You can rest your head on this down pillow

Sometimes it’s refreshing to take a gander into our own lives and put it on display for the amusement of others; my journal seems to be filling with self-deprecating humor these days. Sometimes it’s interesting to trod unsolicited into the lives of our friends and make gross sweeping assumptions to the determent of all. I suppose there’s a word for this, and intrusion will do as good as any.

Today I intend to do neither, but instead will allow you to peer into the true-life story a co-worker shared with me nearly a decade ago. Our story comes from Tim P., as told to him by his neighbor who was laughing so hard tears were rolling down his face. This is just one of those things that sounds too incredible to be true, but is and alas, if I don’t do my civic duty to capture it here and now, it could become lost before future generations can enjoy.

This is one of those stories that require the reader to have two important skills. The first being the ability to visualize every detail, and the second to play it in their mind as fast as possible again and again in order to appreciate what Tim’s friend was feeling.

Tim’s neighbor is this guy who’s married. The spouse apparently has two strange attributes that are found in more and more people these days. First of all, she enjoys exotic animals. Secondly, she considers her pet children. This latter point is an absolute necessity for keeping in the forefront of your mind as the events unravel. It’s fairly clear, however, that this couple isn’t exactly always on the same page and was perhaps the role model couple for War of the Roses.

The wife happens to own a parrot. Not just any parrot, but a really exotic, expensive one. It’s huge, it’s got long colorful feathers, it knows several tricks, and it talks. Perhaps so much so it pisses the husband off, but there’s not a thing he can do about it.

Things go pretty well for the first decade or so with the parrot. Strong and impressive these creatures, they have a very long life span. Once you get a parrot, you pretty much have him for life. They have their own personality, and this woman adopted him in her mind as if he were a child, babying it and babbling right back at it.

Over a period of several months they noticed that the parrot was developing a wart on its beak. The parrot was impressive, but the newly formed blemish was just something the woman couldn’t tolerate.

Skipping the details of getting the parrot to the vet, it turns out the wart was benign and could easily be removed via a surgical procedure. Leaving the wart on, however, would pose no health risk to the bird.

Debate ensued between the couple about whether or not hard earned money should be spent on such frivolous things such as cosmetic fowl wart removal for peer acceptance.

Infuriated by his uncompassionate logic and that he refused to look upon this screeching imitator as his own flesh and blood, she stood her ground until eventually he consented to paying for the operation for peace of mind alone.

The day for the operation arrived, and the couple took the parrot to the vet (do I even need to mention he was coerced into attending to provide moral support for the bird).

“It’s actually quite a simple procedure,” explained the vet. “First we knock out the bird, then we cauterize the wart, and then cut it off. Your bird will be as good as new in a couple of hours.”

The couple was nervous (who are we kidding, she was nervous). “You can be there for the whole thing, it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes,” added the vet to reassure them further.

So, everyone went into the little operating room.

First they gave the bird an injection, and the bird started acting drunk, then sleepy, and eventually plopped over.

“Where can I get a vial of that stuff?” asked the man. Sure, the vet smiled, but his wife merely shot him the look from hell. Taking his cue, he shut up.

The vet reached over and grabbed a wand-like device, which was used for pumping electricity from the tip to a point of contact. He slowly leaned over the bird, and touched it to the wart.

It turns out the step the vet skipped was to check the machine delivering the amperage. He thought the nurse set it. She thought he had.

The next set of events can only be truly appreciated in slow motion…

The moment the wand got near the bird, in the first few nanoseconds an arc jumped from the tip of the wand to the bird’s wart making a bright blue crack. All the bird’s muscles contracted at once. So much so in fact, that all the bird’s feathers shot out in an instantaneous Technicolor explosion as high as the ceiling. Milliseconds later the bird, somehow woken by the event, vaporized, though not before getting off some kind of parrot like squawk.

Rewind. Normal speed.

POOF! There was an astounding cracking arc that illuminated the whole room, just as a squawk was followed by a bang as the bird exploded into thousands of feathers, large and small. Every color of the rain forest started falling around them, as if by magic happy fairies. Apparently parrots have tiny feathers under the big ones and they take quite a while to fall.

For a moment there was silence as the vet was still frozen there in time, electrode hovering over the empty space where the parrot had just transported to the Enterprise. “I’ve never seen it do that before. Cool.” And the nurse, trying to conceal giggles, was tapping the machine commenting “oops.” The husband did the only thing he could do, he doubled over and laughing his ass off.

Apparently, that’s where Tim came into the picture. The husband was looking for a sofa to sleep on that night and was willing to trade the tale of the day’s events for lodging.

Did I mention the eye drops?

You know, in the grand scheme of things, I don’t mind the horse pills at all.

‘Why?’ might you ask.

The answer is that I have to have special eye drops to clear up this acute case of pink eye. Two drops, each eye, three times a day.

Now, let the record stand that when it comes to eye drops, I’m just a plain old sissy. Yes, if you’ve ever put in contacts you’re a bigger man than I. Even if you’re a woman.

