Meanderings in Hickville

Are Feet Supposed to Be This Swollen?

2009-11-12T14:27:00.003-05:00

(I know I was going to get back to this sooner, but a friend killed himself by setting himself on fire. Needed a break to wrap my head around it.)

Back to Italy we go. Today was finally the day we traveled to Rome. I'd like to say all the excitement was about the sites I was going to see, but let's be realistic. It was all about getting out of that rotten Hilton Hotel. A refrigerator box next to a porta potty would have been more functional.

But this time, we were booked at the Sheraton Roma, and it was worth the money that our travel agent didn't want to tell us we were paying. Polite staff, working elevators, fabulous fitness center, lights that worked, comfy beds, and a pool - I'm pretty sure when those glass doors silently slid open and revealed the grand piano and free internet in the lobby, I heard a heavenly choir burst into song. Is that a functioning ice machine? Look - it's at the end of a rainbow!

Enough about that. Our latest tour guide was Amadeo, and he took us on a walking tour of Rome's city highlights. He was a Frenchman who spoke Italian and English with a British accent. Like I wasn't confused enough about the language. He zipped us past all major sites, like the Colosseum and Circus Maximus, but we would go back later to get good pics.

Well, not all the good pics. Would ya look at that horn of plenty.

And check out this famous Italian statue. I think our bus captain was a little intimidated by the gun.

Once we ditched Amadeo, we decided to hit the city hardcore. Yep, capris and sandals. Hardcore.

We scoped out the Bocca della Verita (The Mouth of Truth) at Santa Something-or-Other. Word on the street was that it was a sort of old-fashioned lie detector. Stick your hand in its mouth and answer a question. If you are lying, it bites your hand off. Lovely. As much as I love jamming my hand into orifices on manhole covers, I decided to pass. I'll stick with my p-p-p-poker face.

After walking and shopping for about 87 hours, we decided to trek over to the Trevi Fountain. I've always thought it looked cool in movies, but it is better in person, especially when it's 150 degrees out and you're sweating like a bloated pig. Not that I was or anything. That would be gross.

Obviously, a tour isn't a tour without every muscle in your legs crying out in agony after climbing a thousand steps, only to travel back down them. So we scurried over to the Spanish Steps, which surprisingly, look like every other set of stairs I've traveled over the years. Cue the shinsplints.

During our travels, we were crossing a street when I heard the most profane language being shouted at someone. Assuming our group had committed some cultural error, I turned to see who was unhappy. This is the only person I saw. Not making any accusations, just sayin'. Nuns and road rage, how do you know they don't go together like peanut butter and fried pickles?

And since the current theme of this post seems to be culturally irrelevant pictures, I'll admit my fascination with things not encountered outside grocery stores in Hickville.

Isn't parking generally used for methods of transportation? I do not want to see the size of a dog people ride to a grocery store.

And no visit to Italy is complete without a gander at ye ole Vatican. Not being Catholic, I really had no interest in going inside, though I imagine the Sistine Chapel would be pretty cool. So I just stood outside in the courtyard and enjoyed the breeze kicked up by thousands of believers crossing themselves.

Our final stop of the day was to the Castel Sant' Angelo.

The place was massive, but sadly has been made a tad commercialized on the inside. While no longer a working castle, there was a killer restaurant at the top and they used a dumbwaiter to bring the food up from the first floor. And we did enjoy watching a completely lame magic/clown show meant for children. It was highly entertaining listening to him interact with the children in the audience. Ok, fine, maybe the children's Italian was all I could understand - colors and numbers - but that's neither here nor there. A five year old girl named Flavia unintentionally gave away his secret and made it all worth it.

Then it was back across the Ponte Umberto for some more pizza and weird hot dog hoagies, live music by the polluted river, and of course, gelato. Is it possible to OD on Italian ice cream? Ahh, well, we'll find out.

----------

In other news, there is a man sitting next to my desk making the most godawful groans with every breath he takes. I'm not sure if his lungs are collapsing or if he is attempting to drop a load on our newly upholstered chair. I hope it's the former.

----------

If you have ever wanted to see Carl Sagan and Stephen Hawking see along with autotune, now is your chance.

