I swear I tried to blog yesterday. I even set my work aside to find the words to bring joy and laughter to your day, because the best joy and laughter is the kind aimed at a person and their misfortunes and blunders. Oh how fortunate you are Corey and I are happy to be your target.
But yesterday I could not find the words.
It doesn't happen often.
I was totally and completely distracted by the first major snowfall this area has seen in two months. And when I say distracted, I mean stupid. I was struck stupid by the snow. In my defense, however, those big, fluffy flakes were absolutely magical.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A brief rant
I do understand the purpose of this blog is to keep my readers (my family and other nosey individuals...don't be ashamed, I spend a good deal of time butting my way into others' affairs too, get that from my mom) apprised of the less visible workings of Corey and my daily lives.
Like when Corey says things like "It smells like pneumonia downstairs."
Or when Oliver drags his butt across the new rug and I fret over how to explain the foot-long chocolate smear.
But that's a hypothetical situation. Purely hypothetical.
So forgive me when I use this time to rant about the misuse of public roadways, my pet peeve.
Why, erratic drivers over the age of 25 including a certain husband of mine who will remain nameless, must you tailgate? I prefer to drive at a speed at which I feel comfortable, keeping in mind road conditions, posted speed limits, and how far below empty I am. As a taxpayer in the State of New York I have the right to follow Vehicle and Traffic Safety Laws. To come within a 3 iron's length from my bumper tells me you are impatient, lawless and in need of a learning opportunity, for which I happily oblige.
Also, aforementioned impatient drivers, how does flashing "the finger" as you whiz around me shave off precious seconds from your total travel time? Yes, I am keeping you from your Burrito Supreme, but is abdominal discomfort and malnutrition really that important?
Now I'll turn my attention to you, line of cars 14 miles long. I understand you are itchin' to get home to make/eat/digest dinner before Survivor, but is one more car (mine) going to really put you that far behind schedule? Fortunately, I learned from an expert in offensive driving how to inch my way into traffic so that other motorists have no choice but to let me in. "Thank you" I wave. Thank you for not ramming into me as I pulled out in front of you.
But I digress.
It's a good thing I only have about 35 more major pet peeves (to be discussed in depth at a later date). Otherwise I might have to change my name to Negative Nancy, or Clinically Depressed Cassie, and that would just be too much to sign.
Like when Corey says things like "It smells like pneumonia downstairs."
Or when Oliver drags his butt across the new rug and I fret over how to explain the foot-long chocolate smear.
But that's a hypothetical situation. Purely hypothetical.
So forgive me when I use this time to rant about the misuse of public roadways, my pet peeve.
Why, erratic drivers over the age of 25 including a certain husband of mine who will remain nameless, must you tailgate? I prefer to drive at a speed at which I feel comfortable, keeping in mind road conditions, posted speed limits, and how far below empty I am. As a taxpayer in the State of New York I have the right to follow Vehicle and Traffic Safety Laws. To come within a 3 iron's length from my bumper tells me you are impatient, lawless and in need of a learning opportunity, for which I happily oblige.
Also, aforementioned impatient drivers, how does flashing "the finger" as you whiz around me shave off precious seconds from your total travel time? Yes, I am keeping you from your Burrito Supreme, but is abdominal discomfort and malnutrition really that important?
Now I'll turn my attention to you, line of cars 14 miles long. I understand you are itchin' to get home to make/eat/digest dinner before Survivor, but is one more car (mine) going to really put you that far behind schedule? Fortunately, I learned from an expert in offensive driving how to inch my way into traffic so that other motorists have no choice but to let me in. "Thank you" I wave. Thank you for not ramming into me as I pulled out in front of you.
But I digress.
It's a good thing I only have about 35 more major pet peeves (to be discussed in depth at a later date). Otherwise I might have to change my name to Negative Nancy, or Clinically Depressed Cassie, and that would just be too much to sign.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Oh the things we'll see
My office is a block away from Slum Depot East, also known as Crack Central, and Fredella Avenue. We are on the main route to the grocery store, the liquor store, the bus stop, the hospital, and the library. However, so far I have not seen one person walk back to the Depot with a book. Unless it was in a bag with the breakfast brew.
We have our regular passers-by:
The Man in Black: He wears all black, all the time. He also screams obscenities at cars and small children, walks into traffic and, according to the local paper, enjoys exposing himself. The Man is very tall and thick, so I avoid eye contact at all cost if we happen to pass each other; he being on his way to...I don't know where, and me on my way back from a brownie run.
The Happy Couple: He is a tiny 120 pounds. She is 400+ and wheelchair bound, and yet he pushes her up and down the street once a day to the emergency room where she complains about her health. I'm pretty sure she puts out the cigarette before entering the hospital.
