Mike

It's not my fault this time, honest!

Yes it was my fault when I broke my foot and messed up my ankle.  Anyone with common sense, something I obviously lack, knows not to stand on furniture to vacuum cobwebs off of the ceiling.

But what did I do to mess up my knee yesterday?  Nothing but walk.  I was walking across the living room when something went Pop! in my left knee.  The knee buckled but I was close enough to the sofa to sit down rather than fall down.  Within seconds my knee was too stiff and sore to straighten.  It's a little better today but that may be due to the naproxen.  There's no swelling or discoloration so I'll hold off going to the doctor.  All he's likely to tell me is to take naproxen and stay off the leg as much as possible and I'm already doing that.

It's a bitch getting old.

Thank you, God

College football begins in less than two hours.

There's a reason they call it "doing a Courtney"

By now I'm sure that it's genetic.  Yeah, that's it.

See what my brother did.

I think our family's penchant for self-inflicted injuries deserves its own Wikipedia entry.

Life is funny

I mean funny in the peculiar way, not funny in the ha-ha way.

(This is another mind dump.  “You can go about your business.  Move along... move along. “)

Back in 2002 I was living in the Charleston suburb of Summerville and looking to buy a house closer to downtown.  Jo Ann and Paul drove down from Kentucky for the long Thanksgiving weekend and while they were here I drove them around town.  Paul was excited that we have so many golf course communities here.  Paul played golf every morning in Kentucky as long as snow didn’t cover the course and at the time he and Jo Ann were looking to buy a small house on a course in Florida that they could live in during the winter months (October to March) when his business could practically run itself.

It was that weekend that the Grand Plan was hatched.  If I could find a house on a golf course, Jo Ann and Paul would try to find one here, too, instead of in Florida.  That way we could all play golf together.

I did my part.  I managed to find a small, very affordable house on the 15th fairway at Shadowmoss in early ’03.  Several months later the woman who owns the house next to  mine but rents it out thought about selling it so Jo Ann and Paul drove down to look at it and to make an offer.  In the end she decided not to sell but to continue renting it.  Grrr.

I kept looking for For Sale signs and in early ’04 I looked at house on the course just down the street from me.  I told Jo Ann and Paul not to bother coming down because the house needed a lot of work and the selling price wasn’t all that great.  It was owned by an elderly couple who had both been moved to a nursing home and the relatives were trying unload it.  (It was eventually bought by a young military guy who was talented enough to do most of the renovation himself.  As someone who can barely install a new lock on the front door, I admire him.)

It was just a month or two later that a house at the far end of my street, next to the 15th tee, came on the market.  I looked at it and while it needed some work, the price was right.  I phoned Jo Ann and Paul and told them that they should come see it ASAP since the market was still hot then.  Typical of both of them, they called the realtor and made an offer instead, just on my say-so.  Talk about pressure.  The offer was accepted but included a standard escape clause if a home inspector found any serious problems.  It was only then that they came to Charleston to see the house that they were going to buy.  Even while walking through it for the first time they talked about all of the changes they wanted to make.  So typical of both of them.  The house inspection went well and the legal paperwork started.

Two days before Jo Ann and Paul should have been here for the closing, Paul was killed in a traffic accident and the closing never happened.  The sellers threatened to sue, first to force the closing and later for thousands of dollars of alleged damages, but eventually they gave up and took the $1,000 deposit.  (The sellers lived in New York and never lived in the house.  They just rented it out.  They did nothing to improve my opinion of New Yorkers.  Yes, I know, Briar considers herself to be a New Yorker now.  Poor kid.  Born in British Columbia, raised in South Carolina, living in NYC.  She’s lucky if she knows which accent to use.)

After Paul died Jo Ann talked often about selling the business and buying the next house on my street to come on the market.  She even went so far as to have me take her golf clubs back to my house.  I knew that she would never do it.  She was as loyal to her employees as Paul had been.  Instead she came down for Christmases and our weeks in Hilton Head at a time-share she swapped for her one in Maine.

Now Jo Ann is gone and I’m the only one living on a golf course.  Like Jo Ann, I only took up the game because Paul was so passionate about it.  Now that both of them are gone I doubt if I will ever play again unless I go to St. Louis to see William and he can borrow a set of clubs for me to use.  To be honest, I never got the hang of it.  I was lucky if I could break twice my age.  That got easier with every birthday.  :-)

Don’t get me wrong.  I love my house.  It has huge windows in the living room that overlook the golf course and not someone else’s back yard.  The trees in my backyard frustrate me because the shade keeps real grass from growing there (most of the yard consists of ugly sedges that look like grass and dull the mower blade with all of the silica) but the trees are wildlife havens and I like that.

