Feckless Fabiform Fistula, Batman!

The Fredster and I made an incredible team today:

• We left the Manor on time for an 11:30 appointment to have my port flushed (still a questionable sounding activity, in my opinion... I hear someone hiding in an alley, wrapped in a trench coat, hissing, "Wanna get yer port flushed, Lady?"); 

• Traversing the entire length and most of the width of the hospital campus, we scored a quick, if over-priced, spicy chicken sandwich which we ate in record time under the atrium sky, all whilst recounting amusing anecdotes, Steve Jobs' last words, and providing reconnaissance for one very confused old woman in search of her wayward nephew ("He's my ride!");

• We arrived for the second appointment early, an integral part of the plot to make the office manager feel guilty, and therefore I was seen at 1:10 rather than 1:30;

• After some minor difficulties remembering where we parked Ruby, the Honda CR-V, we loaded the wheelchair and zipped down the road about half a mile, pulled into some primo gimp parking, then made nice with Paindood's Evil PA, who was, as anticipated, her usual bitch self;

• I grabbed the Rx, Fred called for the elevator, and we finessed the pharmacy's minefield such that I owed nothing for meds (and scored free parking, too!).

There were some perplexing moments, like the three identical compliments I received for an ugly toxic lime scarf -- chosen to conceal part of the old lady embroidery on my "wearable art" old lady sweater.  Oh, and the homicidal looks we got from our fellow waiting room denizens as we incessantly commented on the CNN closed captioning.  Hmm, and that smart remark by the PA about "admiring [my] spunk." 

Spunk?  I have spunk?

What is she trying to do, confuse me?

image from microscopesblog.com

The most perplexing of moments, though, may be the one to come.

The only appointment that really mattered to me was the second one, at the pleasant and efficient office of my MDVIP Go-To-Guy.  I cannot remember if I shared the excitement over the development of a FISTULA (woo hoo!) on the inside of my left upper arm... If I didn't, please feign excitement: now!

Look, you would be excited, too, if the only other way to culture the stuff growing in your shoulder joint and humerus were to let the orthopedic surgeon yank your prosthesis in exchange for an antibiotic-laced surgical cement spacer.  (Say that 10 times without taking a breath;  Think that once without abject weeping.)

Because the filthy low-down pathogen in my shoulders has thus far refused to grow in the laboratory, and has returned despite 42 weeks of intravenous antibiotic therapy using potent gorillacillens, despite seven major surgeries, heck yes, I hope that a clear culprit might emerge from today's relatively painless procedure!  My surgeon would love to have an advantage for once, before he has to give the reverse replacement a try -- something that's likely to happen before the end of the year.  If we identified the bacteria and found the correct antibiotic therapy to zap it?  Before the surgery? Happy dances of profound joy!  (Now with actual arm movements, too!)

But.

However...

My MDVIP Go-To-Guy's nurse may not have used the best of techniques when she swabbed the thick, yellow pus (with occasional bloody streaks... What?  You're trying to eat?).  For instance, she may have set one of the swabs down such that the tip was on the counter top. If there is growth in the lab, how can I trust that it isn't a contaminant... and do I bring that possibility up with anyone?  What if it comes back staph?  I have a MRSA history and spent most of ShoulderMan's hospitalizations in strict isolation.  Medical settings are purportedly rife with bugs...

I just went blank while it was going on.  She had to do a fair amount of physical cajoling and basically bullied the thing to get the samples she wanted, so I was sort of lost in Biofeedback Land.  As she was packing up the samples, my shocked mind replayed the images.  Is there a 15 second rule for bacterial culture swabs?

I must add that she's the best nurse I've ever encountered, that I respect her immensely, and even more appreciate the many ways she helps me -- over the phone, in person, and with an awesome and unerring eye for veins-that-will-give-blood.  For all I know, she had scrubbed that counter top just prior to my arrival such that it harbored not a single microbe.

So anyway... we did it, we made it to every appointment, and *early*, too.  I made a kick-ass roasted red pepper soup last night -- meant for the usual Wednesday Festivities that Fred enjoys with the Militant Lesbian Existential Feminists, except that only one of The Gang showed up, and she had to leave early for a dance class... so the soup came home with Fred.  Or that's the story the boy told, anyway.  

Soup with dark rye toast.  A bed.  Purple, swollen legs.  Purple swollen fingers.  A good book with just enough vision left to read it. The satisfaction of having made a dent in my "to do" list.  The hope of something identifiable and treatable growing in the lab.  The hope that nothing grows in the lab except what is in *me*!

Fred was heroic.  Fred is always heroic.

***   **   ***   **   ***   **   ***   **   ***   **   ***   **   ***   **   ***   **   ***

Oops.  Almost forgot.  Something did happen that I am working hard to forget but probably should work to understand:  Before we acquiesced to the sexiness of the spicy chicken sandwiches and the hard benches under the hospital atrium sky, we went to the cafeteria.  It was my suggestion, even, born of a fond recollection of their fine frozen yogurt.  Surrounded by medicos in uniform, covered in badges and stethoscopes, with pen lights and bandage scissors peeking out of huge utilitarian pockets... I kinda freaked out.

First, it was incredibly loud and busy.  Remember that I stay in the protective confines of the Haddock family's ancestral home, Marlinspike Hall, except for these exciting blitzkrieg-type forays into the Metro Lone Alp area in central Tête de Hergé.

Remember, also, that this is the hospital where the Sentinel Event (that pretty much ended life as I knew it) occured back in May, 2002.  Yes, it does seem ridiculous to say a Sentinel Event of such magnitude "occured." I never thought I'd lend it a passive voice.  Progress?  Regression?  Denial?  Basic bad grammar?

When I dress Fred in the adjective "heroic," this is what I mean:  He was ahead of me in the cafeteria, carrying two of everything without being asked, when I veered my chair to the one vacant area (by the salad bar, of course).  He must have sensed my distress.  That, or he heard the clunka-clunka of my defective left front wheel stray from his plotted course.  In just a couple of short, well-constructed sentences, he diagnosed my malaise and recommended an immediate exit -- which, I am convinced, saved both the day and my sanity.

I've long suspected that I have PTSD, as embarrassing as that is, given that what I went through is precisely nothing in comparison to the terrors behind the disorder in military and rescue personnel, in people who have been traumatized by real violence.  It was much worse early on -- back in the summer of 2002, I would relive the fall in the hospital ICU every time Erin, my physical therapist, tried to help me stand up beside the hospital bed we had to rent.  I was left with a huge fear of standing -- exactly what I had been trying to do when I went down in May.  Then, until my courage and physical strength was reestablished, I lived with unexpected fears, too -- of fire, of being trapped, of being alone.  It was truly ridiculous.  Let us say that to declare Fred heroic will never be an overstatement, so long as the memory of those awful days persists.