The Honker: He drove by in his beat up blue Mercury more than five times a day, blaring his horn. I think those anger management sessions finally started working, though, because I haven't seen/heard him in awhile.
The Early Risers: They walk by in their pjs at about 10am, groggy and stumbling. I see them 20 minutes later with breakfast in a bag (6-pack of Milwaukee's Best) and a little hitch in their step.
The Veteran: He's just trying to get a ride down to the VA hospital in Albany. I feel bad for this one, he has sad eyes.
The Hooker: Not to be confused with The Honker. I never thought I would know how to spot one if I saw one in real life, she made it easy. Stripper shoes away from the stripper pole is a clear indication.
The Skinny Santa: He has the bushy white beard and big red coat, but he is short and skinny...and not so jolly, especially after getting hit by a car last month. But don't worry. Santa had a good meal at the hospital and is back on the street. His bike, however, did not survive.
Then there are The Nomads. Random folks we see once or twice, then never again. I assume there is a quick turnaround at the Depot. You can't blame them for not wanting to put up a picket fence and call Fredella home.
I do actually work when I'm there, although, people watching is much more interesting. There's nothing like a daily reminder of how easily my situation could change to keep my mind on the job.
We have our regular passers-by:
The Man in Black: He wears all black, all the time. He also screams obscenities at cars and small children, walks into traffic and, according to the local paper, enjoys exposing himself. The Man is very tall and thick, so I avoid eye contact at all cost if we happen to pass each other; he being on his way to...I don't know where, and me on my way back from a brownie run.
The Happy Couple: He is a tiny 120 pounds. She is 400+ and wheelchair bound, and yet he pushes her up and down the street once a day to the emergency room where she complains about her health. I'm pretty sure she puts out the cigarette before entering the hospital.
The Honker: He drove by in his beat up blue Mercury more than five times a day, blaring his horn. I think those anger management sessions finally started working, though, because I haven't seen/heard him in awhile.
The Early Risers: They walk by in their pjs at about 10am, groggy and stumbling. I see them 20 minutes later with breakfast in a bag (6-pack of Milwaukee's Best) and a little hitch in their step.
The Veteran: He's just trying to get a ride down to the VA hospital in Albany. I feel bad for this one, he has sad eyes.
The Hooker: Not to be confused with The Honker. I never thought I would know how to spot one if I saw one in real life, she made it easy. Stripper shoes away from the stripper pole is a clear indication.
The Skinny Santa: He has the bushy white beard and big red coat, but he is short and skinny...and not so jolly, especially after getting hit by a car last month. But don't worry. Santa had a good meal at the hospital and is back on the street. His bike, however, did not survive.
Then there are The Nomads. Random folks we see once or twice, then never again. I assume there is a quick turnaround at the Depot. You can't blame them for not wanting to put up a picket fence and call Fredella home.
I do actually work when I'm there, although, people watching is much more interesting. There's nothing like a daily reminder of how easily my situation could change to keep my mind on the job.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Home Alone
My dear sweet husband left me home alone this weekend for guy time in Vegas. After a whirlwind of football games both college and professional he was exhausted and in much need of a break.
No, he isn't a coach.
And he definitely is not a player.
He is actually not affiliated with any team...in any sport.
Corey is a spectator. A super spectator. A wake-me-up-at-1am-to-tell-me-the-final-score spectator.
We were both exhausted.
Among other names, I call him Corey the German (if you understand the sports reference I'm hitting the wrong audience here). He follows the stats. He analyzes all the elements. He picks winners. He bets winners. It is a lot of work. And this is why the German needed to take refuge in a stress free, calm and relaxing environment.
It was the worst weekend of my life. But I exaggerate.
But not really.
I am afraid of the dark.
Ever since I was six and I swear I saw two men in camo hiding under my bed with machine guns whose sole purpose in life was to shoot my feet (I overheard this in their conversations), I have been terrified of what might be waiting for me in the dark. A lack of closet space in our apartment was not my only motivation for getting one of those beds where the drawers are under the mattress. No place for disgruntled soldiers....but there is room for centipedes.
But I digress.
When Corey isn't here, who turns off the lights in the living room when I go to bed? I do. Who turns off the TV when I am finally ready to fall asleep? Me. Who streaks through the apartment screaming after finding out her buddies from under her childhood bed in California have followed her across the country and are now living under her couch waiting for the opportunity (husband being out of town, perhaps?) to finally carry out their mission? I honestly have no idea who that could be, but it sounds pret-ty scary.
In other words, Corey is the buffer between light and dark that keeps me panic free. Shame on him for leaving me without a buffer.
I must say, though, this was also the best weekend of my life.
I hogged the mirror in the bathroom.
I made a mess with my cereal.
When I got home Thursday and Friday night, I took my boots off next the couch. And when I got up to go to bed...run to bed, I left them there.
