Idiots with telephones

I didn't sleep worth a crap this weekend. Here I am at work groggy as hell and wishing I were somewhere else, but it is the last week of the month, and all must be done or the world ends. Still, I feel like crap so I am putting off the enevitable until the last possible moment. Procrastination is a art of the highest caliber. Anyway the weekend started well enough. I didn't have any flex to claim so I worked the whole day Friday. Then I went home, fixed a simple meal, watched some boob tube. I tend to watch very little through the week and save up for the weekend. Played a couple of online games and went to bed. I was sleeping well, ringed by my vicious attack felines who protect me against burglars, boogeymen, and mice while I sleep. They are like fuzzy hotwater bottles that never cool off, so we were nice and comfy. Then it happened. The phone rang. The phone rang at 4:00 freaking AM. Now, my father had a stroke some years back, my mother isn't in good health, and my wife, who isn't currently living with me, has been in the emergency room twice in the last week or so. My number, due to my profession and the fact that I am a card-carrying, neo-revisionistic hermit. Anywho, noone calls me at 4:00 AM for anything good. So boom, I shot straight up, removed the cpap mask and fought my groggy self over to the phone in a major panic. It's about 3000 yards away on the other side of the room and I am doing my best to avoid squishing cats or tripping over dogs, or breaking toes on furniture. I pick up the offensive noisy device and and mumble hello.

"Who is this?" demands the voice on the other end of the line.

My only defense is that I was half asleep and in a panic. Calling someone, then demanding to know who they are rather than either asking for someone or stating who you are is inexcusably rude. I don't actually like telephones, so I tend to maintain high standards for there use as an good excuse to spend as little time on them as possible. Unfortunately for me the rest of the world adores the damned devices, so it isn't working.

I answered but in my sleep fogged voice the man on the other end of the phone thought I said Jerry. I know because he barked back "Jerry?"

At this point, anger started kicking in because I realized it was more than likely a wrong number. So I snarled back "Who is THIS?" and there was some heat to my voice as the inner probation office shields started falling into place.

Instead of answering his voice got a bit sullen and he asked, "Is this 702-x0xx?" The number is burned into my brain, but I haven't yet looked it up to see who he was calling. His number, a cell by the way, is on my caller id. The number I am not putting here because I don't know who he was trying to call, nor why. Nor do I know who my caller is, or what his situation was. In our 7 sentence conversation, he did not sound intoxicated, so perhaps a ride failed to show or something, but the reason I mentioned this because of the digits he called out only 2 match the number he actually dialed. How the hell do you get only 2 out of 7 numbers right on a cell phone which should have a lighted keypad and a lighted display showing the number you punch in?

My reply to the gentleman when he inquired as to the telephone number he had just called was, "Good God man, you aren't even close."

Saturday was a beautiful day, although I had a headache, but it stormed Saturday night, high wind, thunder, lightning, rain. So I didn't sleep well, then it rained all day Sunday. My yard squishes when you walk on it and the barn is flooded. Sunday night I slept a bit better, but I remember hearing something at some point hitting the house, I thought it was sleet. Then I got cold and had to get up for another blanket.

PS, if you call someone at an ungodly hour, a) have an excellent reason, b) double check the number you dial, c) introduce yourself and don't be rude.

Spare Parts

A few years back my wife woke me up because a volcano went off in her stomach. Bent like a pretzel I had to get dressed and roll her out to the car and rush off to the emergency room. Once there I was able to give them my insurance card and fill out enough paperwork to enlist in the French Foreign Legion (and I may have I am not really sure, someone keeps calling the house gibbering in some non-English language and I get some odd emails now and again) we were allowed to wait two hours and then taken to a bed where we spent another 3 hours. They did enough tests so that my insurance company built a wing on to the hospital, said "Damned if we know, better see your doctor", pumped her full of morphine and sent her home happy. Two weeks later we were back. A bit later, the first attack was at 2 AM, the second was more courteous and let me sleep until 4 AM. Upon finally seeing someone, the first thing they said was, "what did your doctor say it was?" "Don't know," I answered, "her appointment is a week from tomorrow, earliest they could get her in." Well, they did enough for my insurance company to build an office building to rent to the local doctors, pumped her full of painkillers again and we went home. We did learn that a) a gasteric cocktail is nowhere near as tasty as a normal cocktail

and had even less effect on what her issue was and b) morphine makes you feel really, really, good and makes the volcano go away. The doctor she went to had no idea what was wrong, prescibed medicine anyway, ran no tests. Not the best $20 copay I ever spent.