My Blood Runs Cold

2009-10-29T13:44:00.003-05:00

OK, I need a break from the whole "Look what I did in Italy" bit. It's all starting to come out in a monotone in my head. Bueller? Bueller? And I have a little traumatizing story to tell before it takes over my brain and I die of an aneurysm in the shower. Nobody wants that. I'll finish the Tale of Italian Cities later, I promise.

You know that 80's song Centerfold by J. Geils Band? Yeah, well, I always liked that song. Until yesterday.

When I was young, I had a friend that was a year younger than me who we shall call Deadpan Barbie. Her parents ran the local locker plant (where they kill the cattle for your hamburgers) where my brother worked. She had the coolest playhouse above the plant that had previously been an apartment. I always tried to be really well-behaved when I went to their house. I had once heard the grown-ups discussing how her mom had been an LSD freak in her teens, fried most of her brain cells, and now she was teetering on the brink of ending up rocking back & forth in a corner, sucking her thumb. I was bound and determined not to be the reason she ended up in the booby hatch.

Deadpan Barbie's older sister was a red-headed, freckle-faced Lolita - always jumping on the back of one of the male employees, giggling like Fran Drescher on crack, and begging for attention from anyone who didn't look away fast enough. In high school, she started sleeping with a gross, pervy married guy, and ended up pregnant at the same time as his wife. While pregnant, she would strip on the tables at the local bar. I never could understand how the guys would look at that, cuz she was so ugly she'd make a train take a dirt road. Truly, beauty is in the eye of the beer holder.

DB's older brother was the golden boy of the family, and he could do no wrong in her parent's eyes, even though he was completely lazy and dumber than a box of hair. If he did something wrong, he would give a bug-eyed stare that was supposed to pass for innocence, and DB would get blamed. I swear he could have mowed down a crowd of retarded midgets, and his mother would have said, "Well, they must have done something to provoke him."

Somewhere in the midst of all that crazy, Deadpan Barbie kinda got forgotten about. She was shy and wouldn't speak to anyone unless forced, and since she wasn't a walking flesh mattress, her parents just assumed she'd be fine. Her sister got even crazier, and was stealing from the parent's home every time they were gone. She finally married a guy who turned out to be the local Peeping Tom. The brother fell in with a party crowd in high school, and ended up wrecking a jet ski while drunk at the local reservoir. They didn't find his body for two weeks. The dad had a nervous breakdown, and our families stopped hanging out.

Though we still saw each other in school, DB and I went our separate ways. She ended up joining the military after graduation, which stunned everyone, but a family friend helped her get out a couple months later when she reported being sexually harassed. She came back to live with her parents for awhile, and the last time I saw her, she had white-blonde hair and was Oompa-Loompa orange from constant tanning, flat as a board, and slumped to the point it was painful to see. I asked her how things were going, and she told me she was going to head to art school in the fall. She seemed excited about that, but she was still the same quiet, expressionless, sweet, insecure girl I had always known. I couldn't imagine how she would survive living in a city.

Fast forward about ten years. I heard that DB had come back for her high school reunion in July, but I hadn't gotten to see her. Someone mentioned that she was different now, but they refused to explain further. "Find out for yourself," I was told. So I Googled her name, and a result came up - 28 yo, living in Denver. Surely, it must be her. It gave a link to a website and I clicked on it. And there was a picture.

Huh. This girl is dark-haired. Well, her face doesn't look quite the same, but maybe it's her. Oh, there's a link to more pictures. Let's click there.

HOLY CRAP!

So, yeah. Umm, Deadpan Barbie is now a model. A nude model. As in, full-on, fortheloveofallthatsgoodandholyshe'snaked! model. Every friggin' picture was some freaky-deaky skin shot. For the record, there is not enough mental clorox to burn away what is now seared into my retinas. Great googly moogly.

Her hair is now long and jet black, and she has had augmentation to the tune of at least DD. I'm pretty sure she's also had some plastic surgery on her face, because there is an oddly frozen quality to her deer-in-the-headlights look. She looks like a premenopausal Elvira. And someone injected her with a serious dose of confidence. Or meth. Either way, I suspect Ron Jeremy.