I used the hallway as a dumping ground for all of my theater "junk."
And for the first time since we've been married I didn't wake up in the middle of the night to Corey tossing around my elbows and knees because they had ventured into his back or butt, respectively.
It was peaceful....
Quiet.....
Lonely....
I only had the dog to come home to and share stories of my theatrical adventures, but his attention was focused solely on four things: poop, pee, ball, and hump bed.
The only sounds in the apartment were that of The History Channel or our rowdy downstairs neighbor.
And did I mention it was lonely?
It wasn't really the best weekend ever, although, easily the messiest.
You know, when I think about it, we have a pretty big mirror.
And it's not that hard to wipe my cereal crumbs onto the floor, pick up my boots and dump my junk in a less visible spot.
And I'm starting to function without eight consecutive hours of sleep.
I like it when he's here.
And I think I can tolerate another post-season trip, as long as I go too...
...just not to Las Vegas.
No, he isn't a coach.
And he definitely is not a player.
He is actually not affiliated with any team...in any sport.
Corey is a spectator. A super spectator. A wake-me-up-at-1am-to-tell-me-the-final-score spectator.
We were both exhausted.
Among other names, I call him Corey the German (if you understand the sports reference I'm hitting the wrong audience here). He follows the stats. He analyzes all the elements. He picks winners. He bets winners. It is a lot of work. And this is why the German needed to take refuge in a stress free, calm and relaxing environment.
It was the worst weekend of my life. But I exaggerate.
But not really.
I am afraid of the dark.
Ever since I was six and I swear I saw two men in camo hiding under my bed with machine guns whose sole purpose in life was to shoot my feet (I overheard this in their conversations), I have been terrified of what might be waiting for me in the dark. A lack of closet space in our apartment was not my only motivation for getting one of those beds where the drawers are under the mattress. No place for disgruntled soldiers....but there is room for centipedes.
But I digress.
When Corey isn't here, who turns off the lights in the living room when I go to bed? I do. Who turns off the TV when I am finally ready to fall asleep? Me. Who streaks through the apartment screaming after finding out her buddies from under her childhood bed in California have followed her across the country and are now living under her couch waiting for the opportunity (husband being out of town, perhaps?) to finally carry out their mission? I honestly have no idea who that could be, but it sounds pret-ty scary.
In other words, Corey is the buffer between light and dark that keeps me panic free. Shame on him for leaving me without a buffer.
I must say, though, this was also the best weekend of my life.
I hogged the mirror in the bathroom.
I made a mess with my cereal.
When I got home Thursday and Friday night, I took my boots off next the couch. And when I got up to go to bed...run to bed, I left them there.
I used the hallway as a dumping ground for all of my theater "junk."
And for the first time since we've been married I didn't wake up in the middle of the night to Corey tossing around my elbows and knees because they had ventured into his back or butt, respectively.
It was peaceful....
Quiet.....
Lonely....
I only had the dog to come home to and share stories of my theatrical adventures, but his attention was focused solely on four things: poop, pee, ball, and hump bed.
The only sounds in the apartment were that of The History Channel or our rowdy downstairs neighbor.
And did I mention it was lonely?
It wasn't really the best weekend ever, although, easily the messiest.
You know, when I think about it, we have a pretty big mirror.
And it's not that hard to wipe my cereal crumbs onto the floor, pick up my boots and dump my junk in a less visible spot.
And I'm starting to function without eight consecutive hours of sleep.
I like it when he's here.
And I think I can tolerate another post-season trip, as long as I go too...
...just not to Las Vegas.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
This is one dirty....
Stinky....
I've-been-rompin-through-the-mud-n-slush-b'cause-it-feels-good-between-my-toes....
Tired.....
Exhausted.....
Dog.
Friday, February 19, 2010
L'Affaire to Forget
Because as a part-time, un-paid, non-equity, community theater actor, that is what I do.
We open L'Affaire to Forget tonight; the Glens Falls Community Theatre murder mystery written and directed by THE Bob Myers. It's full of murder and mayhem...the murder part was in the original script, I think through the rehearsals we created the mayhem.
I can't say too much more about my character. But I think it's obvious I'm completely clueless.
I'm too nervous and sweaty to write much more. I hear moisture and electronics do not mix well.
"Break a leg, Stace!"
I know you were thinking it.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Un-salute
Let me clear up something from yesterday:
Just because I think President Roosevelt is one cool dood for making wide open green areas for me to run around like a carefree pre-teen doesn't mean I'm not super annoyed that my dog can't go one stinkin' hour on my day off without whining and giving me those "we both know where I want to go" eyes. We both do know. He wants to be in one of those dadgum parks.
So, thanks again for those parks, Mr. Roosevelt. (If you were alive to read my remarks I hope they would come across as sarcastic, because that is my intent.)