Now, to hear my wife describe it, the pain is in the middle of her stomach, incredibly intense, at least an 8 out of 10. The reason it isn't higher is that it isn't constant, it seems to come in waves. varying in their intensity. My wife doesn't have any full blown attacks for awhile, she has a couple of milder ones, that the medicine seems to help and if she can ever get to sleep, she wakes with an upset stomach that goes away in about a day. Then in 2008, BOOM, another intense attack, around 11pm. I heard the hospital in the neighboring city was remodeling, doing some major renovations and building a new outpatient surgery center, so I took my insurance card and wife there.

We actually got to a bed much faster here, but the overall weight was just as long. We seem to average 3 and a half hours per emergency room visit. We could spend a night in a decent motel for the copay. Anyway, my wife starts asking for morphine immediately. I try to hush her up. Not that I don't sympathize, but given my profession, I am very aware that there are a large number of people who show up at emergency rooms just hoping to score pain meds and I want them to take her seriously not label her a painkiller junkie. Usually backpain is the ailment of choice, but given that people around here run to the emergency room for toothache and sneezing twice, usually cause they have no insurance, or ran out of alcohol and started worrying about that cold, anything is possible, so I tried to get her to concentrate on what was wrong with her. At some point I think I heard mentioned the 2 words I would later learn might be her issue, but at that point I was convinced it was all in her head, some sort of anxiety attack. I would later regret that and feel bad, although there was a bit of truth to it. Anyway, while the doctor took more time, and more test the results were the same and we went home.

A year later, 6 days ago I spent another 4 hours in the ER. This time the doctor seemed a bit more focused. Specifically on an organ called the gall bladder. These were the words I heard the last time I was here, but with no follow through. This time in addition to the phenegrin and morphine, he referred her to an ultrasound. Unfortunately due to a communictation breakdown, my wife didn't know to not drink before hand, so it took her 2 days to get it, and sure enough there were stones in there. That was two days later and I spent another 3 hours in the emergency room getting lectured on the gall bladder, it's purpose and duties, and what goes wrong. Apparently stuff just happens, it grows rocks, then anything (food, stress, Ben Stiller movies) set it off and it has contractions, squeezing the stones and waves of exquisite pain ensue.

You know how when you take that complicated gadget that you have no idea how works apart to fix it, and once you put it back together and you have those 3 springs, 4 screws and 7 plastic and/or metal pieces left over which obviously serve no purpose, because it works fine without them until it breaks down again for a completely different and unrelated reason and you have to replace it but buy a different brand or model because obviously that one was junk?

Well the human body is like that, we come with bits that don't really do anything usefull except give doctors a way to make lots of money. If you think about it, what do gall bladders, tonsils, and appendixes do anyway? Basically they just develop infections or stones, then you either buy lots of medicine or have them removed. Apparently they aren't needed, so why are they included. There are enough necessary items in there to go wrong, do we really need the accessories?

Anyway, we found out many things. Apparently if you are having gall bladder problems you have to watch what you eat. According to 2 doctors and a nurse, raw green vegetables, spicy food, greasy food, fatty food, and nuts are all bad and will set off an attack. The surgeon says the gall bladder wouldn't know the difference between a head of lettuce and five-alarm chili with extra peppers, what matters is the amount. He says the stomach has to stretch to trigger the hormone that starts the old gall bladder going, so as long as you eat small amount spaced out, you can eat anything. Who's right? They both agree soda is bad because the carbonation swells the tummy.

So what have we learned?

Gall bladder = extra part

Gall stones = bad

Morphine = good

Gall bladder + gall stones = new wing on hospital paid for by my insurance company less co-pay.