Now my "episodes" are restricted to actual visits to that hospital, seeing one of the guilty doctors or nurses, although sometimes just a memory or a dream can do it.

What must have really primed the pump?  Being hospitalized there last month.  Talk about rebirth of terror, rebroadcast of the ridiculous before, during, and after of the Sentinel Event... But explain to me how that brief visit to the cafeteria eclipsed even the admission as a PTSD trigger?

Therapy?  I don't need no stinking therapy... Besides, we'd have to travel outside the confines of Tête de Hergé, as there are no mental health disorders in the native population here.  Well, none they'll admit to, you know?  There is a huge substance abuse problem, in my opinion, but having the new treatment center located in our barn may influence my conclusions.  Most of the residents continue to be carnies and circus folk from beyond these borders.

Anyway, just this brief exposition has helped me put things back into a more proper perspective.  So thanks for allowing me, O Interwebs, to jettison that mental debris...

Therefore:  Good night to all, and sweet dreams!

*the first reading of the cultures, i am told, will be reported late monday or tuesday... 

Lazy Daze

So I played my "tease" earlier this afternoon, by mentioning that Fred and I had taken Ruby the Honda CR-V on a jaunt to the orthopedic surgeon's office.

That's right, we zigged north, then zagged a bit back to the south on a different parallel, turned left (which I like to call "west") and followed the edge of the Airport Lagoon (very near the government offices for the theocratic divisions of the Lost Alp canton) until we reached ShoulderMan's hip-and-happening, totally digital office suites.  We have been there so often since the summer of 2008 that Fred is considering adding it to the underground tunnels issuing from the Haddock's ancestral home, Marlinspike Hall.  But since we are really just Lower Caste Caretakers of The Manor, he feels like he needs Captain Haddock's permission before digging.

You will note that I did take the time to copy-and-paste an entry earlier, as I felt like blogging but also wanted to pout and drink a fifth of whiskey.  It was a long appointment and we got lost on the way home.  My fault completely, because for some reason I said "straight ahead" when I meant "northeast."

I just spent a fair amount of time filtering the day through my sieve of a brain as I composed an email to a dear friend, Ms. Diana-With-An-H.  And since another dear friend or five will be dropping by the blog tonight, I figured I'd post my second cut-and-pasted email of the day.  You'll probably learn more details about ShoulderMan's digs and doings that way than if I just sat down and started some sort of fantastical preamble...

So "Howdy High" to my several Carols, the Brother-Units, Tully, and the incomparable Pig Man -- plus to all my favorite Spammer Blog Bots and especially to whomever it is back in Berkeley who still visits every 17.2 hours, as well as The Weirdo from Ames, my most faithful reader.

And how is this for a promise?  The next post, which may come tonight, actually, will be the long awaited Feline Video Update you've been CLAMORING for.  "Clamoring,"  I say, "CLAMORING!"  Yes, we are in need of some not-so-serious amusement around here.

Here is the missive just delivered to one of the Interwebs Best Buddies, Diana-With-An-H.  Oh, so that I may be even *more* lazy, here's what you need to know about her, beyond her general wonderfulness: she was cooking up something awesome for her husband (a very lucky man, in ways I cannot begin to explain) and she has been helping nurse a friend who just had a mastectomy.  "Lazy Son" is, specifically, Nanette's son... and the three of them went out to lunch yesterday.

Krapola!  I probably should peck out a bunch of footnotes to further erode your reading pleasure!

But I won't!

hey.

good for you -- now come cook us something!  nah -- yesterday i whipped up some soup for fred and the lesbians (+ miss kitty, grrrr) for the famous wednesday night "church" supper.  i was so out of it, it took me about 4 hours, which was ridiculous.  but it was good!  cream of potato with charred red pepper, black beans, and caramelized veggies.  he brought home the leftovers and it fed us today, which was nice.

we are doing a lot better today, for some reason.  or ... NEWS FLASH:  when i don't say a word about how i am feeling, he perks up and chatters away, the sweet boy.

i bet brenda did feel awful today... she sounded a little too energetic the other day.  and the radiation can be very debilitating but she knows that. she sounds like one tough cookie.  i hope she gets some rest... bless her heart. (and yours)

hey, is lazy son any sharper when annette is around?  and how are you and annette doing these days?

okay... so.  the visit was not good.  there were, however, two hysterical moments.  

1.  remember, i practically LIVED in the man's office from august 2008 thru the fall of 2010, and even popped in after losing my insurance.  he has an intellectually-challenged guy who works as his nursing aide, named Rex.  Rex is sweet as heck and knows me very well.  when he called my name to go back to the exam room, i was filling out paperwork and promptly dropped the clipboard, sending the forms flying, then knocked over a sign on the table when i reached to retrieve them.  well, while i was picking all that up... a woman got up, said "here i am," and went back to the back with him!  so that left me in front of the closed lock door yelling "rex!  rex!  i am locked out!"  finally a receptionist went and opened the door for me.  and there was rex, giving me the evil eye.  i didn't know rex had an evil eye in him!  i said "hi" and flashed him a toothy grin.  he said, suspiciously, "who are you? and who is the woman i just put in your room?"  turns out this long, lithe, lovely lady was pissed at having had to wait, and that, according to her, she should gone before me, having arrived earlier.  i mean, who gives a shit about stuff like "appointment time"?!  rex thought he had lost his mind, or that there were two profderiens (an *absurd* proposition) or that i had experienced a miracle, been cured, and was out of the wheelchair, looking like a fox.  they didn't even make her go back to the waiting room, but he did at least get my chart out of the box on her exam room!  rex is really wonderful, usually -- the time i kept landing in icu hitched up to a respirator?  when i went for the first postop appt, rex gave me a bear hug (can you say OUCH?) and burst into tears. "i was so worried about you!" 