Just because I think President Roosevelt is one cool dood for making wide open green areas for me to run around like a carefree pre-teen doesn't mean I'm not super annoyed that my dog can't go one stinkin' hour on my day off without whining and giving me those "we both know where I want to go" eyes. We both do know. He wants to be in one of those dadgum parks.
So, thanks again for those parks, Mr. Roosevelt. (If you were alive to read my remarks I hope they would come across as sarcastic, because that is my intent.)
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
President's Day Salute
I, along with state and federal employees across the country, observed President's Day on Monday. To celebrate I emptied the dishwasher, folded socks, exchanged quarters for cash and took Psycho to the dog park.
One president I would like to thank in particular is President Theodore Roosevelt. He probably thought to himself, "Hey, America is, like, the coolest place ever. Everyone is going to want to come, live and breed like crazy here. Maybe I should arbitrarily set up chunks of land, call 'em state and national parks, and then only let people in to walk around, play hacky sack and have picnics and stuff. Besides, we need trees, yo. Even here in the early 1900's I know trees give us oxygen, and we need oxygen to breathe...and breed."
Bravo, sir.
Bravo.
One president I would like to thank in particular is President Theodore Roosevelt. He probably thought to himself, "Hey, America is, like, the coolest place ever. Everyone is going to want to come, live and breed like crazy here. Maybe I should arbitrarily set up chunks of land, call 'em state and national parks, and then only let people in to walk around, play hacky sack and have picnics and stuff. Besides, we need trees, yo. Even here in the early 1900's I know trees give us oxygen, and we need oxygen to breathe...and breed."
Bravo, sir.
Adirondack Park
Bravo.
Adirondack Park...again
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Lists galore
So many lists out there right now...
My sister's friend Emily made a list of the 50 things she would like to do before she is a quarter century old.
And Nora confesses her deepest, darkest secrets. ("I’m starting to like country music which is a huge deal since I used to have a physical reaction when I’d hear it on the radio.")
For my list I would like to tell you what I have in the deep, dark recesses of my purse.
The Pioneer Woman is listing the things she loves.
My sister's friend Emily made a list of the 50 things she would like to do before she is a quarter century old.
Fellow member of the now defunct Saratoga Book Club, Meg, lists her pet peeves.
And Nora confesses her deepest, darkest secrets. ("I’m starting to like country music which is a huge deal since I used to have a physical reaction when I’d hear it on the radio.")
For my list I would like to tell you what I have in the deep, dark recesses of my purse.
- coupons for mascara, oatmeal, and fruit loops.
- keys
- spare set of keys
- another spare set of keys
- 2 drawing pens for when the urge strikes
- empty chapstick tube I am still using
- sunglasses
- lotion
- 3 spoons
- 2 knives
- golf ball marker
- Tabasco sauce
- headband
- "Cheer for a Buck" pin from my bachelorette party
- notebook for more lists
- tissues
- wallet from Cambodia
- phone number for a talent agent from someone who thought I had talent once
- scrap paper/lipstick blotter
- bouncy ball
- another spoon
- expired Chewy bar
- a million bobby pins...that's where those suckers went
- murder mystery script
- 2 Pioneer Woman recipes
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Losin' my faculties
Ever go through a traffic light and wonder 100 yards away if it was green?
Me too.
Ever drive half a mile, forgetting the entire time to watch the road in front of you?
Guil-ty.
I'm not sure I ever really had faculties, I mean, if we're talking about brain power, perception, or a clue, but I digress.
Monday, after a grueling day of blogging and facebook stalking, I get into my car and start toward the YMCA for my daily torture session. I fidget with the heater, the butt-warmers, and the radio. As I turn into traffic I am comletely oblivious to the thousands of pounds of metal, rubber, and fine leather upholstery coming at me in all directions because that is the exact moment I notice a cigarette lighter sticking out of the cigarette lighter hole.
Wait, I thought there was a cover on that lighter hole...
Nope.
For serious, how long has that sucker been there??
Barring a joke by some prankster who is into watching absent-minded bozos in action, that cigarette lighter has been with me and my car since the beginning: two and a half years.
But this revelation does not come to me before a wave a panic swallows me whole like Jonah's whale (I teach a children's Sunday School class, these are the analogies I have to work with.)
Did I get into the wrong car?!
Because mistakenly taking the keys (in an office of 3) to an identical messy Alpine Frost 2006 Hyundai Tucson which belongs to a person who listens to the exact same radio stations programmed in the exact same order as me is totally plausible.
Duh. Faculties.
Eventually, I laugh at myself, call a few people who laugh at myself. Then I run through a red light...I think.
Me too.
Ever drive half a mile, forgetting the entire time to watch the road in front of you?
Guil-ty.
I'm not sure I ever really had faculties, I mean, if we're talking about brain power, perception, or a clue, but I digress.