Eggs and Country Breakfasts

I am trying to lose weight, again. I am also trying to cut massive amounts of salt out of my diet. I don't salt anything I eat, not even when cooking it, so you would think "how much salt can he be eating?" Lots of it apparently. If you eat anything that comes prepackaged, it pretty much contains gobs and gobs of salt. Canned vegetables, canned meats, boxed items, all are supposed to have long shelf lives so lots of salt. Even the stuff that says low sodium has some salt. Even frozen vegetables have salt added. They have a lot less salt, but they have some. Now I knew sodas had salt in them, even the diet ones. Diet coke seems to have the least while the rest seem to run pretty even. But fruit juice has it. Now I am not sure about the kind you have to buy in milk section. Maybe the stuff that has to be kept cold like orange juice doesn't but the apple, cranberry, grape, ect stuff you can buy straight off the shelf has as much or more salt than soda. The frozen concentrate seems to have none though, so I guess that is what I have to turn to.

Anyway, my new doctor isn't much for low-carb dieting. Basically she is wanting to send me to a dietician. I am resisting so far because I really don't want to get into calorie counting and the like, I know me and too much restriction is not going to work. I have been trying to slowly alter my eating patterns. Trying to eat more whole grain stuff, lots more fruits and veggies, less red meat and meat in general. I also am trying to pull a bit of the low carb in by avoiding starches. I do occasionally indulge in a baked potato, or pasta. My rice is brown, whole grain. My bread is whole wheat. I try to eat frozen or fresh veggies and try to snack only on a bit of fruit. The hardest part to deal with is portion control. Eat less of what you eat. I have had some success, but the weight loss is yet to be seen. Of course I have to implement the second and third part of the plan. Part 2 started last week. I went into a regular eating plan. I have a planned breakfast, with variations on weekends and a planned lunch. Dinner is a bit more wing it. Basically my breakfast consists of a whole wheat bagel and a piece of fruit. I am not a big breakfast eater. I have trouble eating when I first wake, but tend to get really hungry when I have been awake 2 or 3 hours. My doctor says eating breakfast is better as it gets your metabolism going faster and you will burn up more calories. The bagel is portable so I bring it to work and eat it when I first get here followed by an orange or apple. I bring a second fruit in case I want a snack. My office is right across the hall from the break room with it's table of high sugar, high carb snack offerings. On the weekends I will indulge myself a little with boiled eggs or omlets and whole wheat toast. But I tend to either skip lunch or eat a much lighter one. Lunch through the week is either a salad or a can of tuna or chicken with one or two pieces of whole wheat bread. No condiments because they make the bread really soggy if I prepare them before hand and they tend to be high in sodium and carbs. Supper tends to be a serving of meat, heavy on chicken, and some type of vegetables, frozen and either warmed on the stove top or microwaved with a bit of water. Recently it's been really cold so this mix is good for small batches of soup, just cut up the meat and boil then toss in a mix of frozen veggies and let it simmer. Fresh garlic and onions add a little flavor and there is always pepper.

But this got me to thinking about breakfast when I was young. My father was raised on a farm and our early breakfasts were what he was used to. Usually 2 fried eggs, although occasionally scrambled, either 3 or 4 small slices of bacon or 2 sausage patties or a small piece of ham, either buttered toast or 2 biscuits. On Sundays there was always white gravy on the biscuits, it was rarely served through the week, only if Mom had extra time. Mostly the meat was cooked first and the drippings used to cook the eggs, later Mom would start cooking the eggs in margarine to lower the fat. Dad liked his eggs runny so he would soak up the yoke with the bread or biscuits. The white gravy, also called sawmill gravy is a southern tradition. Basically you take the hot grease from the meat, add sifted flour, stir like crazy until it is well mixed then add a little bit or milk stirring until smooth, salt and pepper to taste. You can use water instead of milk, I've been told. Some people wonder how anyone could survive on this diet, but you have to remember that the people who devised this diet, 1. had to survive on what they raised or could afford. Flour is cheap, pigs are cheaper to raise and easier to slaughter than cattle. Chickens are cheap on the whole to raise. So eggs and pork products were ready-to-hand. 2. These people would then go out and do intense physical labor for 10 or 12 hours straight, either sweating in the heat or shivering in the cold. Even the women did not only household chores but also worked in gardens, tended the chickens and gathered eggs. They sweated out the salt, burned up the fat and carbs and survived the cholesteral.