2.  where was fred during all of that?  well, last night, at the "church" supper, he was washing a dish, put his hand in the dish drainer and got stabbed in the finger by a knife that someone had left point-up.  in the doctor's waiting rm, it opened up and started bleeding again.  so he got up to ask for a bandaid... and the woman handed him a "medical history" form, saying "you'll have to fill this out, first."  
the whole room cracked up...

okay, now for the serious stuff.  there is a 2 mm "black-ish" space surrounding the shaft portion of the implant, extending around its end for at least 3-4 inches.  that's the major change... and it usually means you-know-what.  it is very likely an infection as the only other option is air and he didn't 
agree with me that maybe i hiccuped and the air went down the shaft of my prosthesis into 
the humerus itself.  

he's a spoil sport.

the other changes were not "new,"  they were just "worse."  my rotator cuff is *still* missing!  it ran away and just left me with a bunch of painful calcium deposits, and they aren't even in the bone (since there isn't anything but titanium in that area now) but are sitting in the soft tissue.  ouch.  okay, so i thought it might reappear after it first ran away back in february 
-- i have always been fond of my rotator cuff tendons.

come home to moi, my tendons!

shoulder humor.  sad.  

anyway, there's been a widening of the space between the "ball" and the "shaft" parts of the shoulder prosthesis as a result.  it was also just very... i dunno... irregular looking.

he did not even push the range of motion of the arm -- first, he sees what you can do, unassisted (which was almost nothing), then he asks you to relax it while he moves it.  he almost never STOPS when you say/yell "stop," but today he barely even tried to move it.  second, he asks you to put your palms together and then he tries to hold them together while you attempt to move them apart. we did some weird imaginary form of that part of the exam. then everyone stood around and made noises-of-sadness-and-pity over the progression of the CRPS in my arms and legs.  {rolling eyes toward heaven}  shoulderman won many points by asking "why did you shake my hand?" now *that*, my friend, is CRPS/RSD*awareness*.

there *may* be more fractures up above as well as perhaps in the shaft.  i don't really care about that but he does, because of the fact that the next prosthesis -- IF there will be a new one -- has to be a REVERSE prosthesis.  to understand how different that is, here is a normal prosthesis: 

and this... is a "reverse" prosthesis. The Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Spanish Inquisition is credited with its design:

anyway, for today, he gave me a shot of [what else?!] steroids and some local anesthetics.  he asked me to have go-to-guy try to get some sort of results from the CT scan they did while i was in the hospital last week.  in other words, like me, he doesn't believe that they "didn't scan the left shoulder."  i hate to be the queen of conspiracy theorists but hell, i was *there* and i *know* they scanned it.  the a-holes just didn't want to be suspected "liable" for even more damage to this rock star of a body than they already have been.  grumble, grumble, curse, curse.  they should know that if i haven't sued them by now, they are not gonna get sued... i've never sued anyone in my life. 

i should have taken every available penny from the bastards back in 2002. 

the plan is that i am going back in about 6 weeks -- if i can wait that long.  i get to go in early if i reach what we are calling "desperation."  i wanted to respond to that escape clause with something really snarky, but then realized i'd probably burst into wimp gimp tears.  he wants me to hang in there until after i finish the antibiotics i started last week, then get back on the other antibiotic that go-to-guy is experimenting with... after he chats with go-to-guy and orders maybe another aspiration of the joint (i am against that... we have done EIGHT aspirations and NOTHING grows in the damn lab... why do we keep doing them?), after more imaging studies... and then he will likely remove the current prosthesis and insert one of those spacers laced with antibiotics.  

why? because he can't put in any sort of prosthesis if there is infection.  the spacers can stay in for months, tho the last two he implanted on that side had to be taken out because they were causing fractures and blahblahblah. in other words, i may end up with a series of spacers.  i also have a pretty good chance of ending up without a shoulder at all.  but we won't go there now.

this is what a spacer looks like (modigliani design):

 he gave me one like that once, but he also made one on the spot in the operating room by shaping it himself out of surgical cement.  that, i would have liked to witness!

well... this is way too long, sorry.  my brain is on overdrive, my temp is 101, and i feel like my legs are aflame!  woo hoo!  it's party central in the manor tonight.

i hope you are in your jammies, warm, cozy, and chilling out.  tell brenda i send her good wishes and hope she kicks cancer's big fat ugly butt.

oh -- when we got home?  we found rampant destruction... since dobby and marmy fluffy butt both came for the butt whacks they love so much, it was easy enough to infer that the guilty party was one buddy the kitten, whom we found hiding in the dirty clothes hamper.  more on that in tomorrow's tome!

smooches galore and fruited loops,

moi 

It's Bob: The Rules of the Road

REPOST from March 26, 2009 This recounts the "Bill"-episode to which my friend Kathleen refers in the next post.


On a recent road trip, Fred took the wheel and appointed La Belle Bianca Castafiore, swathed in a pink feather boa and topped with a demure chiffon petal hat with netting (in ivory), to ride Shotgun.

It would be tacky of me to point out that she wore a *stunning* brick red sheath dress.

According to About.com, that well-known authority on haute couture, the sheath dress "features a figure-hugging silhouette with a defined waist (no belt or waistband). This short (mid-calf or shorter) dress works well in sleeveless styles on well-toned bodies."

I will give you a moment.

As you can imagine, I was fairly put out -- offended in both my fashion sense and my profound sense of decorum -- because I am of the Old School. To ride Shotgun, a person must call Shotgun and wear only fine natural fibers, textiles that obey the dictates of a discrete palette. It is a privilege to be earned, that one merits, not a given right to exercise -- sort of like healthcare. But I won't quibble over words of hierarchy, over Terms of Snoot; I will simply posit the well established Official Shotgun Rules, according to which:

* Shotgun must be called, and the calling witnessed.
* Shotgun may only be called within the timeframe established within the traditions of one's merry company. In our case, this would be within 5 minutes of departure, and when every potential rider and driver is in the presence of the dragster, the very lovely Ruby, Honda CR-V.
* You must have shoes on. No one cares if you sport shoes in the car or upon arrival, but you must be shod, chaussé, in order to call Shotgun.
* If Shotgun is not called by the time a hand grips the shotgun door handle, appointment shall be made by the driver. (Here at Marlinspike Hall, Tête de Hergé, we deviate from the International Rules, whereby: Shotgun can no longer be called once someone's hand is holding the shotgun door handle. This officially stakes their claim to Shotgun and calling it at this time is just redundant. This is one scenario where a person does not actually have to say Shotgun to get the seat. This rule's importance is that no one has to be around for you to stake your claim to Shotgun, whereas usually one other would-be occupant must be present for you to call it.)
* Rock, Paper, Scissors resolves all disputes -- from map-reading and how best to evade rush hour traffic to who shall pay for gas and, more important than fuel, sundries. (Why more blogosphere time is not devoted to the discussion of sundries -- from bar snacks to oddments -- I don't know, for ours is a sundry-driven culture.)
* And the rules go on and on, open to careful revision due to the plastic, evolving nature of Shotgun. You get the idea. This is not a wild, ungoverned affair -- we are civilized, we do things a certain way. Tradition *matters*.

Back to my anecdote. Here is the rule that, when broken, finally chapped my delicate hide that day: If someone is driving an automobile other than its owner and the owner becomes a passenger, then the owner automatically gets Shotgun. When applied, this rule shows respect to the owner of the car.

