they’re OK’.  I thought I could work with that.  You know how it is, you go into a marriage knowing that there are some things that your spouse is wrong about but you figure you have all the time in the world to change her. 

Boy, was I wrong.

I took her to Marx Brothers film festivals.  Watched the TV on late night  showings of Marx Brothers movies.  I talked to her about them and told her how fabulously funny they were both on and off the set.  I bought books about the Marx Brothers.  But none of that moved her beyond “They’re OK.”  Until the birth of our first daughter.

Now, my wife and I are approaching old fogeyhood.  Which means that at the time of our first daughters birth there were no such things as VCR’s much less DVD’s and cable shows that you could record.  Which, of course, meant that you couldn’t buy your favorite movies, nor tape them on TV.  When they showed, they showed, and if you missed them, you missed them.   

Now I won’t go into the frantic rush to the hospital through wild torrential rains, howling winds, fallen tree blocked streets, reports of tornadoes, getting lost in the night and having our first child in the car just outside the hospital.  Mainly because none of that happened. 

The weather was nice and we got to the hospital and were admitted in good time.  The only real glitch was our nurse.  Its funny, our nurse in the civilian hospital acted like a military drill sergeant.  Our nurse for our second child who was born in a military hospital was very kind and caring and patient.  So much for stereotypes.  But I’ll let my wife tell about that.

However I will say that childbirth is apparently a very trying and painful experience.  I am a keen observor and notice little details like that.  Add to that a drill sergeant nurse and my wife was definitely stressed.  Fortunately though they had a TV that you could watch between contractions – at least until the soon to be mother was dilated enough to wheel into the room where the actuall birthing would take place. 

Now between holding my wife’s hand, timing contractions,  offering encouragement and refraining from offering advice (at least after that first time) I noticed that the TV was there.  I also noticed the time.  I also remembered that one of the TV stations was showing a Marx Brother film – A Night at the Opera. 

Now noticing my wife’s stress and thinking that she needed something to take her mind off the discomfort and the pain I, being the  supporting and thoughful husband that I am, of course turned the TV on to A Night at the Opera.  We had missed the very beginning but not by much.  In fact the very funny stateroom scene on the ocean liner was about to come on.

Now at first my wife did not seem to notice the TV was even on – I believe I turned it on during one of the contractions.  But afterwards I pointed out to my wife that a Night at the Opera was on.  She didn’t say anything but did give me a rather … strange look.    But that was OK.  I figured that when we got to the stateroom scene she would start to really appreciate what I had done.  A good laugh makes any situation better.

However the stateroom scene came and went and while I laughed she didn’t.   In fact she glared at me.  But that was OK.  I figured that sometimes these things take some time and that by they time they wheeled her into the birthing room she would be laughing away.  Not only that but our daughter, because of this, would be beaming and smiling when born and instead of a cry we would hear laughter. 

Boy, was I wrong.

Instead when it came time to wheel my wife in to the birthing room she still had not laughed.  In fact I think she had made some rather rude remarks but I am not sure.  You know how it is with a good Marx Brothers movie. 

Anyway when they started to wheel her into the birthing room I quickly realized that I faced a cruel dilemna.  They were just starting the climatic opera scence.  I love that scene.  So I asked the drill nurse if they could wheel the TV along with my wife into the birthing room.  She gave me a withering glance and snapped no.  My wife made another rude comment. 

So, as they were wheeling my wife away I stood there going “Marx Brothers, birth of first daughter?  Marx Brothers, birth of first daughter?”  I eventually decided on the birth of my first daughter and after a last lingering glance at Groucho on the balcony going “Boogie, boogie, boogie” I left to witness the birth of my first daughter (almost too late). 

However even though she eventually got over being mad at me her “I’m  OK with the Marx Brothers” changed to be an active dislike of them.   I had not only failed to win her over but had somehow made the situation worse.  I still don’t understand how such a helpful action on my part could be so unappreciated.

But I am consoled in the fact that both of my daughters love the Marx Brothers.

“Let the joy be unconfined.  Let there be dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons, and necking in the parlor.”