One of these days I may renovate the house (make that “have someone renovate the house”), sell it and move into something even smaller. (Think Tumbleweed). As long as I have room for bookshelves, a kitchen, a bathroom and a bedroom, and as long as Champ and Psycho have their own spaces, even if it is outside in the woods, I’m happy. But, like the last Grand Plan, it may never happen.

Finally, the dog story.

I hope it isn't an anti-climax after the buildup.

Allan, Alison, and I walked to dinner at a restaurant near their house Friday night and on our way back, as it was getting dark, I heard Allan yell, “Look out for that car!”  I thought that he was talking to, you know, an actual person but instead he was yelling at this little off-white dot that was was trying to cross Tates Creek Road in front of Morton Middle School.  Tates Creek isn’t the busiest road in Lexington but at times it comes close.

The little off-white dot managed to make it across the road without getting squashed and came running up to us.  It turned out to be what I’ve been known to call a “yip” dog or a “drop-kick” dog.  The sort of tiny dog that irritates you to death when other people own one.  In addition to being off-white, which I felt sure should be white, its fur was matted and covered with what I hoped where burrs and not ticks. (They turned out to be burrs which I carefully picked out of his fur.)  There was a couple walking across the street from us at the time and Allan asked them if it was their dog.  They shrugged their shoulders and walked on.

As we rounded the corner onto Allan’s street the yip dog followed us.  It stopped a couple of times to lift a leg and pee on bushes so I knew that it was a male.  (I wish I could say the same about Champ, who still squats when he pees).

When we got back to Allan and Alison’s house I convinced Allan to let me put the excuse for one-half of a pair of fuzzy slippers in his fenced back yard until we could figure out what to do with him next.  By then it was quite dark.

While Allan phoned the SPCA , Alison and I played with the dog.  Mr. Jones, like any curious cat, stood looking out of the kitchen door to see what we were doing.  Once the dog saw Mr. Jones, instead of barking, he stood on his hind legs and did tiny pirouettes.  Too, too cute.  The SPCA said that they couldn’t take the dog until 11 the next morning, which was Saturday, the day I needed to drive back to SC.  Then Allan called the overnight emergency vet to see if they could scan the dog for a chip and track down who he belonged to.  They said that they could scan for a chip but if (a big if) there was a number they couldn’t track down the owner until the next day.

The dog couldn’t spend the night in Allan’s back yard because there were too many ways to escape and since I was staying in Jo Ann’s townhouse which has a totally enclosed, bricked-in patio and because I have a soft heart for strays (God knows I’ve adopted many and dated a few), I asked Allan and Alison if they had a cat-carrier I could use to take the dog to Jo Ann’s.  A cat carrier was appropriate since the dog was easily a third of the size of Psycho.  (Think of a toy poodle crossed with a chihuahua.)

When we got back to the townhouse I left the the dog on the patio and waited to see how he would react.  He didn’t.  Since the only pet food left in Jo Ann’s house were cans of Fancy Feast cat food I gave him one of those and he quickly scarfed it down.  Once I was sure that he was happy, I went upstairs to bed.

At 2 AM a dog barking woke me up.  When I stumbled back onto the patio the mutt was happy to see me.  He licked my arms and legs and hopped in my lap.  We sat on the back porch steps and watched the Perseids.  Even though it wasn’t the peak, and we had a limited view, it was quite a show. After 20 minutes I went back in the house and only got 20 feet before he started barking again.  Not knowing what else to do, I picked him up, much like picking up Callie, Jo Ann’s 4-pound mini-cat, and took him upstairs to the bedroom with me.  Once I set him on the floor he leapt onto the bed and promptly went to sleep.

The next morning I skipped my usual shower in order to take the dog to Allan’s vet who was only open from 8 to noon, in order to check for a chip.  Since the last thing I wanted to do was take someone’s dog home with me, I first drove around the neighborhood where we had found him looking for wanted posters.  I was about to give up when I saw one with a little white face staring back at me.  I phoned the number on the poster but all I got was voice mail.  Then I drove over to the address on the poster and beat on the door (I beat because there was no doorbell.)  Nothing.  I went back to the Miata and started to phone again to tell whomever that their dog was possibly heading back to SC with me when the front door opened and a young woman ran out asking if I had her Moby.  I did.  Because he was sorely in need of grooming and because she didn’t have a clue as to how he got away (Hello! That gap in the fence that’s bigger than he is should have been a clue) I was sorry to leave Moby with her.  But like I said, I didn’t want to take someone’s dog back to SC with me (although after finding Moby’s home I’m sorry that I looked for it.)

I’ve wondered what would have happened if I’d brought Moby back with me.  Champ would, at first, have been confused by something smaller than he eats for dinner nipping at his heels but after that he would have been amused.  Psycho wouldn’t have been amused but then nothing amuses him.  One of these days I’m going to put beer in his water bowl just to see if he can get silly and laugh at anything.

