My dad was born in a small village in Portugal and moved to this country when he was a young adult. While he has worked hard to immerse himself in the American culture, he has continued to honor his Portuguese heritage . Let me give you an example. Fourth of July celebrations are about as American as you can get and my dad loves to celebrate this holiday with style. We're talking BBQ, pool party with hamburgers, hot dogs, apple pie, and tons of fireworks. Of course, the menu also consists of grilled sardines, pork tenderloin for sandwiches, and vegetable rice that my mom has made as a side dish to go with the corn on the cob, but it's all delicious, so I don't really care how these things made it onto our menu. I just know they're all delicious and Viva os United States!
Despite him fully embracing American culture, he still has quite a pronounced accent when he speaks. Now, don't get me wrong, my dad is no slouch and he can read, write, and understand English very well. That being said, I'm pretty sure he mostly thinks in Portuguese and translates what he wants to say before he says it. Hence, why he'll say things like, "Close the light" as this is the literal translation for "turn off the light" when going from Portuguese to English. Now, I could go on for quite a while talking about all of the words that have been bastardized to fit either language, but I won't do that here. No. Stop asking. I said I won't do that here. No. Let me get back to my story.
So, as I was saying,...Oh my God!!! IF I GIVE YOU A COUPLE OF EXAMPLES, WILL YOU PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY, LET ME GET BACK TO MY STORY?!?! Ok, let me give you an example of some of the bastardized language I mean. The word for store (like a place to shop) in Portuguese is loja (if you want to know the pronunciation of any of these words, ask Siri, because I'm sure as shit not going to teach you how to speak Portuguese in this post), but for the longest time, I thought the way to say store in Portuguese was eshtoha (pronounced eesh-TOE-ah). If my grandmother wanted me to get her something from the refrigerator, instead of asking me to go to the frigorifico, she would tell me to "Open the frigideira". If you're missing how this word came to be, it's because the brand of refrigerator they owned was a Frigidaire. I had no idea that the word for cellar was not "cella", but actually adega. Needless to say, one of the first memories I have of going to Portugal, involves no one knowing what the hell I was talking about because I was speaking in tongues and, as I mostly learned the language from my grandparents and father who grew up in small Portuguese villages, I also knew words for things like bed pan and outhouse, but not the actual word for bathroom. Awkward.
Ok, now, where was I? Right, my dad and his English. He can speak fluent English, but thinks in Portuguese. I know this to be true because there will often be times when he is talking to me in Portuguese and then will turn to my wife, who doesn't speak a word of it, and will continue talking to her, in Portuguese, for several minutes, all while she looks at him blankly and I keep repeating, "Dad. English. She doesn't understand you" until he realizes what he's doing and gives himself a good chuckle. While those of us who have spent a lot of time with him have no trouble understanding him, when he speaks to people who aren't used to his accent...well, let's just say it's a good thing my mom has experience working as a translator.
My dad's accent has never really been an issue for me, nor has it ever been an issue for my friends, except for one time. When I was in college, I had a steady group of friends, from both home and school, that I would regularly talk to and hang out with. Within this steady group of friends, there were a lot of us with similar names. For example, my college roommate was Jen, two of my closest friends from home were named Jane and John, and there was another friend named Janna. Now, to most people reading this, those names are all clearly distinct from one another and wouldn't be that hard to tell apart. The tricky part is that most of these names don't have a Portuguese counterpart. Take my name, for example. Jennifer does not have a counterpart, so when I was growing up, my grandmother (my father's mother) could NEVER get my name right and would often call me, Jan, Janna, Jon, Jackie or some other variation thereof. I won't fault her, for at least those were close approximations of my actual name, whereas many Portuguese people in the town where I grew up, didn't even try to get my name right and, instead, often called me by my brother's name, Chris. I never quite knew if it was because of my name, if people couldn't tell us apart, or if I really just made such a terrible first impression that people could only remember my brother's name, but whatevs. It made it easier to blame stuff on him, so there was that.
So, as I was saying, I had friends named, Jen, Jane, John, and Janna. I remember walking into my parents house on a gorgeous summer afternoon, looking forward to a fun evening with friends that had yet to be planned, and having a conversation with my father. Please keep in mind, this happened in the pre-cell phone era. If you weren't near a phone that was attached to your house, you either needed an answering machine or you were going to miss your calls. Now, we had an answering machine, but that was a challenge for my parents to use and they don't believe in screening their calls at all, so if they're home, they're answering the phone. With that in mind, our conversation went something like this:
Dad (and I'm going to spell his response phonetically so that you can appreciate where I'm coming from): "Shan called".
Me (looking at him with the blankest expression I've ever managed): "What?"
Dad: "Shan called"
Me: "Who?"
Dad (growing frustrated): "Shan! Shan called!"
Me (quickly recognizing my hangover is not the reason I'm not understanding him): "Dad, one more time. Who called for me?"
Dad (throwing his hands in the air in frustration): "Shan called!"
Me: "Dad, was it Jen, Jane, John, or Janna?"
Dad (voice rising, the little veins in his forehead starting to pop up and mumbling things in Portuguese under his breath): "Uh! Shan! Shen! Shin! What's the matter with you?! Shan called!"
Me (recognizing this is not a moment to be a wise ass with my dad): "Ok. Dad. Was the person a boy or a girl?"
Dad: "How am I supposed to know?!?! The phone rang. I pick it up, said hello, they asked for you. I said you not home. I ask who's calling? They say tell her Shan called. So, you come home and now I'm telling you Shan called!"
Me: "Ok. Dad. What did they say?"
Dad: "Oh for Cripe's sake! Give me a break, huh! I'm not gonna answer the phone no more! If it's important, they call you back!" At which point he storms out of the room cursing under his breath in Portuguese.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I convinced my family I needed a pager. Yep. You read that right. A pager. Needless to say, I still have no idea who was trying to call me that day or what they wanted. For all I know, it could have been Publisher's Clearinghouse calling to tell me I had won a million dollars or it could have been Discover card asking for a payment. It's a mystery for the ages that will only be solved when someone either invents a time machine or teaches Portuguese people how to pronounce names that start with the letter J (that aren't Jesus or his immediate family members).
Monday, August 10, 2020
Friday, May 22, 2020
If you give a dyke a drill
I apologize in advance to the wonderful author, Laura Numeroff, who has supplied hours of entertainment to our daughter, for the following post.
If you give a dyke a drill...
She's going to want to build something.
She'll decide to build a garden.
She'll realize she doesn't really know what she's doing.
She'll ask to search for a DIY video.
When you let her watch the video, she'll realize she's going to need more tools.
She'll ask to go shopping.
She'll ask to go shopping.
Since there's a global pandemic, she'll have to shop online.
She'll ask her wife to help her since her wife is a pro at online shopping.
Her wife will buy some tools and a few other things for herself.
She'll pay for expedited shipping.
All that online shopping will make them hungry.
The dyke will be tired of constantly cooking because of the pandemic,
so she'll choose to make something quick.
She'll decide they want a really nice salad.
She'll go to the fridge to get ingredients.
The refrigerator will be filled with alcohol, condiments, and butter.
She'll have a few drinks.
She'll get buzzed.
She'll remember she didn't have anything to eat yet.
She'll look in the freezer to see what she has.
It's filled with novelty ice cream.
She'll eat one...or six
She'll feel a little sick.
She'll make a promise to start eating better tomorrow.
She'll decide to build a garden to grow her own food.
And, chances are, when she decides to build a garden,
she's going to want a drill.