Monday, after a grueling day of blogging and facebook stalking, I get into my car and start toward the YMCA for my daily torture session. I fidget with the heater, the butt-warmers, and the radio. As I turn into traffic I am comletely oblivious to the thousands of pounds of metal, rubber, and fine leather upholstery coming at me in all directions because that is the exact moment I notice a cigarette lighter sticking out of the cigarette lighter hole.
Wait, I thought there was a cover on that lighter hole...
Nope.
For serious, how long has that sucker been there??
Barring a joke by some prankster who is into watching absent-minded bozos in action, that cigarette lighter has been with me and my car since the beginning: two and a half years.
But this revelation does not come to me before a wave a panic swallows me whole like Jonah's whale (I teach a children's Sunday School class, these are the analogies I have to work with.)
Did I get into the wrong car?!
Because mistakenly taking the keys (in an office of 3) to an identical messy Alpine Frost 2006 Hyundai Tucson which belongs to a person who listens to the exact same radio stations programmed in the exact same order as me is totally plausible.
Duh. Faculties.
Eventually, I laugh at myself, call a few people who laugh at myself. Then I run through a red light...I think.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
A brief warning
What happens when you make fun of your husband's forming wrinkles?
He throws a full glass of ice water on you in the shower.
Just thought I'd save you from the cold, the screaming, and the angry neighbors.
He throws a full glass of ice water on you in the shower.
Just thought I'd save you from the cold, the screaming, and the angry neighbors.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Can Upstate New York have its snow back?
I do realize, Washington DC, you are too busy jumping off your roofs into snow banks, making snow angels, cross country skiing, and not working to take time to read this. I also realize you have no influence on weather patterns, whatsoever. However, I must ask that you stop rubbing in our frozen noses just how much fun you are having with our snow.
Just know, while you walk in your winter wonderland, we walk in brown. Brown, brown, brown. The trees are brown. The grass is brown. And everything else is caked in brown.
We ski on brown. Throw frozen brown chunks of questionable origin. Make forts out of our imaginations.
Oliver rolls in brown. I make brown angels and brown-cones.
"Hey Stace, what are your plans for the weekend?"
"Oh, I think I'll brownshoe!"
It is not as fun as it sounds. Because with all of this brown, we also have cold. The kind of cold you Pennsylvanians can't even pronounce. A cold that forces you to wear long underwear under your long underwear (but I exaggerate, it's probably just me who does this). The bitter cold that lingers in the North Country freezes your soul...and seriously inhibits your vitamin D absorption.
Which is why we get cranky.
Hey, temperate climate Maryland, enjoy your February heating bill. See that number next to the dollar sign? Multiply that by 4. That's what I'm paying without snow. It is just one more unnecessary reminder of this cold brown existence. At least when there is snow I feel that number is justified by the beautiful snowy landscape, endless outdoor activities, and hidden dog turds.
See? Cranky.
So as you climb up your parking lot snow mountains, think of me standing in an empty parking space. When you build a snowdog for your snowman, think of my dad who is considering a pre-season mow. When you strap two planks from you fence to your feet and slide down to your neighbor's house just for giggles, think of all the people riding the ski lifts on Gore Mountain around and around, waiting for their ski season to begin again. And when you throw your back out shoveling the 20 more inches that are supposed to fall later this week, think of all of us. We are laughing at you.
Time for some vitamin D supplements...
Just know, while you walk in your winter wonderland, we walk in brown. Brown, brown, brown. The trees are brown. The grass is brown. And everything else is caked in brown.
We ski on brown. Throw frozen brown chunks of questionable origin. Make forts out of our imaginations.
Oliver rolls in brown. I make brown angels and brown-cones.
"Hey Stace, what are your plans for the weekend?"
"Oh, I think I'll brownshoe!"
It is not as fun as it sounds. Because with all of this brown, we also have cold. The kind of cold you Pennsylvanians can't even pronounce. A cold that forces you to wear long underwear under your long underwear (but I exaggerate, it's probably just me who does this). The bitter cold that lingers in the North Country freezes your soul...and seriously inhibits your vitamin D absorption.
Which is why we get cranky.
Hey, temperate climate Maryland, enjoy your February heating bill. See that number next to the dollar sign? Multiply that by 4. That's what I'm paying without snow. It is just one more unnecessary reminder of this cold brown existence. At least when there is snow I feel that number is justified by the beautiful snowy landscape, endless outdoor activities, and hidden dog turds.
See? Cranky.
So as you climb up your parking lot snow mountains, think of me standing in an empty parking space. When you build a snowdog for your snowman, think of my dad who is considering a pre-season mow. When you strap two planks from you fence to your feet and slide down to your neighbor's house just for giggles, think of all the people riding the ski lifts on Gore Mountain around and around, waiting for their ski season to begin again. And when you throw your back out shoveling the 20 more inches that are supposed to fall later this week, think of all of us. We are laughing at you.