For some reason, whenever my eye even gets the remotest inkling that something’s about to enter it, it shuts. I’ve tried it with everything from drops to my finger. And let me tell you, the latter hurt.

Even if I know it’s good for me. Even if I know it’s just liquid. Even if I’ve done it dozens of times before, it doesn’t matter. I go into super squint mode and can’t get the drops in.

Oh sure, I’ve tried to trick the eye. Super speed or even volume. No dice. Squirt something at it, and it all gets stuck in those super thick lashes of mine.

Since Tamara’s asleep trying to recover from the plague I just foisted on her as a present for driving me to the doctor, I opted to let her sleep and have Michele H. do it instead.

First the was the approach. The kids have been pissing her off something feirce today. I thought it was just my illness, but all of them have been trying people’s nerves for the last two days. I suppose it’s nature’s way of saying Thanksgiving Hell is almost upon us. If this were a Buffy episode, it’d be entitled “From the dinner table, it devours.”

Michele was just more than eager to go fiddling (good enough f word as another, I guess) with someone’s eyes at this point. Her near-zero resistance to the idea should have immediately put me at bay.

However, 5:00pm and and I needed drops.

I sat back in a little metal folding chair and scenes from Clockwork Orange flushed over me. Now I know she worked in a doctor’s office, but she didn’t have to be enjoying this so much.

I informed her of my little optical phobia and she knew just the trick.

Gently she inserted her claws prying my eyes open, while skillfully with the other hand unleashing a tide of burning fluid.

Well, that’s what the eye thought. I’m sure the actual even was quite peaceful and involved a cooling sensation at the end of it somewhere.

Anyhow, when I came to, and the laughing and pointing stopped, Michele handed me back the bottle and went back to dealing with minors.

Marni, once again, came up to inform me that I looked no better off than Godzilla himself. My beat red eyes were just a thing of fasination with her.

The only problem was, if mom was allowed to play with Walt’s eyes… why wasn’t she?

I can’t help but think I now have to start watching my back, especially when I sleep. Come to think of it, that’s good advice handed off to me by Chris long, long ago. Right after he burned my house down with plastic-wrap.

Oh! Death, where is thy sting?

Until Danny produces a news clipping stating otherwise, I’m going to have to put the biological warefare theory on the back burner for a bit.

Last Thursday night I started getting slightly more congested than normal. And as the evening pressed on, it got worse and worse. Eventually it got so bad, I could barely sleep.

I woke up with what felt like a cold. One so severe that it might make better economical sense to simply package a small rainforest in a tissue box.

I did something I rarely do. I stayed home from work. I felt evil. I felt dirty. Here were all of my coworkers making useful contributions to society, and as for myself, I was simply contributing to the global warming problem with my newest addition: a fever.

Somehow, I made it through that day in a big blur, when the weekend came. At this point there was nothing the doctor could do… rest and warm soup time.

Now, as any good cold should know, when you don’t have to go to work, the ailment is supposed to go into remission so you can have some fun.

Well, mine didn’t. Instead, it got worse. I haven’t seen Harry Potter. I haven’t seen Bond. And it’s likely by the time the cold subsides, I’ll already have them on DVD. It’s just not fair.

The illness seems to bring out the goodness in people all around me. My wife demonstrates her love by showing me it’s possible for me to survie on a totally bland and liquid diet. But the cutest demonstration came from Marni.

As I was lying there in front of the fireplace trying to figure out how to claw my way in to get even more heat, each time I let out a small cough, she’d stop playing in the other room, run in, gently stroke me on the temple, and run back out again. It was the best “there-there” I think I had ever experienced.

And don’t think for a minute I didn’t start to take advantage of it, either. I’d see how quietly I could cough and get her to come running. I’d see if one right as she was leaving would stop her retreat.

Naturally, she never gave up, and I ended up feeling bad for toying with her.

Monday rolls around, and I’ve got about 3 full days out of the way. How much more could be ahead?

Oh, you guessed it. That’s when I started getting a sore throat. I don’t think I’ve had one this bad before. I barely can talk without choking or going into coughing fits.

And what can I say about back adjustments? I’ve thrown my neck and back out, and no sooner than Mike gets it in alignment, one good wheeze and I’m Mr. Pretzel again.

But, I’m still chipper.

That is until Monday night… that’s when the pink eye sets in. Yes, I finally managed to catch it, I think from the kids.

That night I woke up understanding a little better what Saul on the road to Damascuss must have gone through. My eyes were booger-glued shut. Sorry, there was no other way to describe it.

When I managed to pry them open, it looked like a scene from Alien. My eyes were red and bloodshot.

One of the kids drew a picture of me. And when it looked horrific enough, they changed their mind that it was a deamon (and not me afterall). Yeah. Right.

Tuesday morning, I had quite enough. Tamara took me to the doctors, and I got more slips of paper from him than a third grader with a weak bladder has hall passes.

Not counting the doctor visit, we spent nearly $200 in anti-biotics alone for me. Generic.