Ruby, the Honda CR-V, is mine. She is equipped with Bruno, the wheelchair lift. Bruno is also mine. My point? I am the owner; I rule. I get Shotgun, de jure, de facto.

That La Belle Bianca Castafiore decided to sing out and "call" Shotgun for the first time in her morbidly obese life was just... quaint; That Fred delighted in this aberration? Well, *that* was... dégoûtant!

And so it was that we set out, framed in a modern Decameron, novellas waiting to spring from our lips -- we, the happy travelers, escaping the smog, oppression, and pestilence of our city.

Castafiore up front, me in the back. Fred, all pleased with himself, at the wheel. Truly the makings of a literary event, a salon on wheels.

First, we told tales of hitchhikers and of hitchhiking. I am not a good story or joke teller -- in fact, people around me are prone to disappear, if disappearance is at all possible, when it is my turn to jest or narrate. But in this instance, I had a captive audience.

Still, it was difficult to think of tales that were not already known to Fred. This had me delving, unfortunately, into my supply of Squirrelly Stories. The Good Fredster and I have been together for 18 years -- certainly a relationship that I treasure, and his opinion one that matters much. I was not, however, feeling particularly, um, close to him at that moment, and so it was that I risked his disdain and introduced my audience to Bob.

I dropped out of college at the end of my freshman year. There is no fascinating subtext. It was a perfectly ordinary case of rebellion and confusion. So I moved to a neat-o city, took a short nurse's assistant training, and got a job at a large charity hospital, where I worked in the Post-Intensive Neuro Unit. I am sure these units are now called something that sounds much more chic.

Having been in a whirlwind romantic relationship the previous year, part of the reason for my disaffection with academics, I wanted only to make enough money to keep body and soul together, audit some courses at the nearby university after work, and maybe meet some interesting folk who could show me more of life. To say that I was lacking in savoir faire was an understatement.

Enter Bob.

We met at work. Bob was an LPN -- his job was to dole out the meds. He was 15 years my senior, kind of scruffy, spoke with the distinct regional twang, and seemed truly compassionate to the odd mix of patients we had. On one end of the floor, there were mostly post-op back patients, laminectomies, fusions, diskectomies, and the like, with an occasional brain tumor thrown in for good measure. On the other end? Gorks.

I was there for about two years before I resumed my academic career, finally majoring in what made the most sense: Romance Languages and Literature, with a minor in Anthropology.

Toward the end of my stay, Bob asked me out. I was once again in another relationship at the time, but it was one with no future -- a much older married man who owned a health food store, sold drugs, and raised pythons on the side. Phil's marriage was "open," and I was actually on good terms with his wife, getting to know her rather well over coffee in the mornings. (She was sleeping with my roommate. Indeed, our kitchen was an interesting place to start the day, for in addition to her fondness for Phil's wife, my roomie Debra had an affinity for musicians of all genders and orientations, and she regularly brought them home. It was a toe-tappin' place.)

I had the Castafiore woman and Fred wrapped around my little finger at this point. Fred seemed to be overheating, in fact. His gaping mouth was quite like that of a fish out of water. His face clearly read: Where has my demure and straightlaced Retired Educator gone? How can the trollop of this tale be the same person as my Beloved Smarty-Pants?

Hmm. Earlier I said there was no subtext. There is always a subtext, Dear Reader! Usually, several. But it kills a story to spell them out, much as starting with the punchline kills most of my jokes. I so wanted to tell Fred how great it had been to learn, as part of the lesson of those years, that I was a good and decent person.

Anyway, Bob and I had dinner, then went for a drive in the country.

He cranked up the radio, reached over and took a big plastic bag from the glove compartment of his truck, plopped it down between us, and said, "You first!"

In that bag was a rainbow of pills, tablets, and capsules. Probably over a thousand of them.

Smirking at my sudden paralysis, Bob reached in, scooped half-a-handful, popped them in his mouth, and swallowed them down with his beer. I was cold, and shivering, so scared. By then we had driven well into the mountains, and nature, too, was cold.

Something told me to make myself small. I retreated into my seat and said not a word as Bob returned to the bag of goodies several more times and started on another beer. I had not a clue where we were.

About an hour into the drive, Bob began muttering strange things and shooting scary looks at me. I had assumed monstrous proportions in his mind; I had become some sort of threat.

He did the only logical and gentlemanly thing -- he suddenly pulled the truck over and pushed me out, then drove away at high speed.

For the first time in my 20 years, late, late on a cold night, alone out in the boondocks, I flexed my thumb.

Three cars sped by with no intention of stopping to pick me up. In my heart, I was relieved, for I knew they were all ax murderers.

By the time the burly, hirsute dude in the 18-wheeler Mack truck gently pulled over onto the gravel, I was in tears and hugging myself out in the icy air, feeling strangely insubstantial.

He had a thermos of black coffee, and the heater in the cab was humming. We didn't talk much. I told him where I lived, not thinking that a real hitchhiker would hardly expect to be taken straight to one's front door -- not thinking, also, that Debra might not appreciate me showing an unknown trucker where we lived.

He probably risked some hefty traffic fines by taking that truck onto residential streets, but he did indeed deposit me at my front door -- with not a threatening word or glance, not a moment of rebuke. All I told him was that my boyfriend must have developed car trouble -- leaving him to figure why I would be waiting for my boyfriend up on a deserted ridge in the middle of the night, sporting a coat that was a winter joke.

Fred shook his head. "You were lucky. And you were stupid! And..."

Without a hitch, I began my second "Bob" tale.

Fast forward. I had resumed the life that was expected of me, but at a furious pace. I was completing three years of coursework in two, working full time -- and I was doing it with panache, success.

I am in control. I am cruising.

One night, as I was getting ready for bed when the phone rang.

"Hey, Future Educator! How are you doing, girl?" called out a friendly male voice that was *very* familiar.

"Fine. Really well. Thanks for asking! Who is this?" I asked.

"It's Bob!"

One of my brothers is named Bob. I had a classmate name o' Bob. This Bob was clearly not, however, either of them.

It hit me like a bolt of lightening! "Bob B? Is that you? I didn't think we would ever talk to each other again, after that stint you pulled out on the parkway. You never did apologize, you know..."

Bob and I talked for over two hours -- telling war stories of what it had been like to work with the Laminated and the Gorked, hashing out what happened between us -- he had been under so much work-related and personal stress of which I had been *totally* unaware.

The next night, another marathon phone session. This time, though, he said he'd be heading my way the following day, for a nursing conference taking place at my university. Would it be all right if he stopped by?

"Stop by? Why not stay here and save the motel/hotel money?"