Time for some vitamin D supplements...
Monday, February 8, 2010
Sick...
...but not really sick. Just the aches and pains of being 34.
One incident I remember clearly occurred the summer of 2006. We were living together, this was before we weren't living together, which was before we were married and then living together again.
Confused?
I'll draw a timeline:
One incident I remember clearly occurred the summer of 2006. We were living together, this was before we weren't living together, which was before we were married and then living together again.
Confused?
I'll draw a timeline:
Does that help? "Marrierl" is actually supposed to be "Married." It's not easy to write with a mouse.
Anyway, within the three months we lived together, as shown above, we made two trips the emergency room. I don't remember the first, because it wasn't as eventful as the second.
The morning of my birthday (July 16th, in case you would like to send flowers/candy/shoes size 8), I woke up very early to Corey crawling on the floor toward the bathroom. For some reason he couldn't get up. He was disoriented and dizzy and very badly needed to get to the toilet to vomit.
Being oh-so-sympathetic in his time of need, I reluctantly called 9-1-1.
"911, what's your emergency."
"Um, my boyfriend...uh, can't get up."
"Ma'am is he bleeding."
"No."
"Is he passing out."
"No."
"What is wrong with your boyfriend."
"Well....he says he's dizzy."
"Dizzy?"
"Yeah, and nauseous."
"....ok."
"So....."
"......"
".....can we have an ambulance?"
"I'll send one right out."
Great. I felt stupid.
"Jeez, Corey if you coulda just bonked your head on the bathtub or something..."
Eventually the ambulance came, no sirens, and the EMS crew came upstairs. I led them to Corey who had made his way to the toilet. We found him clinging to life and porcelain.
After a few minutes Corey decides he does not need to be carried out, but still would like ambulance transport. So they all walk down the stairs and hop into the ambulance. I followed in his car.
I can only imagine what happened in that ambulance.
"What's that switch for?"
"Can I push that button?"
"Are you gunna turn on the siren??"
"Can we stop for ice cream?"
We spent the next eight hours in the emergency room to find out Corey suffers from vertigo.
Ver-ti-go.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Misadventures
Yes. We chased all emergency vehicles. And it definitely was as silly as it sounds.
Especially when this happened:
"...so when I got to the office she was..."
Sirens in the distance.
"Shhhhhh. Wait a second. Do you hear that."
"No."
Looks through blinds in the living room. Looks through blinds in the bedroom.
"We've got a situation."
"Oh here we go...."
"Bpppssshhhh. Dispatch oh-two-four we've got a (mumbles "police talk") on Main. Oh-niner responding. Over. Bppppssssshhhh."
"Don't tell me..."
"Get your shoes on. We gotta go."
"But...It's 10:30!"
"Let's move! We've got a situation!"
And off we went. My job was to watch for flashing lights while Corey drove and "radioed dispatch." We'd drive all over Saratoga looking for the fire, car accident, or double homicide but would always eventually find burnt cookies or a cat stuck in a tree. Then we would drive by slowly. Corey would make sure no one needed assistance before heading back home.
Of course he would need to report back to dispatch.
"All clear."
I'd like to say this happened only once, because of course that would make us seem less, oh I don't know, crazy, but this was a regular outing for a very long time.
And then Corey got sick...
Especially when this happened:
"...so when I got to the office she was..."
Sirens in the distance.
"Shhhhhh. Wait a second. Do you hear that."
"No."
Looks through blinds in the living room. Looks through blinds in the bedroom.
"We've got a situation."
"Oh here we go...."
"Bpppssshhhh. Dispatch oh-two-four we've got a (mumbles "police talk") on Main. Oh-niner responding. Over. Bppppssssshhhh."
"Don't tell me..."
"Get your shoes on. We gotta go."
"But...It's 10:30!"
"Let's move! We've got a situation!"
And off we went. My job was to watch for flashing lights while Corey drove and "radioed dispatch." We'd drive all over Saratoga looking for the fire, car accident, or double homicide but would always eventually find burnt cookies or a cat stuck in a tree. Then we would drive by slowly. Corey would make sure no one needed assistance before heading back home.
Of course he would need to report back to dispatch.
"All clear."
I'd like to say this happened only once, because of course that would make us seem less, oh I don't know, crazy, but this was a regular outing for a very long time.
And then Corey got sick...
Friday, February 5, 2010
So, today's Friday
But I digress.
So Corey and I are an item. Or at least on our way to being an item. Several weeks into knowing each other I still believe he spells his name with an i-e at the end (because he told me so) and that he had never heard of Dunkin' Donuts (also told me so).