From what I understand, she works in a bar in Denver and she does the nude modeling on the side. According to a mutual friend, she is pretty proud of it, but I'm fairly certain there is no way she's told her parents about the fact that her naughty bits are posted all over Al Gore's internet. Unless they have both had lobotomies in the last few years, I'm guessing they would be livid. The girl I knew would have been mortified if someone saw her in a swimsuit, so I just can't wrap my fragile little mind around this. All I know is, every time I see her mom in the post office, the same thing runs through my brain:

I hope that when this issue's gone
I'll see you when your clothes are on...

You're Not Really Holding Up That Tower

2009-10-23T09:33:00.003-04:00

So, who's tired of hearing about my trip yet? Yeah, me too.

This was the day we traveled to Pisa. We were up at the buttcrack of dawn and I gotta say, there were way too many morning people on our bus. What is it about laughter and singing at 6:30 a.m. that makes me want to drive a stake through another person's heart? Though I must say, had it not been for the old guy's incessant chatter about boiling deer carcasses for their marrow keeping me awake and slightly nauseous, I never would have had the opportunity to see a scruffy, Lurch look-alike stopped along the road taking a leak in full view of God and country. Outstanding.

Our tour guide Lucca explained more about the Tuscan region and the architecture of Pisa as he loaded us on our transportation to the main city square. I felt like I was headed into the Magic Kingdom.

Our baby train dropped us off at the Palazzo dell' Arcivescovado, where I immediately began taking pictures of every nun I saw coming out of the Bishop's crib. What can I say - not everyone can rock the flowing white ensemble, so give credit where it's due. For the record, I did not ring the bell and run, just to get a photo.

Judging by the crowd, Pisa is the it place to visit. Our white-pants-wearing guide, Giovanni, led us past the massive swells of tourists and gave us a private tour of the baptistery, ginormous church, hospital, and cemetery for the bishops. They were arranged in a sort of square formation, so they were commonly referred to as Hatch, Match, Patch, and Dispatch.

But then we came upon the real reason we were all there - to see the leaning tower of Pisa. It leans due to crappy workmanship on soggy ground that started to settle afterward. If they hadn't stopped building on it during the times they were busy killing people from other towns, it would have toppled. It had actually moved much farther than it was supposed to in the nineties also, so they had to attach counterweights to bring it back. It now sits about twelve feet off center. Our guide says nobody knows for sure who built it, because seriously, who's gonna take credit for that kind of craftsmanship? (If you click on the pic, you can see where they are doing restoration on the third floor. Too much erosion from wind, rain, and bird crap.)

While we were wandering through the throngs of people, we saw a Japanese couple getting married. And since we all know there's nothing I like more than taking pictures of complete strangers without their consent, here's a photo of the happy couple.

When we finally got our fill of buying random Pinocchio souvenirs for the children of friends, it was back on the bus to Lucca. Our guide turned us loose with strict instructions as to when we were to be back at the stop, and we were on our own to roam. There aren't any famous sights in Lucca, but it had once been a castle, so there is a large moat around the town. Ok, sure, without the water and alligators it's just a lawn. Why do you have to be such killjoys? Geez.

My friends and I took off wandering around, with no particular destination in mind. While great for taking pictures of random things you wouldn't ordinarily see, it does lead to a bit of directional confusion. We weren't lost, mind you, we were just uncertain as to where we were and how we would get to where we had been. But how else would we get the opportunity to see the skivvies of strangers? I mean, without resulting in a restraining order?

But the path of misdirection was worth it. We got to see interesting sights all over that we would have missed if we hadn't stumbled into the slightly odoriferous residential section. For instance, check out the lovely sentiment on this wall, which is now my wallpaper. Who says the possibility of herpes simplex can't be romantic?

And then there was the curious street lamps covered in spikes. I finally found out that their purpose is to discourage birdies of all sorts from landing on them, thus leading to the crapping up of the streets. I don't know how the birds feel about it, but I'm fairly confident that getting a metal spike rammed up my keister would rather quickly change my mind about sitting there. Moving on!