I can only wonder what work thinks. “Ow, my face hurts. Ow, my throat hurts. Ow, my eyes hurt.” Sadly, if you saw a picture of me, all doubt would be shed from your mind. Mike actually suggested taking a picture, but like I really want THAT floating around the corporate website.

Now I’ve got these horse pills and no horse. So, I suppose I’m to fill in for the rear of one and take ’em.

I’ve already talked with my sister, Thanksgiving at her place is canceled.

Jim, however, raised the offer of doing something together, if I was unable to drive (or move). He’s the greatest. Though, now there may be other plans that get in the way of that. Sigh. Now my hopes are crushed.

Anyhow, I awake from downstairs in front of the fireplace, and Tamara’s no where to be found. Turns out she’s been upstairs asleep for many hours.

When I wake her, I found out …she’s got the same fever, chills, headache, sore throat, and sinus issues I did. Let’s just compound my guilt.

I suppose I’ll have to wait for her to fall back to sleep before I slip her the pink eye and finish off her holiday to boot.

Step Away from the Three Year Old

The kids and I have a new ritual since Halloween. All that spare makeup I have is being put to good use.

When bath night rolls around, I’m permitted to decorate the faces of Mike’s kids, transforming them into rabbits, cats, puppies, and even glow-in-the-dark Tyco Brahe clones.

Last night I was painting Marni’s face as a puppy dog. She had big black eyes, long ears, a white chin, and a brownish orange face with red lips.

Now, I might make an observation here. And that is that young children don’t realize makeup can be smeared off.

I might make another observation here, too. It didn’t cross my mind either.

When Marni was getting ready to head upstairs to do her bath, she wished me a good night and came over to give me a hug. Instead of a hug, she gave me a little peck right on my chin, just under my lower lip.

I didn’t know anything was wrong until she pointed at my face, said “uh-oh,” and then pointed at her own lips as an indicator as what had happened.

Now, normally you wouldn’t think this was a big deal. You would, however, if you knew that your wife was about to walk in the door any second and you had what looked like lipstick on your face.

Thank goodness the child spoke up and didn’t leave me there to face a red-head who would be more than willing to give me a hard time, even if she did suspect innocence.

I got up and went to the sink, grabbed a paper towel, and started wiping away.

That’s when the real trouble began.

Sweet Marni said in the cutest voice imaginable, “sorrieeez…” and while I was distracted at the sink by getting more water, she snuck up in the same instant and gave me a huge apologetic hug for the fake-lipstick incident.

Crotch high.

Now there was blush AND lipstick colored makeup right in the middle of my crotch. And I don’t mean a little dab. I’m talking about a smear about 5 inches long and 3 inches high. It looked like Tammy Faye Baker had taken a nap in my lap.

Did I mention Tamara was about to walk in the door any minute?

Because I know I’ve yet to mention that Mike “My Daughter Doesn’t Date Until She’s 40” Henderson was upstairs, probably reading a hunting magazine about effective techniques for skinning an animal after it’s been shot.

Should you be one of those people that believes that history will be unfolded for all to see at the Second Coming, be sure to get a good look at the panic stricken expression that lingers on my face at the exact moment I’m doing damage assessment. It alone is worth obtaining salvation for, if not just to get a gander at.

Immediately, I switch from face to crotch, hoping to that very same God that Mike isn’t walking down the stairs and I have to explain to him why me and my portable date are having a grand old time in front of his 3 year old.

Marni, ever the helpful, decides she’s going to help out. I told her not to touch anything (with my mind more thinking about me as the direct object to that imperative) and she backs away from her third approach.

She looked up and me and said, and I kid you not, “Water… duh!”

And you know, for a moment, I almost bought into it. I swear, my head turned to the sink. However, fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

There was no way in the world I was going to saturate my lower extremities for her amusement and innocent delight. It was either going to look like I had succeeded in what it already looked like I was doing, or that I had wet myself.

Both Tamara and Mike would give me a load of grief, even if I could talk my way out of that. The only positive side to the story is that Jim wasn’t there to witness it first hand.

As luck would have it, the make up came off with about 30 seconds of vigorous abrasion, which to be honest, felt like an eternity (and pretty good if I do say so myself).

The youngster was shuttled upstairs with no concept of my turmoil, and as she hit the top of the stairs, my wife walked in with dinner.

That sigh of relief alone was more precious than you can ever imagine.

And the Stars Fell

At 4:00am I was woken by my wife who dutifully fulfilled her obligation to disturb my rest in order to view the night sky.

Tamara, Michele H., and I stepped outside and instantly observed several falling stars. The display was enough to motivate us to get in a car and head towards open country.

The first thought was to head down Rt. 15 toward Danny’s old residence: the Bullrun Castle. The only thing that stopped me was the thought of a sleepy and gun-wielding John wondering what trespassers were in his driveway.

Instead, we bailed out onto a small road, pulled the car over, and watched until 5:30am-5:45am.

From what we could tell, the shooting stars fell all around us at the full 360-degrees. They were more spectacular closer to the horizon. At least three were excessively bright with long lasting, thick trails of fiery sparkles.

We returned home, warmed ourselves by the fire, and quaffed hot coco.