I gave him directions to my apartment. He was to arrive around 7 pm.

After classes, I rushed home to straighten up the place, then back out to do some shopping (flowers, coffee, tea -- and dairy). Back by 6, I smoked a couple of cigarettes, thumbed through some books. By 8, I was discouraged, and hungry enough that I went ahead and cooked the dinner I had planned. A cheese soufflé, my show-off standard.

The phone rang around 10.

"I can't do this to you. I have to tell you the truth. First, don't worry. I am not in your town, and I won't ever show up. I do this for kicks."

"Do what for kicks? What are you talking about. Look... I am over what happened that night. It was a life lesson..."

"Call people up at random, long distance. Tell them my name is Bob. Talk for hours. Learn all there is to know about them... You see, everybody knows a Bob."

And so it was that I won the storytelling competition, winning by an incredible margin over the tired "night I wrecked my motorcycle," and the old "pendant ma jeunesse..." soliloquy.

Best of all, when we pulled into a gas station to refuel, use the restrooms, and acquire sundries, I successfully trumped the Castafiore and Fred, both, by calling Shotgun and regaining my rightful place in the world.

Do I know how lucky I am?

You betcha!

[Download The Decameron, as ebook, for free at the Gutenberg Project.]

Repost: War and Peace: I Have the Power When I'm in the Shower

originally posted 11/15/2009

Good morning, Fearless and Beloved Readers! I've missed you, I really have. Give yourselves a hug.

Have a seat on the red horsehair loveseat over yonder. It's one of the few Victorian Pieces in The Manor. {guffawandsnicker} Go figure, huh? Captain Haddock's more recent ancestors were a wily people, a sang froid of common sense running in their blue, blue veins.

The space that we are in today served them as Reception Hall during the American Civil War, and for roughly 60 years afterward. Back then, it was worth their Snooty While to allow a more plebian sort of individual to attend the legendary Marlinspike Hall Afternoon Teas.

But a few changes were necessary, so as to honor their actual intent.

Horsehair furniture. Horsehair as stuffing, horsehair as "fabric." *Small* furniture of unwieldy proportion, shape, and style. American furniture! To provide the necessary Provenance of Snoot, most of it was purchased from a small dealer specializing in the paraphernalia and artefacts of Abraham Lincoln.

We're talking austere. And sturdy.

But mostly? We're talking un-freaking-comfortable! Somehow, some way, the earthier visitors to The Manor found that the rich folks' furniture variously pinched their derrières, squeezed their oversized working class thighs, and often made them break out in an itchy rash. Slowly but surely, word spread, and the afternoon receptions thinned out, freeing up The Haddocks for their beloved Tea Time Mahjongg Tournaments.

Oh, yeah. They also switched from what most people in this region of Tête de Hergé (Très Décédée, D'ailleurs) prefer to drink, a strong polyvalant coffee, to thinly brewed and overly sweetened English teas.

That's the succinct version of why there is such a massive collection of Bone China Coffee Cups, Mugs, and Saucers -- and of why it is hidden from Common View. It must be said, doggone it, that must also be the reason for the chintzy, stained tea cups and the dented, tarnished silver tea sets.

It's not that Haddock Stock disapproved of tea, per se. There are over three dozen delightful tea pots in the working kitchens in the East Wing, alone.

But today, we chose to greet you here in La Recepción! Yes, we are planning a surprise renovation for this space -- from Lincolnesque austerity to teeming, busy Spanish Colonial. Coffee reigns supreme again! I know, it will be a striking change, yes? From itty-bitty loveseats to massive, in-your-face stuff!

My! I do go on. The words seems to have built up over the past few weeks. Explosive posting.

Anyway, please pour yourself a cup of this fine, winey yirgacheffe. It is Fred's favorite from the years he lived in Ethiopia. And why not, let's use the Imported Fine English Bone China Coffee Accoutrements!

Here, look in the bottom of the china cabinet -- note the paw foot, the curved glass -- no, the bottom, there you go! Smart Reader!

If you're a strict, unyielding traditionalist, use one of those Royal Crown Derby Posies-patterned coffee cups and saucers -- a very fine bone china, with both gilded rims and handle bands! Stop! Right there! Very good, Sweet Reader.

It's part of Captain Haddock's extensive Imported Post War Bone China Collection.

Now that everyone is seated, all comfy (how is that horsehair treating your various tushes?),

the inmates here at Marlinspike Hall would also like to extend a Warm Welcome to My Two Cyber Stalkers. I think I spotted them sprinting between haystacks earlier this morning, as dew lay on the Manor Holdings. I'm unclear as to how the Second Cyber Stalker came to be on scene, but I surmise that she is basically an unbalanced woman fallen under The Spell of The Primary Cyber Stalker. Maybe, if I am good, one of them will leave a comment explaining the exponential growth of my fan base. But until such time as the two of you begin to focus on each other -- the absolutely predictable ending to your saga -- please, make yourselves at home.

Just don't touch anything.

This morning, for the first time in about two months, I woke up feeling pretty darned okay (I don't want to jinx it with excessive exuberance).

The cows are giving sweet frothy warm milk again, sparing us another morning of nasty "non-dairy creamer," and providing The Castafiore and Her Denizens with the raw material for yogurts, various creams, and cheeses. We are thinking of reopening The Manor Dairy.

Marmy and her Fluffy Butt has made peace with Sam-I-Am, thereby helping Uncle Kitty Big Balls to de-escalate his frenetic efforts at a military-style feline coup d'état. Sammy is finally able to doze with both eyes shut. In other Cat ChitChat News, Dobby has learned how to wink when prompted. As we tell him with great frequency, Dobby is a very good boy.

La Bonne et Belle Bianca and Fred have had several run-on and amorphous spats, but today? Both have tweeted at me asking for my version of how and why their internescine battle began. I pretended to have a broken tweeter, thereby encouraging them to give up their fruitless efforts to justify the Recent Unpleasantness. Last I saw? They were off to town in Ruby the Honda CRV, laughing and carefree.

I gotta say, if you will permit me to wander just a little from my tight prose, that this household tweeting has become a real thorn in my imaginary side. How much trouble is it to get off one's lazy arse, leave one's quarters, cross over to the Central Ballroom, and take the Checkered Spiral Staircase to the Former Cloak Room, recently converted into My Reference Room Slash Office?

Exercise your stubby legs, get some bloodflow to that congested brain, enjoy some energizing endorphins!

Fill your lungs with bracing fresh air! [We have ongoing draft issues in that Manor Sector... but that is a Tale of Frustration better suited to another time.] If you absolutely cannot make the trip and the message is of real import? Go low tech and give Dobby a note (on letterhead, of course, for verification of authenticity). He always knows where I am. He is a very good boy.