I do have one question that perhaps someone out there can answer for me. Occasionally, we would come across a decorative door with a photo above it, followed by a plaque that I assume explains who the person is. Is it a saint? Owner of the home that are just proud of their accomplishments? Lady of the evening selling her wares? My Italian is too sketchy to arrive at an answer. Inquiring minds want to know.

Eventually, this nifty little tunnel led us back into the light, where we suddenly realized that after two hours, we were back where we started. Told ya we weren't lost.

I'm Not As Think As You Drunk I Am

2009-10-19T11:19:00.001-04:00

Part I Part II Part III Part IV

After all the hideous walking and such of the morning tour, it was high time to be taking 'er easy. What better way to accomplish that than to head to a winery?

We traveled to the Castello di Verrazzano, a vineyard that has been in the Verrazzano family for generations. It is a beautiful area, and they have groves of olive trees as well as well as the endless fields of grapes.

And to top it off, they also raise wild boars. (Question: if you are raising them domestically, can they really still be considered wild boars? Hmm.) We were directed not to try to get near them, unless we prefer to spend the rest of our lives waving with a stub.

Our guide was named Jillian, and she was a lot of fun. She had this great British accent, made even more entertaining by the fact that she was already half in the bag. She was very patient and good-natured, even when being interrupted by the doucheketeers in the crowd who thought they were comedians. She did, however, threaten to feed any tardy tour members to the wild boars. Perhaps that is why they all looked so excited to see us - feeding time!

Jillian explained to us that because of all the weird bureaucracy in Italy, they are very strict about what grapes can be used for each wine, and no chemical sulfides can be used. In addition, no pesticides or herbicides are allowed. I had been worried about drinking the wine, since it normally makes me really sick within minutes. But this wine didn't bother me at all, so I suspect it has been the sulfides that always leave me praying to the porcelain god.

Nick (?) was our host for the evening meal. It was plain to see we were not his first guests of the day. He was doing good to stay upright as he explained each course to us. He clearly knew his wines quite well, as well as his bawdy toasts to go along with them. But he seemed quite thrilled to be serving us, and for a moment, I thought maybe I would have a new stepdaddy. Alas, it was not to be - he was a slave to the mistress in his arms.

Italian meals are made up of several courses over the span of a couple hours. What would we Americans do with all that extra time after we inhale our food? In fact, I think it was the only time when our tour was forced to stop and take a breath. I can't say I'm a fan of the cured meats. They are all super fatty and have a strong aftertaste. I know, you prosciutto lovers will tell me I'm out of my mind and that it's the way it's supposed to taste. That's fantastic. You can eat it all you want. I'll just be over here gnawing on the tongue of my shoe.

I think we've been spoiled by our Americanized Italian food, though. I had this expectation of wonderful soft garlic bread and rivers of pasta overflowing with toppings. Darn you, Olive Garden! Instead, the bread is rock hard and you are given olive oil to drizzle over it, which doesn't exactly soggy it up any. Fabulous. I guess the bread that breaks off and sticks in my bridge can be saved for later. I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure our bread had been on the table since the last party. Is that a tooth in the side of that roll?

The pasta, on the other hand, was 100 times better than anything that's ever come out of my kitchen. While they don't drown everything in sauce like we do, it's all fresh and they put a spice mixture on the top that was extraordinary. Joygasm! I finally found a place that sold the spices for an outrageous price and I brought 'em on home with me. The cheeses were strong, but one in particular, when covered in balsamic vinegar, tasted like strawberries. Sure, I'm certain my arteries were hardening as we ate, but what better way to die than with my mouth stuffed with food? If it's good enough for Mama Cass, who am I to complain?

And then, they brought out the wild boar. Just for the record, they were adorable creatures when we saw them earlier in the tour. But they looked even better on a plate drizzled with gravy. That'll teach ya to squeal at me, piggie. I hadn't eaten boar before, but it really was outstanding. And who knew there was a wine to go with wild boar? For the record, I'm pretty sure ours wasn't this aged.