Tuesday, June 27, 2017
I'm stuck. Stuck! STUCK!
A few years ago, I was hanging out at home. RitaMarie had already gone to bed and Nicole and I were settling in to watch t.v., hoping to watch something that didn't involve any sort of animation or canned sound effects. As Nicole channel surfed, the phone rang and the caller ID announced it was my mom. (As an aside, I consider the caller ID to be like the guy at a royal ball who announces each guest as they arrive. You know, the guy with the fancy outfit and powdered wig who would say, "Presenting Sir Whatshisname and his wench" (women's rights were non-existent then, so yes, she was introduced as a wench, now stop interrupting my story. Ok, so I Googled the name of the guy and found quite a sassy argument going on between people arguing that this announcer is called a Marshal, a Herald, or a Sargent at Arms. I'm going with Marshal, but I like Herald better). Only the voice we have announcing phone visitors into our home is a bit flatter and often mispronounces things. In this case, our female Marshal heralded (see how I did that there? I used both terms. I'm an equal opportunity writer) "Call from Andrade, A". I felt the need to fire her after that as no one in our family has a name that starts with the letter A, but it turns out she's union, so I couldn't. End aside.)) So, as I was saying, the Marshal heralded a call from my mother, so I answered and we began our typical chat. Our chats often go something like this:
Me: Hi, mom
Mom: Hi. Is everything ok? I tried calling your house before and no one answered. I then tried calling your cell (which, if I'm home is in the other room) and no one answered and I started to get worried.
Me: Everything is fine mom. We were out doing some shopping and then we were doing stuff at home before getting RitaMarie to bed and now here we are.
Mom: Oh. Ok. I was getting worried that something happened.
***As a second aside in this post, this is how many of our conversations go. I often come home to frantic phone messages on our phone asking if everything is ok because I didn't answer. At times, she will have left both messages on our house phone, thinking one of them is the cell phone, and this sends her into an even bigger tizzy. I am starting to think my mother's relationship with phones should be it's own post. Second aside over***
Me: Everything is fine. How are you guys?
Mom: We're good. Dad got stuck in the car, so you're brother is out helping him. (Now, I wasn't shocked that there was a problem with my dad's car as this probably happened in 2014 and my dad drives a 1996 Nissan Pathfinder whose "check engine" light had been on for about 6 months with the mechanic telling my dad to, basically, ignore it).
Me: Ok. Where did he get stuck?
Mom: He's in the driveway.
Me: Oh. Would the car not start?
Mom: No. He was coming home and the car died in the driveway. Now he's stuck.
Me: But, mom, he's in the driveway. He can just call a tow truck or something. What is Chris going to do?
Mom: He's stuck inside the car.
Me: Inside the car? What do you mean?
Mom: The battery died and he can't unlock the doors, so he's stuck.
Me: Sitting in stunned silence on the other end of the phone
Mom: Are you still there?
Me: Yes, but I don't understand. What do you mean he can't unlock the doors?
Mom: He called me from the car and told me the battery died and he couldn't unlock the doors, so I was trying to get the cables to hook up the battery when your brother came over.
Me: More stunned silence.... ... ... Ok.
I think the conversation went on from there, but I was desperately trying to figure out what was happening in my parents' driveway, so I was a bit disconnected from the rest of the conversation. About 30 minutes later or so, the Marshal heralded a call from Andrade, C and I promptly answered my brother's call. When I answered, I could tell from the tone of his voice that he had a doozy of a story to tell me, but I jumped in first by saying, "Uh. What the hell is going on down there (meaning Danbury)? Mom said dad got stuck in the car, which I thought meant it broke down, but I'm beginning to think she meant something else." He responds by saying, "Yep" and I can hear the smile on his face as he's chomping at the bit to tell me the story. "Ok", I say. "What happened?" He proceeds to tell me that he had gotten a call from my dad on his cell phone to please come over to the house to help him with the car. My brother drove over (even though he literally lives on the other side of the block) and found our mother, in her housecoat, trying to hook a portable battery up to the Pathfinder that is in the driveway with the hood up. As he gets out of the car, he spots my father in the driver's seat frantically calling out directions to my mother as to how to hook up the battery. My brother immediately ran over and grabbed the battery out of her hand out of pure fear that she could potentially hook this up in a way that would blow up the neighborhood. He then tries to calm the whole situation, by asking my parents what is happening. My mother goes on to tell him that the car battery has died and my father is now stuck in the car. Even though I wasn't there, I am sure he had the same dumbfounded look on his face as I had listening to my mother on the phone. He then turned to my dad, whose window was cracked slightly open, and said, "Dad, what's the matter?" My dad went on to explain that the car battery had died and all the doors were locked, he had the only set of keys with him, so he couldn't get out of the car. I can imagine there was another period of stunned silence before the following conversation took place:
Chris: Dad, just unlock the doors.
Dad: I can't! The battery is dead and the button doesn't work. It doesn't have power (as if to tell my brother he was an idiot who couldn't figure out that a dead battery does nothing for power locks on a car).
Chris: Dad, just move the button (meaning the actual manual lock on the door. You know, the one that goes up and down and allows you to unlock and lock doors at will regardless of an electrical source. Yeah, that one).
Dad: (Growing increasingly frustrated). I can't! I tried it and there's no power! It doesn't work (in demonstration, he hits the electric lock/unlock button). See?!?!
Chris: No, dad. The other lock (now attempting to point to the lock).
Dad: (Now beginning to yell in Portuguese as his anxiety of being locked in his car increases) It doesn't work! Just hook up the battery, so I can get out!
At this point, my brother realized trying to talk him through this was completely unproductive, so he decides to humor him and just hook up the battery. As soon as he does, my father pushes the lock/unlock button and extricates himself from the car. My brother calmly disconnects the battery which has given the car just a little bit of juice, grabs the keys from my dad, and says, "Hey dad" and then quickly leaps in the car, locks it, and shows my dad he is holding the keys. My dad became quite flustered as he started yelling at him for now getting himself into the same situation that he just got out of. My brother pretended to panic, but then looked at my dad and, while not breaking eye contact, unlocked the door with the actual manual locking button, and opened the door. My dad was now the one in stunned silence and, realizing his anxiety had gotten the best of him, he began laughing and told my brother, who is now laughing uncontrollably, to "shut up".
As my brother and I howled about this story and joked about potential newspaper headlines of a man being rescued from being trapped in his car, I couldn't help but wonder what the hell had happened. My parents are not dumb people by any stretch of the imagination. My mother has a master's degree in education and currently works as an interpreter for the courts, which means she does simultaneous interpretation which I find impossible. My father also has a college education and is so incredibly mechanically minded that he is the Portuguese version of MacGyver. How the two of them managed to end up in this situation just boggles the mind, but I'll be damned if it isn't one of the funniest things I have ever heard.
Me: Hi, mom
Mom: Hi. Is everything ok? I tried calling your house before and no one answered. I then tried calling your cell (which, if I'm home is in the other room) and no one answered and I started to get worried.
Me: Everything is fine mom. We were out doing some shopping and then we were doing stuff at home before getting RitaMarie to bed and now here we are.
Mom: Oh. Ok. I was getting worried that something happened.
***As a second aside in this post, this is how many of our conversations go. I often come home to frantic phone messages on our phone asking if everything is ok because I didn't answer. At times, she will have left both messages on our house phone, thinking one of them is the cell phone, and this sends her into an even bigger tizzy. I am starting to think my mother's relationship with phones should be it's own post. Second aside over***
Me: Everything is fine. How are you guys?