We didn’t take a photo of Moby but if we’d had, and if he’d been cleaned up, he’d have looked like this:

Evidently he was a Maltese.  Who knew?

Apologies

You Charleston bloggers are meeting at Wild Wing on Rivers tonight and I wanted to at least stop by but don't have the energy.  I haven't slept well in what seems like weeks, got to bed late last night, and had to be up early this morning to get Champ from the kennel on John's Island.  It is only open from 8:30 to 9:30 on Sundays and I wanted to be there first thing.

I wrote a long (for me) post this morning that was more of a mind-dump than anything and when I went to preview it I managed to delete it.  Totally my fault.  By then I'd lost the energy to rewrite it.  Maybe tomorrow.  (Don't worry, the dog story wasn't in it.  That will come tomorrow, too.)

I sat down after lunch to watch one of the three Netflix DVDs that have gone unwatched for three weeks and kept falling asleep.  I'd wake up, realize what had happened, go back to the start, then fast forward to the last thing I remembered.  That happened four times before I finally finished the damn thing.

At 5:45 I still intended on making at least a cameo appearance tonight but then I remembered that Champ and I haven't been on a long walk together in a long time.  You have to remember that he's been in the kennel longer than I've been on the road.  He always went in the afternoon before I left and didn't get picked up again until the morning after I got back.  He's feeling very clingy at the moment.  At least the walk woke me up.

I'll make the next meeting.

Back from Lexington

I'm exhausted but I think it's more of a physical thing than an emotional one.  This was my third trip to Lexington and back in three weeks.  I've logged over 3,500 miles along the way.  The morning of July 20th the Miata had 658 miles on it (low because of the broken foot).  Now it has over 4,100.

The last 30 minutes of tonight's drive were harrowing.  When I hit the Summerville exit I also hit the wall of water that was falling.  The wipers couldn't keep up.  The lightning flashes bounced off the rain and caused brief but frequent whiteouts.  I could barely see the lights of the car in front of me.  I tried keeping a safe distance because he kept hitting his brakes and I wanted enough room in case the Miata started to slide.  I also hoped that the guy behind me had good brakes and reflexes.  At points we were barely going 30 mph in a 65 zone.  There was so much water on the road the reflective markers were covered so it was to tell what lane any of us were in.  Once I got on I-526 the rain let up and I couldn't believe that West Ashley was dry.  That was until I turned onto Shadowmoss Parkway and all hell broke loose.  After I got home I sat in the car for 20 minutes waiting for the rain to let up so I could get to the door without getting soaked.  I finally said, "Screw it!" and got soaked.

I got a later start back today than expected because I almost brought a stray dog home with me.  You'll have to wait until I've had a good night's sleep to hear about that.

Jo Ann

I've lost my best friend and loyal UK football buddy.  She fought as hard as she could but the cancer eventually won.

Ack!

I'm using Justine's old hp PC beause my Mac suddenly isn't able to connect to the router.  It finds every other router my neighbors have, just not ours.  Justine asked, "What did you do to it?"  "Nothing", I said. "I just turned it on."  She said she'll fix it when she gets back from work.  As much as I'd like her to find a full-time job and move out, I have no idea how I'll handle tech problems like this once she is gone.

Driving songs - part something or other

My next drive to Kentucky will be a funky one:

James Brown - Funk Power 1970:  A Brand New Thang

Ohio Players - Ol' School

Bootsy - Ahh...The Name is Bootsy, Baby!

More Bootsy - Back in the Day: The Best of Bootsy

The Bar-Kays - The Best of the Bar-Kays - Volume 2

A driving song update

I totally forgot to mention Little Feat's CD Waiting for Columbus.  None of the songs have anything to do with driving but like chicken, it's southern-fried done right.

Isaac Betancourt-Sabillon

Isaac is Briar's boyfriend and I really like him.  As Briar would tell you, I've never said that before about the guys she's dated.  LOL. Isaac is the latino son I wish I'd had.  He's a stand-up comic and aspiring actor.  This is a clip from a sketch comedy pilot.  Briar says that VH-1 and Comedy Central are interested in it.  Isaac is easy to spot.  He's the one with the shaved head and the lightest skin. LOL.

Hat Trick

Justine is back from Arizona.

Everything is almost back to normal at Casa de Miguel

Champ

and Psycho

are back from juvie.  We'll score the hat trick when Justine gets back from Arizona tomorrow.

I remain convinced that hospitals are the last places that most sick people need to be

Tuesday the Hospice nurse* came by to check on Jo Ann.  She checked her blood pressure (very low), her pulse (very high), and then she listened to her chest.  One lung sounded great but the other one didn’t.