Well, darn. I seem to be the only Responsible Adult left in The Manor at the moment and some children from a neighboring village have asked to tour The Petting Zoo. Now I've no time to edit, to spellcheck, to render the dull, lackluster phrase more witty.

I had planned for this clear but slightly chatty introduction to lead into a wickedly clever, oh-so-subtle excoriation of right wing conservative assholes. Remember, please, that that is just a stream of adjectives so as to particularize "assholes." In and of themselves, those who are "right wing" or "conservative," let's even add "republican" and the slightly deceptive "libertarian" -- those good folk are not necessarily also nominative assholes.

Now I've only time for a rough esquisse and pompous use of easily translated foreign words.

It seems that some of the less able assholes referenced above have chosen to claim a certain photo of President Obama, his family, and some military officials -- situated on a dais -- to be a snap taken on Veterans Day, reflective of the President's lack of respect for the military, even for the war dead. This, because while everyone else in the photo has either hand to heart or arm raised in salute, the President is just standing there, presumably like an ignorant, superior, snotty dolt.

Something, praise Heaven, made me go to Snopes.com in hopes of a thorough debunking of this obviously manipulated photograph -- I thought perhaps it had been PhotoShopped.

It turns out to be something more insidious. In a way, I am glad to not have time to reproduce the hateful email and blog posts written as illustrative introductions to the photo, which turns out to be an unretouched one, taken not on Veterans Day or at the recent Fort Hood memorial, but considerably earlier, on Memorial Day, at Arlington's Memorial Amphitheatre. It was a ceremony held as adjunct to one held at the Tomb of the Unknowns -- this one honoring blacks who fought in the Civil War.

So President Obama had to travel from one honored site to another. He was slipping into the amphitheatre... Well, I guess presidents don't really get to "slip in" -- quiet and unnoticed -- anywhere. No, they are introduced by that pesky toe-tapper, Hail to the Chief.

The deference being displayed was intended to honor him, as required by Department of Defense bylaws, which dictate that the same gesticulations and do-da shown during The Star-Spangled Banner, another American masterpiece, are to be gesticulated and do-da-ed during Hail to the Chief. Therefore, I am a little glad he is not sticking out his tongue, jumping up and down, beating his chest, and acting the insolent fool that the aforementioned assholes apparently envisioned.

He looks, to me, a mite embarrassed and shy.

No. That's not right.

I just momentarily forgot, is all, in the midst of renewing my relationship with my Beloved Readers, wallowing like a happy pig in the squishy mud of what looks to be a great day.

I know that look. So do you.

That's the look of sad. A weary-to-the-bone sadness that, at one time or another, can be seen on all leaders of good heart. Clearer than a precision-tooled 140-charactered tweet. More expressive than the best of mots justes.

It's nice to be back with you, Reader. Thank you for waiting for me to catch back up.

Shit. Now I can't get that "alternate" version of Hail to the Chief from the movie Dave out of my pointy head.

"Hail to the chief, he's the one we all say hail to! I have the power when I am in the shower!"

I gotta get down to the zoo. Y'all feel free to roam around. Someone keep an eye on the two reprobates, would you?

Thank you, and good night!

Okay, first off? I don't even recognize the preceding two posts. I am leaving them as "published drafts" because I do discern a barely familiar intent from which something might be salvaged. Not tonight, however.

I finally managed, through the magic of pharmaceuticals, to string together a three hour nap. The difference in mentation is remarkable! Several times, my own snoring almost roused me but I fought off the urge.

The medical folks who people my world are wonderful and why I do not remember their sincere dedication to helping me, I don't understand. Some of it has to do with constantly second-guessing myself. Some of it has to do with trust. Most of it is some sort of overblown pride.

Fred has been having A Day. That means -- in La Bianca shorthand -- that Fred is struggling with all that he must do versus the imperious demands of ADHD.

We needed to leave The Manor -- and that means through The Spikes and across The Moat -- at 11:30 am. I woke him in dulcet tones at 10 am, using naught but tender terms of endearment. Even so, he refused to exit the warm bed until I had furnished coffee and two perfectly cold slices of pizza pie. Finally opening both eyes at once, he ambled off in skips and hops across the cold 16th century stone paving and the fancy linoleum -- Welsh deo gratias tiles -- that leads the way to his office, where he plops down in front of his computer. This does not bode well for a timely departure, plus he is mumbling something about having my Go-To-Guy Doctor, now known simply as The Boutiqueur, learn what it feels like to wait. A noble sentiment in some farflung context, I am sure, but not in the realm of our experience with The Boutiqueur... and certainly not a position Fred has any right to adopt!

We were cooking with gas but with no food in sight.

At 11:22 am, Fred fairly flies across my field of vision and the knot in my stomach relaxes -- until I hear him cursing and see envelopes and other scraps of paper swirl upward in small vortices from the oddly planed oak wardrobe. There's nothing like tornadoes in the bedroom.

We have the following conversation:
Me: Whatcha doin?
Fred: What does it look like?
Me: We need to leave in seven minutes.
Fred: I am doing something important.
Me: Can I help?
Fred: No, you can't help.
Me: Well, at least tell me what is wrong...
Fred: I cannot find my VISA bill.
Me: Is that something that absolutely has to be done in the next seven... no, six... minutes?
Fred: {glares}
Me: Maybe I can help you find it when we get back over The Moat this afternoon.
Fred: {glaring} Fine. [He grabs a pair of wide-waled peat-colored corduroy pants and a mustard-colored denim shirt and sprints for the bathroom. Whew...]

Humming and packing up my Stuff, I hear the shower start. Between his putty skin, the peat pants, and the mustard shirt... I hope his colors run and smear.

We got there with five minutes to spare, although that included a brief stint between two tankers while the Fredster ate some of the aforementioned pizza pie and steered, if it can be called that, with his knees.

The Boutiqueur is now back in charge of my "case." We put our pointy heads together over the minutiae of my bone and joint infections, over the lacunae of information identifying the offending pathogen(s), over Fred's level of frustration, and over my bossy bitchiness.

He fears the overuse of vancomycin -- I am on my second six week course of receiving it via the PICC line, and they just hiked the dose to twice a day, even though my trough level was "normal."

He agrees with InfectiousDisease Man that the spacer impregnated with antibiotics that was inserted in August is now nothing more than a germ magnet and ought to be removed. (My index finger was wavering and waving in the air at that... but my lips seemed to be glommed together with pastry cream.)

My WBC count is 16,500. The CRP is still elevated (and the sed rate still NORMAL! How utterly odd...). No fever in the office... but back at the ranch, it shot up to 100.6.