Mom: We're good. Dad got stuck in the car, so you're brother is out helping him. (Now, I wasn't shocked that there was a problem with my dad's car as this probably happened in 2014 and my dad drives a 1996 Nissan Pathfinder whose "check engine" light had been on for about 6 months with the mechanic telling my dad to, basically, ignore it).
Me: Ok. Where did he get stuck?
Mom: He's in the driveway.
Me: Oh. Would the car not start?
Mom: No. He was coming home and the car died in the driveway. Now he's stuck.
Me: But, mom, he's in the driveway. He can just call a tow truck or something. What is Chris going to do?
Mom: He's stuck inside the car.
Me: Inside the car? What do you mean?
Mom: The battery died and he can't unlock the doors, so he's stuck.
Me: Sitting in stunned silence on the other end of the phone
Mom: Are you still there?
Me: Yes, but I don't understand. What do you mean he can't unlock the doors?
Mom: He called me from the car and told me the battery died and he couldn't unlock the doors, so I was trying to get the cables to hook up the battery when your brother came over.
Me: More stunned silence.... ... ... Ok.
I think the conversation went on from there, but I was desperately trying to figure out what was happening in my parents' driveway, so I was a bit disconnected from the rest of the conversation. About 30 minutes later or so, the Marshal heralded a call from Andrade, C and I promptly answered my brother's call. When I answered, I could tell from the tone of his voice that he had a doozy of a story to tell me, but I jumped in first by saying, "Uh. What the hell is going on down there (meaning Danbury)? Mom said dad got stuck in the car, which I thought meant it broke down, but I'm beginning to think she meant something else." He responds by saying, "Yep" and I can hear the smile on his face as he's chomping at the bit to tell me the story. "Ok", I say. "What happened?" He proceeds to tell me that he had gotten a call from my dad on his cell phone to please come over to the house to help him with the car. My brother drove over (even though he literally lives on the other side of the block) and found our mother, in her housecoat, trying to hook a portable battery up to the Pathfinder that is in the driveway with the hood up. As he gets out of the car, he spots my father in the driver's seat frantically calling out directions to my mother as to how to hook up the battery. My brother immediately ran over and grabbed the battery out of her hand out of pure fear that she could potentially hook this up in a way that would blow up the neighborhood. He then tries to calm the whole situation, by asking my parents what is happening. My mother goes on to tell him that the car battery has died and my father is now stuck in the car. Even though I wasn't there, I am sure he had the same dumbfounded look on his face as I had listening to my mother on the phone. He then turned to my dad, whose window was cracked slightly open, and said, "Dad, what's the matter?" My dad went on to explain that the car battery had died and all the doors were locked, he had the only set of keys with him, so he couldn't get out of the car. I can imagine there was another period of stunned silence before the following conversation took place:
Chris: Dad, just unlock the doors.
Dad: I can't! The battery is dead and the button doesn't work. It doesn't have power (as if to tell my brother he was an idiot who couldn't figure out that a dead battery does nothing for power locks on a car).
Chris: Dad, just move the button (meaning the actual manual lock on the door. You know, the one that goes up and down and allows you to unlock and lock doors at will regardless of an electrical source. Yeah, that one).
Dad: (Growing increasingly frustrated). I can't! I tried it and there's no power! It doesn't work (in demonstration, he hits the electric lock/unlock button). See?!?!
Chris: No, dad. The other lock (now attempting to point to the lock).
Dad: (Now beginning to yell in Portuguese as his anxiety of being locked in his car increases) It doesn't work! Just hook up the battery, so I can get out!
At this point, my brother realized trying to talk him through this was completely unproductive, so he decides to humor him and just hook up the battery. As soon as he does, my father pushes the lock/unlock button and extricates himself from the car. My brother calmly disconnects the battery which has given the car just a little bit of juice, grabs the keys from my dad, and says, "Hey dad" and then quickly leaps in the car, locks it, and shows my dad he is holding the keys. My dad became quite flustered as he started yelling at him for now getting himself into the same situation that he just got out of. My brother pretended to panic, but then looked at my dad and, while not breaking eye contact, unlocked the door with the actual manual locking button, and opened the door. My dad was now the one in stunned silence and, realizing his anxiety had gotten the best of him, he began laughing and told my brother, who is now laughing uncontrollably, to "shut up".
As my brother and I howled about this story and joked about potential newspaper headlines of a man being rescued from being trapped in his car, I couldn't help but wonder what the hell had happened. My parents are not dumb people by any stretch of the imagination. My mother has a master's degree in education and currently works as an interpreter for the courts, which means she does simultaneous interpretation which I find impossible. My father also has a college education and is so incredibly mechanically minded that he is the Portuguese version of MacGyver. How the two of them managed to end up in this situation just boggles the mind, but I'll be damned if it isn't one of the funniest things I have ever heard.
Sunday, June 25, 2017
And now for the hard part
All of my life, there have been many things that have been constant: my breathless beauty, my awesome sense of humor, my modesty, and my family. My family has always been there for me no matter what happened. I had more aunts, uncles, and cousins than I knew what to do with. Many times, I couldn't even tell you how we were related, I just always knew this person was my cousin. I don't know if it's a Portuguese thing, but we don't make many distinctions between a first cousin or an 81st cousin twice removed. If you were related to someone in their family tree at any point in time, then they're your cousin. So, I was related to...well...the Portuguese population in Danbury (Ok, that's an exaggeration. I was related to half of the Portuguese population and my family was friends with the other). While this meant I couldn't make a move anywhere without that information being beamed to my family through an intricate gossip network fashioned over generations that was remarkably efficient, it also meant I was surrounded by people who were looking out for me. Growing up with a big family that lived in the same town always made me feel connected. I knew if I needed anything, all I needed to do was walk down the street and knock on any number of doors and things would be ok. Growing up in such a tight knit community also meant I made friends that became a part of my family. People that would always be there for me through good times and bad. Like everything else, though, things change. People grow up, marry, have children, divorce and move.
Wow. I'm looking at this post now and wondering, "where the hell was I going with this?" I started writing this one in November 2015 and it is now June 2017 that I'm getting back to it and I have no clue what I was going to say next. I know what the original intention was, but I don't have any clue, at this point, where the hell I was going with the above paragraph. Have you ever had the experience of reading something you wrote in the past and thinking to yourself, "Damn. That was pretty good?" Well, I wish I could say I was having that experience right now, but my experience is probably more similar to that of a person with early onset dementia. You know, the "What the hell was I just doing?" thing. Wait...I actually do that a lot. Crap. I don't think that bodes well for me. Oh well. If it doesn't, I'll probably forget about it anyway.
Ok, I guess I should try to write about what I had originally set out to write about here. This post is about the loss of my brother. I know. I know. Some of you are thinking, "Uh...I don't think this is going to be a funny one" and to be honest with you, I'm not sure what the hell I"m going to say in this one as I'm just writing as I go. Oh, who am I kidding? I never know what the hell I'm going to say or write at any point in time, but I'm always pretty confident my language will be colorful (I'm a visual person, so I ask you to please imagine the scene in A Christmas Story where Ralphie is asking the department store Santa for his Red Rider BB gun with a compass in the stock and this things which tells time as he is hanging on for dear life at the top of the slide. Picture the smile he has on his face right before Santa kicks him down the slide...Got it? Now imagine my face on Ralphie's body. Ok. That's the image I want you to have of me when you think of me and my very colorful language).
