“Festivities” or “Reminder”

About a week and a half ago I got an e-mail from a lady whose husband I had written a story about. The man had already beaten the odds and received a heart transplant several years ago, but fate had caught up with him and he was now on dialysis and in need of a kidney transplant.

It was tough to sit on their couch and walk through their home and take pictures while trying, in my mind, to keep distanced. It was because of him that I went and got my blood typed. I knew that someday, someone might need my help and I wanted to help.

His wife wrote me. Her son, her husband’s stepson, had read the article. He got tested. He gave a kidney.

I got into this so that I could tell these kinds of stories.

Speaking of stories, tomorrow is the second and last day of the International Bar-B-Q Festival here in Owensboro. I figured it would make for a good posting event and so I am planning on timestamping the day and blogging it later. I am also doing multimedia work for the paper, so watch for a link to our photos and my audio from the celebration.

Finally, I will leave you with a quick story. Some of you may have seen this article in the news. (Note: I am only linking to Fox News because they say the phrase “junk in the trunk” in the story, and otherwise, I would never promote those hacks).

Feeling very snide, I copied and pasted a link to the article to Dr. Mom and Sis. Let’s just say junk in the trunk runs in the family.

Dr. Mom immediately replied that she was overjoyed that I will never get diabetes.

Dr. Mom - 1, Me - 0.

“Sick day” or “Update on the fate of the ’stache”

Today might just have been the worst day ever. EVER.

I woke up this morning with a migraine. This is, of course, a bad thing. To make matters worse, it was one of the ones where my vision was blurry, I was dizzy and on the verge of throwing up every few minutes.

I immediately called in to work and told my boss I was going to try to come in, but I’d be late. He was fine with this and I immediately went into dark-room seclusion, exiling Cyrus to the living room.

And then immediately vaulted out of bed, into the bathroom and was horrifically, terribly, excruciatingly sick.

And then a few minutes later I was sick again.

And again.

And some more.

After about the third time I had nothing more to be sick with except my futile attempts to stay hydrated. For about two hours I was sitting in my bathtub so as to have easy access to the toilet, thanking the shower wall for being cool and refreshing against my forehead and failing entirely at drinking the glass of water I had brought with.

About the time I was feeling well enough not to hold residence in my shower was also the time that the yard maintenance guy decided that he was going to mow, trim, weed-eat and leaf-blow outside my oh-so-not-soundproof window.

Ugh.

So now, I am trying to eat something. Trying to drink something and trying not to die.

And yes, I shaved.

Good night.

“What is that thing?” or “‘Stache”

Okay, here it is. You all can stop with the making of the threats and the constant harassment.

I finally realized who it is I think I look like…

I look like Inspector Clouseau. And I am not sure I like that.

Anyway, the ’stache is already drawing criticism at work. Today, one coworker, in mid-conversation with another coworker, stopped and said “Okay, I just have to tell you. The mustache? It’s not working”

Feeling very defensive, I asked the coworker she was talking to what HER verdict was.

She just said three words. “Shave it off.”

Another coworker, when I asked her opinion, said, “I’m not going to say anything bad about your mustache.”

But then under her breath said very quickly, “But it would be nice if it was gone.”

This makes me:

So here’s where you come in. Vote the fate of the ’stache!

Does it stay or does it go?

“Suspicion” or “Terrorism!” or “Delaying my ’stache”

Ok, so I went with a triple headline because something totally bizarre just happened.

It’s 10 p.m. Dariush is at home, not doing much of anything except watching BSG and trying to fend off half-hearted feline attacks on my ankles.

Knock knock

“Just a minute.”

I walk around the house shirtless. It’s a trait picked up from my father and his family. When enough men of the Shafa clan gather, it’s quite accurate to say that it’s like a herd of Silverback Gorillas (Gorilli? Gorillae?) wandering about. Either that or just Middle Eastern-descended men who all appear to be wearing thick, black (gray in my dad and grandfather’s cases) sweaters.

I digress.

So I find a shirt.

KNOCK KNOCK

“I said HOLD ON.”

I corral the cat and then go to the door. I’m paranoid enough (And “Only the paranoid survive” as one of my old bosses had emblazoned on her coffee cup) not to trust, well, anyone. I open the door, but the chain stays in place.

Nobody outside. Nobody in sight, anyway.