It felt great to hear him think out loud, which let me relax, reassured that someone with plenty of brain power and compassion was there so that I could check out and put my resources toward something recuperative. Like a nap.

He has a notation in my voluminous chart (something I find very embarrassing) that when given things such as Ambien, I do NOT sleep and report "feeling weird." I do not recall this but he nods sagely and wonders aloud if there might not be something already in my "arsenal" that might work well to break the cycle of insomnia. We hit on amitriptyline and so I will try adding 100 mg tonight.

[Note that on the hint of a promise, alone, I was able to grab three hours!]

Ruby the Honda CR-V flew down the road -- zoom zoom zoom -- and I visited for a few minutes with Dr. PainDude's PA, who then gifted me with the month's worth of pain medicine. She used to work for the brother of my OS, and regaled me with funny stories of their apparently legendary antics.

Tomorrow? InfectiousDisease Man, blood draw (unless my PICC will give as well as receive, which it would not last week), a hair trim, and home.

I don't feel very hopeful when I look at my medical situation -- but I respect the hope I have seen in other people throughout the day -- and I love my Fred, and acknowledge his frustrations as being something seen only in people consumed with the rigors of breathing in, breathing out.

I am very lucky.

Thank you, and good night!

Ruby* Takes My Love to Town

Fred and I went up and down the hills yesterday, Ruby the Honda CR-V happily putt-putt-putting along. For several years, my darling and I stressed and argued, pitched the various merits and demerits of buying something, anything, that rolled on wheels, was safe and easy to handle -- and what else? Oh yes! Something that could be fitted with a mechanical wheelchair lift.

Without these things, this was the drill for getting Retired Educator out of the house and loaded for transport: I ride to the old low-to-the-ground Toyota in my power chair, dragging along a folded aluminum walker. I resemble a bionic grasshopper, the legs of the walker waving in the wind like buggy antennae. It takes a few minutes to open the difficult passenger side door, and a few moments to sit and weep hysterically afterward. Woe! Woe! Alas! Alas! A few final beats to the breast, then I set up the walker in front of the chair, stand -- and, while holding onto the car door for dear life, do the Gimp Pivot. There follows moments of schizoid conversations between my Will and my Gimpiness, usually held aloud for the entertainment value they offer to the professional women strolling by. Puis, Fred carries out the manual chair and loads it in the back, cursing under his breath but waving at the ladies with a hospitable look about him. Ensuite, he plops into the power chair, balances the walker on his bony knees, and drives it all back into The Manor, plugs in the chair, finally grabs *his* stuff, and... we're off. Of course, we did a similar version of this routine upon our return home -- but usually some sort of Event Intensifier was in play, such as a full bladder -- because Retired Educator cannot manage to pee away from home without assistance, and Fred is not always made welcome in women's bathrooms.

(Forget *me* not having autonomy -- what about *him*?)

Okie-dokie -- choo? Train? Thought? Ah, yes! The first thing that comes to mind in terms of a vehicle, of course, is the Ubiquitous Clunky Van For Crippled People. They seem to come only in white or navy blue. Oooooo! I want me one of those -- big, ugly. Yep, big and ugly -- with unmentionable gas mileage. Sasquatch would have nothing on our carbon footprint.

Fred flat out refused to drive a van or a "large" SUV. Rarely does he say "no" to what I want -- excuse me as I blot the tears and *sniff* -- so I pay attention, especially since "what I want" always seems to involve a sacrifice from him. I want this new car with a lift -- but who has to load the chair and drive the car?

I watched him struggle for years, watched him hurt his back using stopgap ramps and entirely too much muscle power wielded with disdain for basic body mechanics. My "want" was, in great part, an unspoken "need" of his. In subtle ways, too, we were both caving to the difficulties of everyday life. CRPS / RSD erodes social interaction and there's a measure of discipline required to approximate "normal." It is easier and less painful to hide out at home -- but it is counterproductive and subtly will erode at both physical and mental health. I know this because as I look back at those fun times from the future of today, where the state of my health *does* prevent me from going out, I am about to descend into an ulcer-riddled, slobbering idiocy. (Ho! Ho! Ho! And Merrrrrry Christmas!)

I'm just saying: Normal changes. And yes, if pressed to do so, I might admit that my daily life is in many ways blessed. Jeez.

Anyway -- take, for instance, the normal weekly chore of grocery shopping.


Fred is a consummate consumer, very up on availability, totally knowledgeable about prices and how to factor in such things as convenience. He also happens to be one of those lovely people who could easily have taken a career detour into the culinary arts. Yes, Fred can cook! He has had the responsibility of buying and creating two meals a day for 30+ homeless men, each of whom had an active illness with some sort of comorbidity. He has had the responsibility of cooking for Whimsical Moi and La Belle et Bonne Bianca Castafiore -- which can be the source of tension headaches. These days? Well, given the cholesterol count he managed to achieve recently -- I predict arugula, tomates, brocolli and lots of steaming technique.

Yes, Fred can cook. Still, a few months ago, we had to have The Dreaded Talk.

I had to rein in his exuberance for our marvelous local Farmer's Market. Four quarter-pound bags of Ethiopian coffee beans, just enough that we soon end up with funky blends out of some sort of quasi-gourmet necessity. We are occasional fans of the light and winy Yirgacheffe and Limmu -- though nothing will ever get between me and a good honest espresso roast, no matter the country of origin. And spices, oh Lord! The makings for a dozen curries, every sort of pepper and rendition of paprika, plus the everloving let's-try-some-of-this-stuff purchases. Not an issue of price -- rather, a problem with space. I also tend to get peeved when I cannot manipulate the containers -- you try pulling out the plastic cups of cumin and coriander without spilling the cayenne, caraway, cardamom and the other C-Spices -- like yanking the lovely white linen tablecloth from under the Thanksgiving feast and ending up with sweet potato soufflé and fines herbes in your hair.


Train? Train? Choo-choo... Okay, I am back. Ummm. Grocery shopping. And "normal."

Fred is a great shopper and through the times of having to do it alone, has his own habits and efficiencies. For me, the grocery store became a social outting more than a trip for necessities -- The List may as well not even have existed by the time I am done adding to, and altering, it.


There was a period of over two years where I didn't go to the store or market with Fred. We developed a standardized list of food and household cleaners 'n stuff, to which he would add weekly specials. It got harder over time for me to remember the layout of the aisles and which brands were desirable versus store brands -- never mind what anything cost.


I could not figure out why I was so *angry* about something so small as groceries and the act of shopping. Every week, when he was done hauling in the bags and I was helping put things up, something pissed me off. Not knowing what or why, I focused on Fred. Poor Fred.