Sorry, I realize I was rambling. I'll do my best to stay on topic. My brother. Now that he is gone, I can admit that he was always smarter than me, but I will also stand firmly by the claim that I was always funnier and better looking. And, since he's not here to argue with me, I'll hold that title for a very long time. I admit he was a damn good brother, son, husband, and kick ass father. I will also admit he was a slob who had to have the latest gadgets, even if they were pieces of crap. As an example, let me tell you a slob story. Growing up, his room was always a mess. His car was always a mess. He was like the real life version of Oscar Madison. One day, my family had gotten home after a long day at the store and I went upstairs to find our house had been broken into and the place was TRASHED. The upstairs kitchen (yes, my parents have two kitchens. If you're Portuguese, you're sitting here thinking, "Yeah. No kidding. So what?" because every Portuguese family you've ever known has two kitchens and you think it's weird that none of your American friends do) looked like a scene from The Sixth Sense when the lady had flung open all the kitchen cabinet doors, except all the stuff normally in the cabinets was all over the kitchen. It was a similar scene throughout the dining room, the living room (not the one we used to watch t.v. in and hang out in, but the living room that was decorated by a professional decorator when my parents bought the house in 1972 and, as such, could only be used for visiting dignitaries and maybe the Pope), and the bedrooms. My parents were visibly shaken and called the police as I walked around with my OCD kicking into overdrive thinking, "Holy crap! This is going to take FOREVER to clean up". When the police arrived, they asked to see the damage and walked through the house. My mother showed them the living room, kitchen, and then took them to the bedrooms. In my parents' house, as you go up the stairs to the bedrooms, my brother's room is the first room you come to. So, as my mother walked the police to the bedrooms, they looked at my brother's room and said, "So, they got this room, too?" At this point, my mother's face contorted in a way I had not seen before and her flesh turned colors that I did not think were humanly possible. I'm pretty sure I actually saw a flash of steam rise from her ears, but I have no scientific proof of that. In any case, in response to the officer's question, she fiercely grabbed my brother's bedroom door, slammed it shut, and manged to muster through gritted teeth, "No. His room always looks that way". As the color drained from my brother's face seeing the ire he had triggered in my mother, I laughed and said to him, "I don't know how you did it, but you managed to piss mom off even more than she already was" and I laughed down the hallway to my trashed room. Shortly after this incident, she directed him to clean his room and he gave her some flippant response along the lines of, "I'll clean it when I'm ready" or some other equally stupid thing to say to our mother. He tried to walk past her out of his room and, despite the fact that he was taller than her and weighed more, she still managed to push his butt back into his room and slammed the door with both of them still in there. I heard a lot of yelling, what I assumed to be the sounds of her trashing his room more, and the faint sounds of what I can only describe as him whimpering in submission realizing he would never again leave that room unless it was cleaned. I was so entertained by this that I sat in the hallway immediately outside his door chuckling as I imagined my own movie version of what I believed was going on behind that door. I soon realized I was chuckling too loudly as the door suddenly whipped open and my mother's face was unexpectedly staring at me saying, "If you're room isn't clean, I'm coming to you next" before disappearing back behind Chris' closed door. Now, I knew my room was clean because I was the Felix Unger of the family, but I was also not stupid, so I just got the hell out of there and entertained myself somewhere else.
I have many more stories like this, but I think I will share those sparingly as they bring a sort of bitter joy in recalling them. In any case, many of you know we lost my brother in October 2015 to colon cancer after only having been diagnosed 3 months earlier. I wish I could tell you there were funny stories to share around that time, but I don't remember any if there were. In any case, while those last 3 weeks he spent in the hospital will likely haunt me for years to come, I choose instead to focus on stories like the one I told above. Or the time I attempted to shave half his mustache and the other half of his beard for an April Fool's joke that went awry. Or the time I set all the clocks ahead by one hour the morning of his SATs. Or the time when we were playing wiffle ball at dusk and, what he thought was the ball being tossed to him, was actually a bat flying at him and he ran screaming like a little girl directly into our grandparents' picnic table and ended up on crutches. Or the time...nah. I'll save the rest.
Wow. I'm looking at this post now and wondering, "where the hell was I going with this?" I started writing this one in November 2015 and it is now June 2017 that I'm getting back to it and I have no clue what I was going to say next. I know what the original intention was, but I don't have any clue, at this point, where the hell I was going with the above paragraph. Have you ever had the experience of reading something you wrote in the past and thinking to yourself, "Damn. That was pretty good?" Well, I wish I could say I was having that experience right now, but my experience is probably more similar to that of a person with early onset dementia. You know, the "What the hell was I just doing?" thing. Wait...I actually do that a lot. Crap. I don't think that bodes well for me. Oh well. If it doesn't, I'll probably forget about it anyway.
Ok, I guess I should try to write about what I had originally set out to write about here. This post is about the loss of my brother. I know. I know. Some of you are thinking, "Uh...I don't think this is going to be a funny one" and to be honest with you, I'm not sure what the hell I"m going to say in this one as I'm just writing as I go. Oh, who am I kidding? I never know what the hell I'm going to say or write at any point in time, but I'm always pretty confident my language will be colorful (I'm a visual person, so I ask you to please imagine the scene in A Christmas Story where Ralphie is asking the department store Santa for his Red Rider BB gun with a compass in the stock and this things which tells time as he is hanging on for dear life at the top of the slide. Picture the smile he has on his face right before Santa kicks him down the slide...Got it? Now imagine my face on Ralphie's body. Ok. That's the image I want you to have of me when you think of me and my very colorful language).
Sorry, I realize I was rambling. I'll do my best to stay on topic. My brother. Now that he is gone, I can admit that he was always smarter than me, but I will also stand firmly by the claim that I was always funnier and better looking. And, since he's not here to argue with me, I'll hold that title for a very long time. I admit he was a damn good brother, son, husband, and kick ass father. I will also admit he was a slob who had to have the latest gadgets, even if they were pieces of crap. As an example, let me tell you a slob story. Growing up, his room was always a mess. His car was always a mess. He was like the real life version of Oscar Madison. One day, my family had gotten home after a long day at the store and I went upstairs to find our house had been broken into and the place was TRASHED. The upstairs kitchen (yes, my parents have two kitchens. If you're Portuguese, you're sitting here thinking, "Yeah. No kidding. So what?" because every Portuguese family you've ever known has two kitchens and you think it's weird that none of your American friends do) looked like a scene from The Sixth Sense when the lady had flung open all the kitchen cabinet doors, except all the stuff normally in the cabinets was all over the kitchen. It was a similar scene throughout the dining room, the living room (not the one we used to watch t.v. in and hang out in, but the living room that was decorated by a professional decorator when my parents bought the house in 1972 and, as such, could only be used for visiting dignitaries and maybe the Pope), and the bedrooms. My parents were visibly shaken and called the police as I walked around with my OCD kicking into overdrive thinking, "Holy crap! This is going to take FOREVER to clean up". When the police arrived, they asked to see the damage and walked through the house. My mother showed them the living room, kitchen, and then took them to the bedrooms. In my parents' house, as you go up the stairs to the bedrooms, my brother's room is the first room you come to. So, as my mother walked the police to the bedrooms, they looked at my brother's room and said, "So, they got this room, too?" At this point, my mother's face contorted in a way I had not seen before and her flesh turned colors that I did not think were humanly possible. I'm pretty sure I actually saw a flash of steam rise from her ears, but I have no scientific proof of that. In any case, in response to the officer's question, she fiercely grabbed my brother's bedroom door, slammed it shut, and manged to muster through gritted teeth, "No. His room always looks that way". As the color drained from my brother's face seeing the ire he had triggered in my mother, I laughed and said to him, "I don't know how you did it, but you managed to piss mom off even more than she already was" and I laughed down the hallway to my trashed room. Shortly after this incident, she directed him to clean his room and he gave her some flippant response along the lines of, "I'll clean it when I'm ready" or some other equally stupid thing to say to our mother. He tried to walk past her out of his room and, despite the fact that he was taller than her and weighed more, she still managed to push his butt back into his room and slammed the door with both of them still in there. I heard a lot of yelling, what I assumed to be the sounds of her trashing his room more, and the faint sounds of what I can only describe as him whimpering in submission realizing he would never again leave that room unless it was cleaned. I was so entertained by this that I sat in the hallway immediately outside his door chuckling as I imagined my own movie version of what I believed was going on behind that door. I soon realized I was chuckling too loudly as the door suddenly whipped open and my mother's face was unexpectedly staring at me saying, "If you're room isn't clean, I'm coming to you next" before disappearing back behind Chris' closed door. Now, I knew my room was clean because I was the Felix Unger of the family, but I was also not stupid, so I just got the hell out of there and entertained myself somewhere else.