Wednesday Briar (who had flown in from NYC the day before) and I, with help from Molly and Sharon (two of Jo Ann’s house elves) got Jo Ann into her SUV and took her to the hospital for a chest x-ray to see if fluid had accumulated around the lung.  It had.  They took her into another room, inserted a needle and catheter, and drained almost 2 liters of fluid.  After a follow-up x-ray to make sure that everything had gone well we took Jo Ann home again.

That’s the short version.

The long version is a bit different.

We were told before heading to the hospital that Radiology had the order from the oncologist and they were waiting for Jo Ann.  When we got there at 12:20 they didn’t and they weren’t.  So we waited in the Radiology waiting room while they hunted down the paperwork.  Eventually they said they’d found it and sent us to Admitting.  The guy at the Admitting desk said that he’d seen the order, but he couldn’t find it.  So we waited some more.  He eventually found it but before we could take Jo Ann back to Radiology we had to take her to the insurance office where a clerk asked her a million questions that she, or at least her computer terminal, already knew the answers to since Jo Ann had had her liver biopsy there last year.

Once the hospital was fairly sure it would get paid we finally got to take Jo Ann back to Radiology.  The x-rays and draining procedure took less time than the insurance clerk took.  Because, technically, it was a surgical procedure Jo Ann was wheeled up to a temporary recovery room on the 3rd floor to make sure that her lung hadn’t collapsed and that she was doing OK.  The head nurse on that wing came in and said that Radiology would come get Jo Ann again at 4:30 for a follow-up x-ray and if it looked good she could go home.  I think it was 3:00 at that point.

4:30 came and went.  At 4:50 I went looking for the nurse but she was on the phone dealing with other crises.  When I went back to the nurses’ station at 5:00 she wasn’t on the phone and she asked, “So, you’re back from Radiology already?”  I said, “No, no one has come for Jo Ann yet”.  After a quick phone call she discovered that the paperwork Radiology had listed Jo Ann as an outpatient, not an admitted patient, so they were waiting for her to walk in.  When she didn’t they moved on to the next patient on the list.

When someone from Radiology finally came for Jo Ann he told Briar and me that we could stay in her room until he brought her back again.  We told him, “No, you’ve already lost her once so we’ll go with her back downstairs.”  We sat in the Radiology waiting room and a few minutes later a nurse came to get us and told us that we could wait with Jo Ann until someone took her back to her room.  And wait we did.  While we were waiting we noticed a man sitting at a desk about 10 feet away from us.  After a half hour he came over and asked us what what we were waiting for.  We told him that we were waiting for someone to take Jo Ann back to her room.  It turned out that he was the one we were waiting waiting for.  The radiology nurse had dropped paperwork on his desk but didn’t tell him that Jo Ann’s was at the top of the pile.  After he looked at it he said, “This says she’s an outpatient” so we had to explain that she was supposed to go back to Room 378, Bed 1.”

The frustration didn’t end there.  Jo Ann couldn’t be discharged until the radiologist looked at her films.  Evidently he’d gone home so the hospital sent them to him via the Internet.

Internet.  Fast.  Right?  Wrong!

Fortunately the head nurse on the 3rd floor had worked there long enough to anticipate things like that so she had the discharge papers ready.  Once she heard back from the radiologist all Jo Ann had to do was sign something and we were able to get the hell out of Dodge.  We got home again shortly before 7:30.

I don’t want to give you the wrong impression of St. Joseph’s Hospital.  With the possible exception of the insurance clerk who kept leaving her office to ask someone what code she was supposed to enter into the computer, everyone we dealt with was sensitive to Jo Ann’s condition and needs.  That’s especially true of the 3rd floor nurse who was obviously expected to juggle too many balls at one time.  The problem was with the  hospital administration and its inability to coordinate communication among departments.

A personal note to Joan and Gene:  God forbid that I have a heath crisis but if I do EMS will bring me to St. Francis since it’s just down the street from me.  I’m counting on one or both to make sure that I don’t get lost in the system.

*More on the Hospice nurse later.  I only have room in my head for one rant at a time.

I'm back in Charleston, for now

I wish I could have stayed in Kentucky with my sister but I promised the kennel that I'd pick Champ and Psycho up on the 4th and, most importantly, pay the bill.  Champ has been there for over a week and probably thinks that I've abandoned him.  Justine dropped Psycho off there last Sunday before she left for Phoenix but as long as he's fed and has a clean litter box I doubt if he cares where he is.

I'll probably be heading back to Kentucky soon but in the meantime I'll try to blog enough to keep you coming back for more.

I'm certainly getting my money's worth out of the Miata.  2,500 miles in the last two weeks.  Plus, with the top down, I'm getting a great tan.