I was educated on everything horse racing, shown the finer side of Saratoga, and experienced PJ's BBQ which is by far the best place to get a sloppy joe this side of the Pacific, I'm just sayin'.
I muster the courage to broach the subject of "going steady" and the conversation that followed had all the pieces of a formal interview.
"Yes, I do like you."
"...only you."
"Um, I guess I could provide a urine sample for analysis."
That was a joke. I didn't really pee in a cup right there in my driveway, but we did eventually agree on the terms and conditions of the newly formed relationship, heretofore.
I spent the next few months learning that my new boyfriend was a horse racing fanatic.
"Who won Horse of the Year 1987?"
"Why Ferdinand, of course. He won only 4 of 10 races during the year and raced exclusively in California, but finished strongly in a season in which no horse clearly earned the award. Duh."
"I handicapped today's card and if Panty Raid can beat out Lawyer Ron, who is the obvious closer, in the third race I just might win my exacta."
"Everyone knows a 2 year old turf horse off a six month lay up is going to run third."
Closing day of the Saratoga meet was hard on him that summer, as it always is, I was told. We drove around somberly playing Enya's* "One by One" while he saluted to the front of the track, the Reading Room, Siro's, the guy who parked his car, the side of the track, Mexican Connection, the lady that sold the hats, the lemonade stand, the first turn, and the little girl who sold brownies on her front porch.
He eventually recovered and went back to his second favorite activity: chasing emergency vehicles....
*2005 was the summer of Enya. "I swear that CD isn't mine. It's....my mom's!" We listened to it. We sang to it. He still has it.
So Corey and I are an item. Or at least on our way to being an item. Several weeks into knowing each other I still believe he spells his name with an i-e at the end (because he told me so) and that he had never heard of Dunkin' Donuts (also told me so).
I was educated on everything horse racing, shown the finer side of Saratoga, and experienced PJ's BBQ which is by far the best place to get a sloppy joe this side of the Pacific, I'm just sayin'.
I muster the courage to broach the subject of "going steady" and the conversation that followed had all the pieces of a formal interview.
"Yes, I do like you."
"...only you."
"Um, I guess I could provide a urine sample for analysis."
That was a joke. I didn't really pee in a cup right there in my driveway, but we did eventually agree on the terms and conditions of the newly formed relationship, heretofore.
I spent the next few months learning that my new boyfriend was a horse racing fanatic.
"Who won Horse of the Year 1987?"
"Why Ferdinand, of course. He won only 4 of 10 races during the year and raced exclusively in California, but finished strongly in a season in which no horse clearly earned the award. Duh."
"I handicapped today's card and if Panty Raid can beat out Lawyer Ron, who is the obvious closer, in the third race I just might win my exacta."
"Everyone knows a 2 year old turf horse off a six month lay up is going to run third."
Closing day of the Saratoga meet was hard on him that summer, as it always is, I was told. We drove around somberly playing Enya's* "One by One" while he saluted to the front of the track, the Reading Room, Siro's, the guy who parked his car, the side of the track, Mexican Connection, the lady that sold the hats, the lemonade stand, the first turn, and the little girl who sold brownies on her front porch.
He eventually recovered and went back to his second favorite activity: chasing emergency vehicles....
*2005 was the summer of Enya. "I swear that CD isn't mine. It's....my mom's!" We listened to it. We sang to it. He still has it.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
A glimpse of the past
You know how we met. Late night, orange soda establishment, single girls watching single guys. I liked Corey's face; it distracted me from the plain t-shirt I learned later on that he wears frequently to bed.
My friend Lori: "Hey, what's your name?"
"Cory." (this is how I pictured his name spelled that night)
"Cory, this is my friend Stacie." (i already knew my name was spelled this way)
"Hey. We're going to Hattie's."
"..... ?"
And just like that he and his entourage were off. And I was confused.
Was there no connection?
Was there no spark?
Is my hair too frizzy??
Did I unplug the curling iron???
As a self-professed fool for getting the last word in, I followed. I followed a stranger. To a soda establishment. By myself. In the dark. This is a set-up for several gruesome scenarios, the least likely a wedding and a dog...yet here we are! But I digress.
So, I tracked him down at Hattie's. We talked for hours about nothing while I dragged him all over Saratoga. We wandered from one establishment to the next. He even followed me to a certain place I now know he hates where you can drink orange soda and dance on top of tables. Clas-sy. However, we did neither....because I'm not a big fan of soda and there was no room on the tables. But I digress.
At the end of the night he made me take his number too, I guess I can't hide my flaming feminism (shrugs shoulders), and we each drove our separate ways.
What happened the next few months was nothing short of pure entertainment...
My friend Lori: "Hey, what's your name?"
"Cory." (this is how I pictured his name spelled that night)
"Cory, this is my friend Stacie." (i already knew my name was spelled this way)
"Hey. We're going to Hattie's."