By the way, my father hates brown eggs. Around here they are often called country eggs and believe it or not some people will pay extra for brown eggs. My father grew up on them and thinks they taste too strong. He prefers white eggs. Let me let you in on a big secret.

What determines the color of the egg is the breed of the chicken. Some chicken breed lay white eggs, some brown. Some, like the morans, lay really dark brown eggs. Others like the silky lay eggs that are faintly blue in color. And they all taste the same. What determines the taste of eggs is the diet of the chickens and maybe how active they are. If you let chickens free range and they eat pretty much what ever they find, as my grandmother did, there eggs might have a stronger, gamy flavor. If the hens are fed mostly grain and chicken food, the eggs will taste the same as if you bought them in the grocery store.

Of Mice and Men

I was getting ready to go to sleep Friday night. My bedroom has it's own bathroom, and when moving from bath to bed I saw, lounging cooly upon my place of rest, a mouse. With a house full of furry, fiery felines, you would think no rodent would be so bold but there he was. I must be feeding them too well or something. Seeing the mouse napping boldly on my bed, I called for the cats. I know they heard me, because no one came. They are cats. Thinking swiftly I called for the dog. Lady Bug came into the bed room. She is a cat, but she is species confused and comes when you call for the dogs. At the site of 10 pounds of sheer mouse death the mouse darted. Bug saw the movement and launched herself from the doorway onto the middle of the bed, landing like a cannon ball. I didn't know she could jump so far, unless my stomach was the target, as this is a favored way of letting me know it is time to wake up and feed. She missed by less than a millimeter. I know because I measured the distance between the permanent cat paw indentions on the mattress and the skid marks left by the much smaller mouse paws on the blanket, but all I had was a metric tape measure.

The mouse had made it under a pillow. I was thinking hard now. The sound of the cat hitting the bed had been loud enough to attrack the other cats. Nella was coving the bathroom door incase it made a break for it. One of the favored tactics of my cats is to catch a mouse and drop it in the bathtub. The tub is deep enough the mouse can't climb out, and the cats ring the top of the tub and take turns jumping in and chasing the mouse around the tub. Mice in really good shape have been know to survive 2 or 3 hours of this. I'm not sure whether they are killing the mice or acting as personal trainers. Sometimes I will have pity on the creature and snag it and pitch it out the door. I keep hoping they will spread horror tales among mice about the horrors of the house, but so far it doesn't seem to be working. Bug has one side of the bed covered and is in stalk mode. Nana has the other side covered and is almost as stalky as Bug. Ninja, the old semi-retired Tom cat is watching from the floor kind of bored. He has pretty much turned all the duties of top cat of the house over, leaving him more time for his favorite activities of sleeping, eating, barfing and smacking younger cats heads. Noodle is sitting in the doorway to the front room. I would like to think she is blocking possible escape routes, but the way she is staring at the ceiling makes me think she is expecting the mouse to fly. I watched lots of television as a child and I remember that rodents are really clever and have a lot of tricks. The cats will probably need lots of help, so I decide to get them some gear. Ten minutes of so later I have a nice pile of equipment ready for them. I piled firearms, skillets, baseball bats, anvils, ect on the bed and stood back. Nana gave me an odd look. That's when I remembered that we didn't have animal planet when I was a kid, those were Tom and Jerry cartoons I was watching. I put the stuff up and moved the pillow instead. The mouse wasn't very big, but he was really, really fast. I got a good look at him though, he was grey and had 4 legs, 2 ears, 2 eyes, black and a tail. I am sure I will recognise him if we ever find him. Damn was he quick for having such short legs. I slept on the couch with Ninja, the other cats were busy searching the bed room. I saw noone being trained in the bathtub, which was good, the little bugger was already too damn fast. I also saw no carcass, so I am sure the pesky dude is still on the run. Since then I have felt a little nervous sleeping, as I am sure the little bugger bears me ill will for ratting out the one hiding place, but I am not too worried, I just bring 2 loaded cats to bed with me every night. So far so good.