At the end of the meal, they brought out almond biscotti that we were to soak in a dessert wine and eat. The combo seemed a little odd, but I gave it a try and it was wonderful. I don't generally mix my booze and cookies, but after this experience it's amazing to me that we didn't all come home 300 lb. alcoholics. Maybe it works with other combinations? Pass the Oreos and Crown.

Paralegal Barbie and I were seated at a table with the travel agents who had arranged everything. They had actually planned the tours for something like fifteen countries, so they got to go everywhere and check out the sites and features they might want to include. How do I get that job? The agent's wife was asked if she wanted to hold a baby panda when they were in China. Thinking it would be like a small teddy bear, she agreed wholeheartedly. But when she sat down, they brought out a 180 lb. "baby" and plopped him in her lap. I imagine there's nothing like being eye-to-eye with a panda that's bigger than you. Very cool.

Her husband looked like a mildly retarded Boss Hogg, and pretty much the last person I would have expected to have any desire to travel the world in his multi-colored suspenders and high-water pants. But that whole cover-not-representative-of-the-book thing certainly applied here. He was hilarious, and it turned out he and his brother had lived in Peru while single 40 years ago, and their stories kept us entertained all night.

I'd have to say that this night was probably my favorite of the entire trip. It was our first chance to get out of the hustle and bustle of the city, and actually see Italy the way we envisioned. And while you regulars know I'm not exactly the type to get giddy over the sunset, drinking wine on a balcony overlooking a vineyard in Italy as the sun goes down is not a bad way to spend an evening. Being surrounded by slightly tipsy, equally enthralled friends? That was just a bonus.

Where, Oh Where, Was Daniel Craig?

2009-10-13T15:12:00.004-04:00

Wow! It looks like this place was quite the beehive of activity while I was gone. Who knew that you could become a blog of note after practically abandoning all effort to post? Ahh, the irony.

If you haven't gotten caught up on the previous days of this little trip, go read them first here, here, and here. Pace yourself.

The day's tour started off with a trip to Siena. The first thing you learn when on a tour where the majority of your tripmates are women is this: #1 sight you will see is bathrooms. We weren't twenty minutes into the morning tour when a particularly hefty woman got a pained expression. She started goosestepping like she either had a shingle nail through her foot or she was desperately trying to keep some terrible entity from escaping out the ole poop chute. She flagged down our guide and asked where the nearest bathroom was. Our guide led us down a narrow alleyway, pointed to a dilapidated building covered in graffiti, and informed us we would have to pay to use the facilities. Judging by the smell of the alley, most people don't have .60 Euro.

A little Asian lady took our money, smiled and jabbered something that sounded like Ewok, and handed us a ticket. We headed inside and our ticket was taken by a large tattoed Asian man with no sense of humor, and I wondered if perhaps choosing the wrong door would lead to sex slavery in Cambodia. The tanks were attached about 5 ft up the wall, and you had to push a button on the tank to get it to fill with water. Oh, did I mention the glaring lack of toilet seats? Welcome to Italy - enjoy the splash. And to wash our hands we had to use the foot pedal to run the water. For those of us with chewing gum/walking down the street issues, not a highlight.

Our lovely tour guide regaled us with stories of the rivalry between Florence and Siena that exists down to this day. I believe she was a Siena native, and her smile didn't really hide the fact that she would gladly tie a honey-covered Florencian to a tree in the woods if given the chance.

It really is a beautiful area, and there is a massive Renaissance wall surrounding the city, so I was starting to get interested. Plus, I saw a balding fat man sunning himself at the top of the wall, so I knew this place would be ripe for pictures.

We went past the Church of San Domenica, but unfortunately, we were not given time to go inside. Word on the street is that it houses the perfectly preserved head of St. Catherine. Now I'm not Catholic and her head holds no special significance for me, but how often am I going to have the chance to check out a detached noggin in a habit? What a letdown.

The streets are all narrow and winding, so here's where I started to actually feel like I was in the Italy imagined in my sandbilly brain. Some of my pictures got a little artsy fartsy, so I'll try not to make you suffer too much. But the architecture is so amazing, and the details are all intricate and whatnot, so even the simple things seem cooler there.