"..... ?"
And just like that he and his entourage were off. And I was confused.
Was there no connection?
Was there no spark?
Is my hair too frizzy??
Did I unplug the curling iron???
As a self-professed fool for getting the last word in, I followed. I followed a stranger. To a soda establishment. By myself. In the dark. This is a set-up for several gruesome scenarios, the least likely a wedding and a dog...yet here we are! But I digress.
So, I tracked him down at Hattie's. We talked for hours about nothing while I dragged him all over Saratoga. We wandered from one establishment to the next. He even followed me to a certain place I now know he hates where you can drink orange soda and dance on top of tables. Clas-sy. However, we did neither....because I'm not a big fan of soda and there was no room on the tables. But I digress.
At the end of the night he made me take his number too, I guess I can't hide my flaming feminism (shrugs shoulders), and we each drove our separate ways.
What happened the next few months was nothing short of pure entertainment...
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Wanted: Kitty Katt
I'm going to come right out and say it: I need a kritter.
A fuzzy little kritter that eats, drinks, and is excessively neurotic, like me.
Something I can chase around the table, bark at, maybe even snuggle with when no one's looking.
Just not a hamster or gerbil. They look like furry turd chunks.
Or a guinea pig. Too hairy, too paranoid.
I do like chinchillas, or as I call them: balls.
And I like squirrels, especially for dinner with a marmalade glaze and side salad.
But please no mice, rats, or raccoons. Cute, scary, cute (respectively), but nasty scavengers.
I would prefer a meerkat, because they're fidgety like me and can sing.
But I could settle for a regular cat that sleeps all day and claws at my face.
Thank you,
Oliver
A fuzzy little kritter that eats, drinks, and is excessively neurotic, like me.
Something I can chase around the table, bark at, maybe even snuggle with when no one's looking.
Just not a hamster or gerbil. They look like furry turd chunks.
Or a guinea pig. Too hairy, too paranoid.
I do like chinchillas, or as I call them: balls.
And I like squirrels, especially for dinner with a marmalade glaze and side salad.
But please no mice, rats, or raccoons. Cute, scary, cute (respectively), but nasty scavengers.
I would prefer a meerkat, because they're fidgety like me and can sing.
But I could settle for a regular cat that sleeps all day and claws at my face.
Thank you,
Oliver
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A quick note
To my concerned neighbors,
No, Corey and I are not holding a sickly 85 year old man against his will in our apartment.
That coughing you hear at 7:00 in the morning, followed by hacking and then spitting is Corey. The gagging, however, is me. He shows me the spit.
You can imagine how hard it is to relieve throat ticklies at his age, 37. So I try my darndest not to cringe in front of him when his hacking fits take hold of him. I wouldn't want to embarrass the dear.
The slow, cautious shuffle steps are his also. Contorting your face and body to cough up a dog fuzz is exhausting. Again, he is almost middle aged, and his physical abilities are greatly diminished. So, after one of his fits there is not an ounce of energy to pick up his tired legs. Poor soul.
And if there is ever an extended period of time where you hear absolutely nothing coming from upstairs, don't panic. Corey is curled up on the bed with the heating pad, a cold compress, a box of tissues and hot chocolate.
What you really need to be concerned with is an excessive amount of movement. While annoying, I'm sure, it probably also means someone has taken over the apartment. In this case, call the police and secure your valuables.
Thank you,
Stacie
No, Corey and I are not holding a sickly 85 year old man against his will in our apartment.
That coughing you hear at 7:00 in the morning, followed by hacking and then spitting is Corey. The gagging, however, is me. He shows me the spit.
You can imagine how hard it is to relieve throat ticklies at his age, 37. So I try my darndest not to cringe in front of him when his hacking fits take hold of him. I wouldn't want to embarrass the dear.
The slow, cautious shuffle steps are his also. Contorting your face and body to cough up a dog fuzz is exhausting. Again, he is almost middle aged, and his physical abilities are greatly diminished. So, after one of his fits there is not an ounce of energy to pick up his tired legs. Poor soul.
And if there is ever an extended period of time where you hear absolutely nothing coming from upstairs, don't panic. Corey is curled up on the bed with the heating pad, a cold compress, a box of tissues and hot chocolate.
What you really need to be concerned with is an excessive amount of movement. While annoying, I'm sure, it probably also means someone has taken over the apartment. In this case, call the police and secure your valuables.
Thank you,
Stacie
Monday, February 1, 2010
Drunk at work
It's irresponsible, I know.
I am not setting a very good example for the younger folks.
Yeah, I should probably be fired for this.
But I swear I had no idea that truffle had booze in it.
I am not setting a very good example for the younger folks.
Yeah, I should probably be fired for this.
But I swear I had no idea that truffle had booze in it.
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