I have many more stories like this, but I think I will share those sparingly as they bring a sort of bitter joy in recalling them. In any case, many of you know we lost my brother in October 2015 to colon cancer after only having been diagnosed 3 months earlier. I wish I could tell you there were funny stories to share around that time, but I don't remember any if there were. In any case, while those last 3 weeks he spent in the hospital will likely haunt me for years to come, I choose instead to focus on stories like the one I told above. Or the time I attempted to shave half his mustache and the other half of his beard for an April Fool's joke that went awry. Or the time I set all the clocks ahead by one hour the morning of his SATs. Or the time when we were playing wiffle ball at dusk and, what he thought was the ball being tossed to him, was actually a bat flying at him and he ran screaming like a little girl directly into our grandparents' picnic table and ended up on crutches. Or the time...nah. I'll save the rest.
The Squirrel
I have been relentessly teased about this story for a long time by the people who know it and decided it was time to open myself up to even more teasing by those of you who don't know this story. This is a story about a squirrel that entered our lives in a spring several years ago.
I was still out on maternity leave and was out mowing the lawn in our backyard. As I was going along with my headphones blasting my Portuguese music (yes, I listen to Fado while I mow the lawn. Don't judge me), I noticed a small grey bundle, about the size of a half dollar, sitting in the lawn dangerously close to the mower blades. I turned off the mower, because, well, safety first, and went to see what it was. There, in the grass was a teeny, tiny, newborn, baby squirrel. Now, as I mentioned already, I was still out on maternity leave and, as such, my hormones were not in the their typically well balanced state (hahahahahaha..."well balanced state"...funny) and I may have been slightly more emotional than I otherwise am. In any case, I saw this baby squirrel and realized that I had been dangerously close to committing squirder (the term "squirder" shall henceforth refer to the act of murdering a squirrel. While I may not use this term again in this post, you may feel free to use it and enjoy knowing how it came be a part of the English language). Something in me seemed to cry out, "This poor baby needs to be with his/her (I didn't check to see if it was a boy or girl squirrel because, let's be honest, that would be weird) mama!"
With tears now streaming down my face, I ran inside the house to research how to reunite a baby squirrel with its mommy. Surprisingly, a Google search turned up very little. There wasn't even a TED Talk on the subject. I mean really. In any case, I came up with a solution and quickly went around the house collecting the materials I needed to save this squirrel. As I'm racing around the house, Nicole is looking at me worriedly and asking, "What's the matter? What are you doing?" For the next several minutes, I continued gathering materials and silently weeping while Nicole kept trying to find out what was wrong. Finally, I was able to push past the lump in my throat and explain how I had narrowly averted becoming a squirderer, and was now needing to initiate Operation SOS (Save Our Squirrel). Nicole, perhaps recognizing my fragile state, took a few moments before blankly looking at me and responding, "Uh. What?" I decided I couldn't bear to tell the story again and went about constructing the makeshift shelter that would serve to reunite the Baby Squirrel Doe with its mother. I attached the shelter to the tree where Baby Doe could be off the ground, but still visible to it's mother, and ran back inside to wait and watch the tearful reunion. And I waited. And I waited. It seemed like hours that little Doe was out there, but no mama came. I didn't know what to do. Was this the equivalent of leaving a baby at a fire station? Was the squirrel mother worried about how to feed another mouth and just couldn't take it anymore? Was there a squirrel DCF that I could call about this poor abandoned baby? Would the squirrel authorities come and pick up the baby to put it in squirrel foster care? Would the squirrel one day be adopted and be told the story of the brave stranger that saved his (or her) little life?
By now, it was getting dark with storm clouds rolling in. I decided Baby Doe couldn't be out there all night waiting for his neglectful mother to return. I went outside, picked up the makeshift shelter and brought it inside. At this point, Nicole looked at me, looked down at the box, and looked back at me again. I would like to say she had a look of, "I love how caring you are" in her eyes, but the conversation went more like this:
Nicole: Uh. What are you doing?
Me: I'm saving this squirrel. He can't be out there all night defenseless and in the cold. He needs to be safe in the house.
Nicole: Uh. We have a baby in the house and we are NOT having this wild animal sleep in our house all night.
Me: But, it can't sleep outside! It will die!
Nicole: Fine. Put the box out in the garage.
Me: Ok. (I walk out to the garage and immediately return with Baby Doe). It's too cold out there. It needs to be inside.
Nicole: You're crazy.
Me: The squirrel can sleep in the laundry room. It's warm in there and I can close the door (because apparently I was worried about the squirrel's ninja skills and ability to be able to escape the box).
I am happy to report everyone made it through the night without injury or incident. In the morning, before leaving work, Nicole gave me a kiss and, in no uncertain terms, told me to make sure the squirrel was not in our house when she got home. As soon as she left, I decided I needed to do something. I was developing a squirrel savior complex and was hell bound and determined to not let this little squirrel die on my watch. I contemplated feeding it, but decided breast feeding a baby squirrel was not going to happen. I mean, come on, how was that little baby going to latch on? Geez. So, I started calling animal rescue leagues and humane societies. What I came to find out was that, apparently, many baby squirrels fall out of their nests in the spring and most places had already reached capacity for the number of squirrels they were able to accomodate. I kept calling with my hopes steadily diminishing until, finally, I found a place that was willing to help me complete my SOS mission. Granted, the place was 30 miles away, but whatevs. So, I loaded up the baby (and my kid) and drove the half hour to drop off the squirrel. When I arrived, there was very little fanfair as I heroically and proudly dropped off the squirrel. I said my goodbyes and off I went.
That was several years ago and now, I am confident in the fact that I did save that baby squirrel who, now, has rejoined the squirrel community and has told tales of the savior who rescued him. I know, deep inside, that somewhere in a tiny squirrel village there is a monument erected to me, and maybe even some squirrel currency with my picture on it. I am certain, that on some summer nights when all is quiet, I can hear tiny voices singing my praises in the trees in our backyard. Nicole would argue that there are meds for that, but in my heart, I know it is the squirrel faithful who continue to recognize and praise my bravery and courage on that dark spring night.