It turned out that I was frustrated at not being able to ask for, then get, things that I wanted. Bless his heart... I would whine: "I need hair conditioner." "Put it on The List -- just tell me what kind so I get what you want..."


And... EXPLOSION! "How in Tête de Hergé do I know what kind I want? And so on and whiny so forth." This would set him up for playing Twenty Questions, not to mention failure, and having to focus his sweet ADHD-addled brain on a hundred different hair products in the middle of a crowded, noisy store. I needed the experience of walking down the aisles and seeing the products, reading the blurbs, cautions, and claims. (Oh... and seeing people, talking with people, eavesdropping, playing with kids -- I might as well have been at EuroDisney or DollyWood, such fun there was!)


The day the issues behind my behavior clarified, that is the day the plan for a car and a lift was born. Retired Educator needed to venture out, put up with the pain, get tired (because tired can be a great feeling!) -- and take responsibility for getting her own wants and needs met. Not to pretend that this was ever totally accomplished, but things are better, more equitable, since we purchased Ruby the Honda CR-V. Vroom! Vroom! She's not the 1954 MG that I've always wanted, but she is irreplacable, functional, and cute.

It took a long time to make the purchase. Even in this worldly metro area, the only conversions offered seemed to be for huge lifts in huge vans... and the Fredster was having none of that. There were many arguments and hurt feelings.

Hooray for the internet! After hundreds of searches, emails, and phone calls -- we found Bruno.

More specifically, we found this Bruno:


Curb-Sider® Vehicle Lift (Telescoping Model)Model VSL-6900 -- or as we like to call him: Bruno, because Bruno is his name-o.


Okay, so we totally screwed up and it was only by grace and an extra few thousand dollars (not a ho-hum issue chez nous -- we are only squatters in the Captain's Manor, after all) that we ended up with the perfect combination.

First, we bought the car. We bought the wrong car. Luckily, we were able to rectify our error in the space of a day. Caveat emptor, caveat emptor. Changes had been made between last year's CR-V model and the 2008 and those changes impacted the very tight measurements with which we were working. Okay, we have the car. Still a few "oops-es" -- the well in the back for the spare tire... hmm. Fred designed a modification to allow us access in the event of... but you'd have thought he was changing the layout of Fort Knox by the lack of enthusiasm and help he got from the local conversion experts. The Bruno company did not want to give a blanket endorsement of the pairing between the 2008 CR-V and their lift, so we studied and debated the specs, and decided to forge ahead.

Ummm. It turned out that my wheelchair was too big by 3/4 of an inch, and there is no wiggle room in that.

So I had to buy a new wheelchair. Bull Crap Bull Skeet of Tête-de-Hergé, my health insurance folks, wouldn't spring for a new one -- actually, I did not push the issue. I mean, really:

Hi there, BCBS of TdH! I need a new power chair because I bought the wrong car to go with the right lift, only to find that my wheelchair was too big by 3/4 of an inch. It would be nice to be able to leave the house without making the Dear Fred push me around in a manual chair (my shoulders are shot and I cannot self-propel, you'll recall). His poor back hurts and he is tired -- and me? I would like a smidge of autonomy. Oh, you don't cover autonomy? Okie-dokie. I'll dip into The Our Funds Runneth Over Account and spring for the chair... you just sit back and refuse to cover those pre-op MRIs! Fair is fair.

Finally, all the money was spent** and we delivered the wheelchair, the lift, and the car to the people who are supposed to know how to marry them together. Fred sat in the waiting room much like an expectant father unable to withstand the sights and sounds of birth.

The van guys had never done this before, of course, and ended up having to redo it three times. If Fred had not made the revisions in Ruby's back floor, she'd have come out completely mangled. But in the end, we had it -- and as far as we can tell, we are the only people in our neck of the woods*** who do: a car that meets the need of a gimp but that does not scream "I ride to school on the Short Bus."

All so that I can go to the grocery store. Like normal people.




***************************************************************************************


*Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town

(Kenny Rogers)

You've painted up your lips
And rolled and curled your tinted hair
Ruby are you contemplating
Going out somewhere
The shadow on the wall
Tells me the sun is going down
Oh Ruby
Don't take your love to town

It wasn't me
That started that old crazy Asian war
But I was proud to go
And do my patriotic chore
And yes, it's true that
I'm not the man I used to be
Oh, Ruby I still need some company

Its hard to love a man
Whose legs are bent and paralysed
And the wants and the needs of a woman your age
Ruby I realize,
But it won't be long i've heard them say until I not around
Oh Ruby
Don't take your love to town

She's leaving now cause
I just heard the slamming of the door
The way I know I've heard it slam
100 times before
And if I could move I'd get my gun
And put her in the ground
Oh Ruby
Don't take your love to town

Oh Ruby for God's sake turn around


**If any of you followed my outburst at The Happy Hospitalist, let's just say that these purchases designed solely so that I could leave the house without requiring the assistance of Atlas, ate up the entire "settlement." Of course, the fact that the very events behind the settlement necessitated the purchase... Oh, excuse me! Am I lapsing into bitterness?
***In Reply to: Origin of neck of the woods posted by N. Lester on May 12, 2000

: where does the phrase "neck of the woods" come from?

Here's a discussion from February 2000. Anyone got anything new to add?

: What is the origin of the phrase "In your neck of the woods" or "In this neck of the woods"?

: : Here's my theory. In the country, there aren't any street addresses. So you literally use landmarks to refer to where a person lives. Up in your neck of the woods or up the holler. On the mountain. Down on the river.

: "Neck of the woods," meaning a certain region or neighborhood, is one of those phrases we hear so often that we never consider how fundamentally weird they are. In the case of "neck," we have one of a number of terms invented by the colonists in Early America to describe the geographical features of their new home. There was, apparently, a conscious attempt made to depart from the style of place names used in England for thousands of years in favor of new "American" names. So in place of "moor," "heath," "dell," "fen" and other such Old World terms, the colonists came up with "branch," "fork," "hollow," "gap," "flat" and other descriptive terms used both as simple nouns ("We're heading down to the hollow") and parts of proper place names ("Jones Hollow").

: "Neck" had been used in English since around 1555 to describe a narrow strip of land, usually surrounded by water, based on its resemblance to the neck of an animal. But the Americans were the first to apply "neck" to a narrow stand of woods or, more importantly, to a settlement located in a particular part of the woods. In a country then largely covered by forests, your "neck of the woods" was your home, the first American neighborhood

This is an example of a "fossil" word in which an old word has been preserved in only one or two special sayings. Short Shrift is one example. In the case of Neck the ancestor words in Old Breton (cnoch) and Old German (hnack) both had a sense of "hill" or "summit"; ie identifying a place.