“Hello?” I ask, feeling more and more like this is a horror movie and I’m the token minority who’s going to cash in his chips first (Jim Brown didn’t die first in “The Dirty Dozen” but he still dies, and I’ve seen that movie about 10K times).

A woman enters my view.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I live across the street and I need to use your phone.”

Justification time: In the Bible, the Pharoah asked Abraham if Sarah was his wife. Abraham said she was his sister, because to out-and-out say Sarah was his wife probably would have gotten him killed. Now, God was okay with this because in this circumstance, Pharoah was not entitled to the truth (higher purposes and all that, is how this is explained) and all turned out okay in the end.

There is NO WAY I am letting this woman into my apartment, no matter the fact that I have a psychotic attack kitty and ninja/Kung fu skills enough to make the largest, meanest of men wet themselves uncontrollably and sob like Nancy Kerrigan (too soon? I think not).

“I don’t have a phone,” I tell her.

“Well, can I use your bathroom?”

She lives across the street and wants to use my restroom. Which is manly. And has lots of hair around it (guys, this is normal, am I right?). That alone would preclude her from using it, but I’ve seen enough trashy horror movie previews to know that if my life were in fact a movie being shown in a theater, someone in the back is screaming “DON’T LET HER IN THE DOOR! SHE’S A VICIOUS SERIAL KILLER!” This person exists constantly in my head and I listen to this person. It’s why I’m still alive.

“No, I’m not comfortable at all with you coming in. Sorry.”

And I shut the door.

And then I dial the cops.

And then the cops are out in my neighborhood, looking for our phoneless crazy woman who has a bulging bladder.

The officer who came to my door said she probably just wanted to grab something quickly to pawn. Whatever. Crazy womens can stay all up out of my business.

***

Last night I had to cover Barack Obama’s visit to Evansville, Indiana. Of course, being a presidential race, there would be a whole ton and a half of security. Local. State. Federal.

While the authorities were doing their security sweep of the building, I waited outside and made small talk with one of the facility’s technical guys. He seemed nice enough and then remarked about how tight security was. I remarked that it wasn’t as bad as two summers ago when Dick Cheney came to Owensboro. I then related to him my run-in with the Secret Service.

And then the guy looked at me, raised an eyebrow and said, “Well, no offense, but you DO look like a terrorist.”

One of my friends, a journalist in Singapore, agrees and suggested I change my name to O’dariush Bin Lashafa.

Tomorrow, I will let you be the judge. Tomorrow, I will unveil my ’stache.

“We interrupt this blog post to bring you another blog post” or “Earthquake test!”

We had an earthquake!

It woke me up.

Cyrus was scared.

Wicked awesome

I’ve had four cups of coffee so far.

Whee.

So you have to wait for my facial hair post a little longer.

Rock on.

“Toe jam” or “My loss has no gain”

The Mass Media Meltdown is over with. My weight loss numbers are still unknown (I didn’t have time to weigh myself on Monday, so I’ll do it Tuesday. Anyway, the numbers that I do know and do want to share with you are not pounds lost, but inches.

Before the MMM began, each person was measured around their neck, shoulders, chest, waist, hips, thighs and calves. The leg measurements, the thighs and calves, count as four measurements, one of each for each leg.

I lost 6.5 inches off my waist. I went from a 62 (that was the trainer’s guess as he didn’t have a measuring tape long enough) to a 54. I lost another 7 inches off my shoulders. Total inch loss: 19.25 inches.

And I am ashamed on a very fundamental level. Not because I lost this, but because of how much more I could have lost. I didn’t try as hard as I could have or apply myself to the fullest extent. I got by because I saw my coworkers were winning us the fight and I was okay with just so.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

This weekend, I went to St. Louis with five coworkers, including my boss. The car ride to and from St. L was with my boss and another coworker, both of whom were in the MMM. Both were adamant that I had to not let this die and not just drift through this (and I am grateful to them for both their concern, their encouragement and the degree to how persuasive they are trying to be). I’ve already joined up at the gym and will continue to do what’s good for me because I want to, not out of some sense of obligation or competition.