I was still out on maternity leave and was out mowing the lawn in our backyard. As I was going along with my headphones blasting my Portuguese music (yes, I listen to Fado while I mow the lawn. Don't judge me), I noticed a small grey bundle, about the size of a half dollar, sitting in the lawn dangerously close to the mower blades. I turned off the mower, because, well, safety first, and went to see what it was. There, in the grass was a teeny, tiny, newborn, baby squirrel. Now, as I mentioned already, I was still out on maternity leave and, as such, my hormones were not in the their typically well balanced state (hahahahahaha..."well balanced state"...funny) and I may have been slightly more emotional than I otherwise am. In any case, I saw this baby squirrel and realized that I had been dangerously close to committing squirder (the term "squirder" shall henceforth refer to the act of murdering a squirrel. While I may not use this term again in this post, you may feel free to use it and enjoy knowing how it came be a part of the English language). Something in me seemed to cry out, "This poor baby needs to be with his/her (I didn't check to see if it was a boy or girl squirrel because, let's be honest, that would be weird) mama!"
With tears now streaming down my face, I ran inside the house to research how to reunite a baby squirrel with its mommy. Surprisingly, a Google search turned up very little. There wasn't even a TED Talk on the subject. I mean really. In any case, I came up with a solution and quickly went around the house collecting the materials I needed to save this squirrel. As I'm racing around the house, Nicole is looking at me worriedly and asking, "What's the matter? What are you doing?" For the next several minutes, I continued gathering materials and silently weeping while Nicole kept trying to find out what was wrong. Finally, I was able to push past the lump in my throat and explain how I had narrowly averted becoming a squirderer, and was now needing to initiate Operation SOS (Save Our Squirrel). Nicole, perhaps recognizing my fragile state, took a few moments before blankly looking at me and responding, "Uh. What?" I decided I couldn't bear to tell the story again and went about constructing the makeshift shelter that would serve to reunite the Baby Squirrel Doe with its mother. I attached the shelter to the tree where Baby Doe could be off the ground, but still visible to it's mother, and ran back inside to wait and watch the tearful reunion. And I waited. And I waited. It seemed like hours that little Doe was out there, but no mama came. I didn't know what to do. Was this the equivalent of leaving a baby at a fire station? Was the squirrel mother worried about how to feed another mouth and just couldn't take it anymore? Was there a squirrel DCF that I could call about this poor abandoned baby? Would the squirrel authorities come and pick up the baby to put it in squirrel foster care? Would the squirrel one day be adopted and be told the story of the brave stranger that saved his (or her) little life?
By now, it was getting dark with storm clouds rolling in. I decided Baby Doe couldn't be out there all night waiting for his neglectful mother to return. I went outside, picked up the makeshift shelter and brought it inside. At this point, Nicole looked at me, looked down at the box, and looked back at me again. I would like to say she had a look of, "I love how caring you are" in her eyes, but the conversation went more like this:
Nicole: Uh. What are you doing?
Me: I'm saving this squirrel. He can't be out there all night defenseless and in the cold. He needs to be safe in the house.
Nicole: Uh. We have a baby in the house and we are NOT having this wild animal sleep in our house all night.
Me: But, it can't sleep outside! It will die!
Nicole: Fine. Put the box out in the garage.
Me: Ok. (I walk out to the garage and immediately return with Baby Doe). It's too cold out there. It needs to be inside.
Nicole: You're crazy.
Me: The squirrel can sleep in the laundry room. It's warm in there and I can close the door (because apparently I was worried about the squirrel's ninja skills and ability to be able to escape the box).
I am happy to report everyone made it through the night without injury or incident. In the morning, before leaving work, Nicole gave me a kiss and, in no uncertain terms, told me to make sure the squirrel was not in our house when she got home. As soon as she left, I decided I needed to do something. I was developing a squirrel savior complex and was hell bound and determined to not let this little squirrel die on my watch. I contemplated feeding it, but decided breast feeding a baby squirrel was not going to happen. I mean, come on, how was that little baby going to latch on? Geez. So, I started calling animal rescue leagues and humane societies. What I came to find out was that, apparently, many baby squirrels fall out of their nests in the spring and most places had already reached capacity for the number of squirrels they were able to accomodate. I kept calling with my hopes steadily diminishing until, finally, I found a place that was willing to help me complete my SOS mission. Granted, the place was 30 miles away, but whatevs. So, I loaded up the baby (and my kid) and drove the half hour to drop off the squirrel. When I arrived, there was very little fanfair as I heroically and proudly dropped off the squirrel. I said my goodbyes and off I went.
That was several years ago and now, I am confident in the fact that I did save that baby squirrel who, now, has rejoined the squirrel community and has told tales of the savior who rescued him. I know, deep inside, that somewhere in a tiny squirrel village there is a monument erected to me, and maybe even some squirrel currency with my picture on it. I am certain, that on some summer nights when all is quiet, I can hear tiny voices singing my praises in the trees in our backyard. Nicole would argue that there are meds for that, but in my heart, I know it is the squirrel faithful who continue to recognize and praise my bravery and courage on that dark spring night.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
What a Long, Strange Trip...
Let me start by saying this post is dramatically different than anything else I have posted here before. With that being said, I’d like to tell you the story of my friend, Mike.
Mike is a 44 year old chef who is married to one of my oldest and dearest friends, Jane. He is a gymnast, a swimmer, a golfer, an adventurer, an avid Grateful Dead fan, a great friend, a loving husband, and a truly spectacular father to his 8 year old son, Jacob. He lives his life to the fullest and enjoys every minute of it. On March 7, 2014, all of that changed. Mike had been complaining of severe stomach pains and was taken to the hospital. While there, he went into multiple system organ failure and cardiac arrest; his doctors determined he had suffered a massive aortic dissection. An aortic dissection is essentially a tear in the aorta and occurs in about 2 of every 10,000 people, typically impacting men between the ages of 40-70. Once the aorta has ruptured, the chance of survival is 50% and Mike’s had already ruptured. He was rushed in to surgery and survived. His medical team felt good about the procedure and Mike had done great. Everyone was relieved that the worst was behind them. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
Less than 48 hours later, Mike developed sepsis due to complications from the dissection. Doctors told his family that Mike would require surgery if he had any chance of survival. His condition was so delicate, however, that he was only given a 5% chance of surviving the surgery…if he even made it to the operating room. So essentially, the choices facing the family at this point were: 1) Do nothing and he will die; or 2) Operate and he will probably die, but there is a slim chance he could make it. I don’t know if you can actually call those choices, but that was where things stood, so the family took a chance and proceeded with surgery...and he survived. When he came out, he was on a respirator, required dialysis, his hands and feet were necrotic, and he had no pupillary reflex for over a week, suggesting little to no brain activity. Then came more bad news. It looked as if Mike had suffered at least two strokes during surgery and he appeared to be paralyzed from the chest down.
Decisions had to be made. Decisions that no family should ever have to make about a loved one. Goodbyes had to be said. Friends and family from all over the world came to spend some precious time with Michael in what looked to be his final days. Many tears were shed as people left thinking they had seen him and spoken with him for the last time. In those days that turned into weeks, I said goodbye more times than I am willing to count.
While his body was still riddled with infections and developed fever after fever to continue the fight, he slowly began to come back to life. His liver began to show signs of returning to normal functioning. His breathing became stronger and he was less dependent on the respirator. He became increasingly responsive as he would turn his head toward Jane’s voice, would smile while listening to messages from Jacob, and would blink his eyes in response to simple questions. All of these signs brought a strong sense of hope, but those feelings were tempered by the very real prognosis Michael’s medical team presented to his family. “His lungs will probably not return to full strength and he will need to be on oxygen”…”It is unlikely his kidneys will return to full function, so he will require dialysis”…”He will have to lose his hands and feet, at minimum, if he has any chance of survival”…”He will have to be on a feeding tube”…”He will never be able to live independently and will require 24 hour medical care for the rest of his life”…
At the time, all of these seemed like death sentences being imposed on the vibrant, active, 44 year old loved by so many. While the majority of Michael’s medical team, family, and friends felt this was not the kind of life Mike would have wanted, there were others who refused to accept these predictions as truth and encouraged the family to let him fight and see where he could go. And fight he did. Little by little, he came off the respirator and was able to breathe on his own. His liver function returned to normal. He became more alert and responsive to those around him, offering Jane a daily wink to let her know he was in there and fighting. Finally, after nearly 3 months in ICU, he did something that most people would not want a 44 year old grown man to do in bed. Mike urinated. Just a little, but it was pure gold. His kidneys came back. Mike had, once again, beaten the virtually insurmountable odds. Another surgery was performed to amputate the necrosis which had moved in to his hands and feet, but he kept going. He kept healing. He kept getting stronger.
Finally, the day arrived where Mike was ready to move on to a rehabilitation facility. On August 7, five months after his dissection, Michael moved to a sub-acute physical rehabilitation facility near his home. Despite his situation, he is happy to be alive and to be given this precious time with his loved ones who just can’t believe the miracle they have been blessed with.
Now that I’ve told you his story, I’m going to ask for something from you in return. The family is now faced with immense medical expenses and the cost of making accommodations to their home to allow Mike to be as independent as possible. Below is a link to a fundraising page to help the family raise the funds needed to help Mike continue his fight. Please, if you are able to donate anything at all, please do so. If you are not able to help him financially, then please just pass the word along to your family, friends, coworkers, or whoever will listen. Thanks for taking the time to read this story and I promise my next blog entry will be back to the pointless, ramblings about my life that you have all gotten used to reading. Maybe I’ll even write about that squirrel…or the story about a guy, a Pathfinder, and a dead battery…
http://www.gofundme.com/cin5qw
Mike is a 44 year old chef who is married to one of my oldest and dearest friends, Jane. He is a gymnast, a swimmer, a golfer, an adventurer, an avid Grateful Dead fan, a great friend, a loving husband, and a truly spectacular father to his 8 year old son, Jacob. He lives his life to the fullest and enjoys every minute of it. On March 7, 2014, all of that changed. Mike had been complaining of severe stomach pains and was taken to the hospital. While there, he went into multiple system organ failure and cardiac arrest; his doctors determined he had suffered a massive aortic dissection. An aortic dissection is essentially a tear in the aorta and occurs in about 2 of every 10,000 people, typically impacting men between the ages of 40-70. Once the aorta has ruptured, the chance of survival is 50% and Mike’s had already ruptured. He was rushed in to surgery and survived. His medical team felt good about the procedure and Mike had done great. Everyone was relieved that the worst was behind them. Unfortunately, it wasn’t.
Less than 48 hours later, Mike developed sepsis due to complications from the dissection. Doctors told his family that Mike would require surgery if he had any chance of survival. His condition was so delicate, however, that he was only given a 5% chance of surviving the surgery…if he even made it to the operating room. So essentially, the choices facing the family at this point were: 1) Do nothing and he will die; or 2) Operate and he will probably die, but there is a slim chance he could make it. I don’t know if you can actually call those choices, but that was where things stood, so the family took a chance and proceeded with surgery...and he survived. When he came out, he was on a respirator, required dialysis, his hands and feet were necrotic, and he had no pupillary reflex for over a week, suggesting little to no brain activity. Then came more bad news. It looked as if Mike had suffered at least two strokes during surgery and he appeared to be paralyzed from the chest down.
Decisions had to be made. Decisions that no family should ever have to make about a loved one. Goodbyes had to be said. Friends and family from all over the world came to spend some precious time with Michael in what looked to be his final days. Many tears were shed as people left thinking they had seen him and spoken with him for the last time. In those days that turned into weeks, I said goodbye more times than I am willing to count.
While his body was still riddled with infections and developed fever after fever to continue the fight, he slowly began to come back to life. His liver began to show signs of returning to normal functioning. His breathing became stronger and he was less dependent on the respirator. He became increasingly responsive as he would turn his head toward Jane’s voice, would smile while listening to messages from Jacob, and would blink his eyes in response to simple questions. All of these signs brought a strong sense of hope, but those feelings were tempered by the very real prognosis Michael’s medical team presented to his family. “His lungs will probably not return to full strength and he will need to be on oxygen”…”It is unlikely his kidneys will return to full function, so he will require dialysis”…”He will have to lose his hands and feet, at minimum, if he has any chance of survival”…”He will have to be on a feeding tube”…”He will never be able to live independently and will require 24 hour medical care for the rest of his life”…
At the time, all of these seemed like death sentences being imposed on the vibrant, active, 44 year old loved by so many. While the majority of Michael’s medical team, family, and friends felt this was not the kind of life Mike would have wanted, there were others who refused to accept these predictions as truth and encouraged the family to let him fight and see where he could go. And fight he did. Little by little, he came off the respirator and was able to breathe on his own. His liver function returned to normal. He became more alert and responsive to those around him, offering Jane a daily wink to let her know he was in there and fighting. Finally, after nearly 3 months in ICU, he did something that most people would not want a 44 year old grown man to do in bed. Mike urinated. Just a little, but it was pure gold. His kidneys came back. Mike had, once again, beaten the virtually insurmountable odds. Another surgery was performed to amputate the necrosis which had moved in to his hands and feet, but he kept going. He kept healing. He kept getting stronger.
Finally, the day arrived where Mike was ready to move on to a rehabilitation facility. On August 7, five months after his dissection, Michael moved to a sub-acute physical rehabilitation facility near his home. Despite his situation, he is happy to be alive and to be given this precious time with his loved ones who just can’t believe the miracle they have been blessed with.
Now that I’ve told you his story, I’m going to ask for something from you in return. The family is now faced with immense medical expenses and the cost of making accommodations to their home to allow Mike to be as independent as possible. Below is a link to a fundraising page to help the family raise the funds needed to help Mike continue his fight. Please, if you are able to donate anything at all, please do so. If you are not able to help him financially, then please just pass the word along to your family, friends, coworkers, or whoever will listen. Thanks for taking the time to read this story and I promise my next blog entry will be back to the pointless, ramblings about my life that you have all gotten used to reading. Maybe I’ll even write about that squirrel…or the story about a guy, a Pathfinder, and a dead battery…
http://www.gofundme.com/cin5qw
Thursday, October 17, 2013
This can't be right
I read a very disturbing article online the other day. Quite frankly, I'm not completely sure if it's a genuine article or if it's a fake, but the sheer terror that the article engendered in me has been plaguing me since that time. So, the only rational way for me to deal with it is, or course, to share my thoughts with you. The article (and I still get goosebumps talking about it as it is potentially more terrifying than Stephen King's The Shining or that really disturbing movie The Ring. And, in all fairness to all other horror movie producers or screen writers, I don't watch scary movies because, well, they scare me and I am a royal wuss, so there might be scarier things out there, but those two films mark the complete repertoire of my horror film watching. I hear you judging me right now and I don't care. So there.) Ok, where was I? Right, the article. The truly horrifying article that I read that has plagued my nightmares since it passed my retinas claims that the world will run out of chocolate in 2020. Please. Let me say that again so that everyone knows they did not just have a momentary bout of psychosis and read something that wasn't there. The world will run out of chocolate in 2020. I'll give you a minute to have your freak out, but please return when you're done because I'm not done talking about this yet.