But first…

“Mastery” or “Sunshine”

Last night I was attempting to sleep, as is my custom. The attempting is the custom. Not the sleeping. Although I do that often too. Anyway, I was trying to sleep when who should enter the equation…

Cyrus has, for the most part, been synchronized to my sleep schedule. So usually, when I am:

Cyrus is:

Though occasionally it’s more of this:

Anyway, I was trying to sleep and Cyrus jumped up on the bed. Instead of trying to eat my feet, however, he jumped up on my tummy and:

Totally unexpected.

I was kinda afraid to move him for a bit, but then I realized that I need to be on my side to fall asleep, so Cyrus got evicted down to normal bed level. Depending on his placement on the bed (i.e. how far towards the middle of the bed as opposed to towards the foot), he can end up owning about about 1/3 to 1/2 of the bed.

I related this to a coworker today. She, quite astutely noted that I am not the master of the house. Oh well.

Moving on, I hear some of you (read: Sue and Emily) are currently missing out on this thing we call Springtime. I feel bad for you (no really, I do), so I decided to bring you some sunshine. Enjoy:

“Prizes!” or “Hoosier friend”

First, congratulations to Stu! He was the 9,999th visitor to this blog. I would have given a prize to visitor #10,000, but they never revealed who they were. Oops. Congratulations, Stu!

Next, we move on to the contest of lolcyruses. There were only four entries. Needless to say, this makes me sad, but there will be more contests to come.

Onto the entries!

This one comes from the aforementioned Stu:

This one is from Alyssa:

I should note, Cyrus actually hates when I touch his belly, hence why he is biting and clawing me. Naturally, I do it often as revenge for when he annoys me.

This one comes from Hannah:

And finally, what you’ve all been waiting for. Winner winner, chicken dinner, goes to Emily:

I loved this one because it makes reference to a multi-armed Norse nautical terror. How. Awesome. Is. That?

Finally, a bit of a story:

I was on the road on Saturday, and singing at the top of my lungs with a song. It may or may not have been Jackie Wilson’s “Higher and Higher.”

My car was starting to be kinda tough to control and making a strange noise, so I pulled it on over and got out. Sure enough, Mr. Left Front Tire was sagging badly and clearly not going to get me back home or even to a service station for more air. Now, this wouldn’t have been much of a problem, but I was in Indiana. Rural Indiana.

Feeling self-reliant, I got out my jack and tire iron and went to work on removing the tire. I got all the bolts off and began tugging on the tire. Which wouldn’t budge. At all.

Now, I’ve never had this happen to me before. I was mortified, worried that something might really be badly damaged, and if so, would cost me a fortune to fix. So I called for help, and a friend said he’d come right away, and that we’d call AAA if we needed to. Only problem was it would take him 45 minutes or so to get to me.

So I sat in the car and waited. And slept a little. After about 40 minutes, I cracked my eyes to see if my friend was there, but instead there was a truck in front of me, backing up. It had Indiana plates and a bearded, somewhat scruffy man emerged from it.

“I saw that you were having trouble. Need a hand?”

I extended my own hand and shook his. I’m a firm believer that you can learn more about a man from his hands than you can from half an hour of conversation. His hands were leathery, cut and scratched and scarred from a lifetime of hard work. Turns out he was a carpenter and builds log cabins. I have his card and hope to be able to give it to someone very soon.
I gratefully accepted his help and he was able to remove the tire in five minutes with the use of a hammer and some knowhow. Apparently, rust had formed where the wheel meets the hub and simply made the wheel stuck. A few blows from the hammer cleared that right up and we had my spare on in five minutes.

“I must have helped change 10 tires in six years on this stretch of road. I figure if I need help one day, someone will help me, so I’ll give while I can.”

Good words to remember and live by. Thanks Mr. Thompson. I hope I can repay your kindness someday, or at least pass it on.

“Encouragement” or “Enter my contest, since you know you want to”

LOS ANGELES — The deadline is still Wednesday. Just to clear up the water, this is the picture you’re to caption.

LOLspeak is preferable. If you don’t have Photoshop, you can use MSPaint or just e-mail me the caption. I’ll feature all of them and tell you the winner.

“Delay” or “Discuss”

LOS ANGELES — I’m with the grandparents today. As such, this post will be very short.

The deadline to participate in the LOLCyrus contest is being set as Wednesday. So caption my cat and send in pictures. There’s already some really good ones in.

Also, I felt like I’d leave a little something-something, namely this picture I took while driving to the airport.

Discuss.