Ok. Feel better? Well, you shouldn't! Didn't you pay attention to what I just told you?!?!? THE WORLD IS GOING TO RUN OUT OF CHOCOLATE!!! The article, and again I'm hoping it's a fake, claims that the lands that used to be used for cocoa production are quickly vanishing due to development, so there are fewer cocoa farms then there used to be. Also, the global demand for chocolate is at an all time high and is on the increase, largely due to a rising demand in Asia. The article states cocoa plants take 4 years to produce a crop, so new farmers have a difficult time getting into the industry because it takes too long to yield a crop that will bring in cash. Hold on...
I had to take a break, because I found myself freaking out and holding on to my M&Ms too tightly. For the record, they will melt in your hand if you squeeze them too much. That's also true for peanut butter cups, Twix bars, and Dove squares....mmmmmmmmm....Dove squares. But, imagine a world with none of those things. No chocolate milk or hot cocoa. No fudge during the holidays (what will people do for holiday gifts?). No chocolate chip pancakes. No brownies or chocolate cake. NO HOT FUDGE SUNDAES!! Is the enormity of the situation finally sinking in for you?!?!?
Ok, so once I got past the initial shock (and, as you can see, I'm still experiencing painful aftershocks), I got to thinking about the side effects of this situation. First of all, there is a HUGE opportunity here to make some cash. Granted, I don't have the funds to front a big cocoa farm, but if any one does, I will work for chocolate. I think if you were able to get some land in the right climate, you would eventually be richer than the wealthiest oil producing countries in the world. I mean, let's think about this for a moment. When you're having a bad day, do you say to yourself, "Man, I could really go for an oil change" or do you reach for a candy bar? Do you say, "To make myself feel better, I think I'll go fill my car up with premium" or do you bake brownies that you then cover in chocolate ice cream (or vanilla, if you go for that sort of thing)? Look, part of the problem is that most of the countries in the world are being run by men who think that the one with the biggest oil field wins. Countries waging wars because they think oil is what brings power and wealth. To them I say, tell your wives that when Aunt Flo comes to town, they're going to have to settle for broccoli because there's no candy. For those not in the know, I'm talking about the time in the red tent, riding the cotton pony, or that time of the month when every man dreads hearing the words, "Honey, can you pick me up some tampons when you go to the store? Oh, and get some chips, too. Oh, and don't forget the chocolate". Yeah. The chocolate. Now imagine what would happen if that person came home to someone who is on the rag, surfing the crimson wave, full on into shark week, only to have to say, "Here are your lady things, but they were out of chocolate". I know that all of the men (or women) who have had to come home to an emotional and slightly irrational beast who, at other times, doubles for the love of your life, will certainly dread the day that happens because you know that when you say those words, you are putting your life in extreme danger. In fact, I would venture a guess that many marriages will end the day the chocolate dies.
In fact, I'm going to go one step further and make a prediction: When chocolate makes its grand exit (which I think is what the Mayans were referring to as the end of days), I believe women will rise up and say, "Ok, boys. You've had your fun and really screwed things up. It's time to step aside and let us run things for a while...idiots." (And for the guys who are reading this, don't get your panties in a wad just because I called you an idiot. There are FAR worse things I could have called you, so get over it). When that day comes, the world will really see what is meant by the phrase, "hell hath no fury like a women's wrath" because us PMSing bitches are going to tear some shit up looking for one last hug and kiss of the chocolate persuasion.
Plus, and this is the closest I will come to a political rant ever on this blog, if any American can corner the market on chocolate, then maybe we can sell that chocolate to the billion women in Asia who are PMSing and finally buy back Manhattan.
Ok. Feel better? Well, you shouldn't! Didn't you pay attention to what I just told you?!?!? THE WORLD IS GOING TO RUN OUT OF CHOCOLATE!!! The article, and again I'm hoping it's a fake, claims that the lands that used to be used for cocoa production are quickly vanishing due to development, so there are fewer cocoa farms then there used to be. Also, the global demand for chocolate is at an all time high and is on the increase, largely due to a rising demand in Asia. The article states cocoa plants take 4 years to produce a crop, so new farmers have a difficult time getting into the industry because it takes too long to yield a crop that will bring in cash. Hold on...
I had to take a break, because I found myself freaking out and holding on to my M&Ms too tightly. For the record, they will melt in your hand if you squeeze them too much. That's also true for peanut butter cups, Twix bars, and Dove squares....mmmmmmmmm....Dove squares. But, imagine a world with none of those things. No chocolate milk or hot cocoa. No fudge during the holidays (what will people do for holiday gifts?). No chocolate chip pancakes. No brownies or chocolate cake. NO HOT FUDGE SUNDAES!! Is the enormity of the situation finally sinking in for you?!?!?
Ok, so once I got past the initial shock (and, as you can see, I'm still experiencing painful aftershocks), I got to thinking about the side effects of this situation. First of all, there is a HUGE opportunity here to make some cash. Granted, I don't have the funds to front a big cocoa farm, but if any one does, I will work for chocolate. I think if you were able to get some land in the right climate, you would eventually be richer than the wealthiest oil producing countries in the world. I mean, let's think about this for a moment. When you're having a bad day, do you say to yourself, "Man, I could really go for an oil change" or do you reach for a candy bar? Do you say, "To make myself feel better, I think I'll go fill my car up with premium" or do you bake brownies that you then cover in chocolate ice cream (or vanilla, if you go for that sort of thing)? Look, part of the problem is that most of the countries in the world are being run by men who think that the one with the biggest oil field wins. Countries waging wars because they think oil is what brings power and wealth. To them I say, tell your wives that when Aunt Flo comes to town, they're going to have to settle for broccoli because there's no candy. For those not in the know, I'm talking about the time in the red tent, riding the cotton pony, or that time of the month when every man dreads hearing the words, "Honey, can you pick me up some tampons when you go to the store? Oh, and get some chips, too. Oh, and don't forget the chocolate". Yeah. The chocolate. Now imagine what would happen if that person came home to someone who is on the rag, surfing the crimson wave, full on into shark week, only to have to say, "Here are your lady things, but they were out of chocolate". I know that all of the men (or women) who have had to come home to an emotional and slightly irrational beast who, at other times, doubles for the love of your life, will certainly dread the day that happens because you know that when you say those words, you are putting your life in extreme danger. In fact, I would venture a guess that many marriages will end the day the chocolate dies.
In fact, I'm going to go one step further and make a prediction: When chocolate makes its grand exit (which I think is what the Mayans were referring to as the end of days), I believe women will rise up and say, "Ok, boys. You've had your fun and really screwed things up. It's time to step aside and let us run things for a while...idiots." (And for the guys who are reading this, don't get your panties in a wad just because I called you an idiot. There are FAR worse things I could have called you, so get over it). When that day comes, the world will really see what is meant by the phrase, "hell hath no fury like a women's wrath" because us PMSing bitches are going to tear some shit up looking for one last hug and kiss of the chocolate persuasion.
Plus, and this is the closest I will come to a political rant ever on this blog, if any American can corner the market on chocolate, then maybe we can sell that chocolate to the billion women in Asia who are PMSing and finally buy back Manhattan.
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