Our guide then took us to the piazza where the annual horse race known as Il Palio is held. It looks boring in the picture, but every August, a crapton of dirt is hauled in, dumped in the square, and ten horses race to victory. The celebrations for the winner often last into October. That's my kind of party. In fact, here's a little bit of trivia for ya: this is where the horse race in Quantum of Solace was filmed. The scene only lasted 8 minutes, cost $1 million to make, and they used 1,850 extras. About 30-60,000 people show up to watch Il Palio, and there's not a lot of room in the center of the "racetrack", so there's a good chance you're going to make it to second base with the sweaty gambler next to you. Oh, and there's no facilities available, so as our guide said, "Several hours jammed in a crowd is a long time. People bring their water bottles. That's all we're going to say about that." Ok then. That rushing water sound isn't coming from the fountain.

It was then back on the bus to San Gimagnano. They turned us loose finally to roam on our own and check out the sites. It was a blast shopping and eating in the little stores and listening to the Italian shopkeepers fight. They were obviously related and the son would shout, wave his hands, and roll his eyes while the father would rattle something off in disgust and hit the credit card machine. The mother would then scurry in and baby the middle-aged son. If they had subtitles, it would have been Everybody Loves Raymond.

In the interest of trying to leave my mother in Italy, I met a very nice man from Dubuque, IA, who happened to know people we know, in a little pizzeria. Knowing that my mother gets all twitterpated over that small world crap, and he was on the same tour as us (different bus), I introduced them. Sure, his pants were hiked a little high and he was wearing a fanny pack, but at this point, that seems unimportant. But to be honest, the statue was better looking than he was.

I finally found something that caught my eye - the Museum of Torture! All methods of pain imaginable in one place. Truly, there is more than one way to skin a cat. And where else am I going to see a werewolf chained in a room walled with skulls? I mean, besides in my creepy neighbor's basement?

Oh, I suppose you want to see actual scenery that makes you want to be in Italy? Alright, fine, here's a pic of the view from the top of a villa. Beats the snow and dead grass in Nebraska, eh?

Did I mention that the Italians have a freaky obsession with Pinocchio? Yeah, yeah, I know Gepetto was Italian or whatever, but seriously! He's everywhere! Puppets, pictures, paintings, jewelry, large soft dolls (I should have sent one to John, but Michele wouldn't get any sleep with all his weeping at night), etc. It was downright disturbing, especially after seeing this.

Parks dedicated to liars should catch on in the states. Every politician will have their very own swing set.

Can you believe that was just the events of half the day? Since I intend to milk this little trip for posts as long as possible, that's it for now. Next up: our trip to the vineyard/winery.

Quest... Part III

2009-09-28T14:07:00.002-04:00

Part I
Part II

On our first day in Florence, our travel agents had arranged for a private breakfast. There was food as far as the eye could see. I quickly learned that Italian yogurt all tastes like plain American yogurt, which is the taste equivalent to sucking pus out of an abcess. And what passes for bacon is would actually be quite good, if only they didn't leave it nearly raw. I found a tray in the back of the room where the supposedly overcooked bacon had been hidden - jackpot! Before long, word spread and everyone was headed toward that table. The bright red orange juice is quite excellent, made from Sicilian blood oranges, and the pastries were to die for. Over the next 14 days, I became quite a fan of Nutella, and I swear I had withdrawals once I got back. It won't be long til I'm making back alley deals to get the good stuff.

Our first stop of the day was at the Piazalle Michelangelo, which is the best place to get great shots of Florence. The guide, Matteo, was extremely perturbed that some took too long getting back on the bus. He started waving his arms frantically and shouting about "poonctuality", telling us how disrespectful it was to make others wait. Yet, when the next bus was late to get us and we asked why, Matteo shrugged his shoulders and said, "This is Italy." Go figure.

We took a tour of Pierotucci, a leather factory/store where everything is handmade from lambskin and kidskin (apparently of the goat variety, not child). The products were beautiful but extremely pricey. I was admiring one coat and the owner told me I had excellent taste. Just as he told me it was "only 700 euro", it fell off the hanger and landed on the floor. I swear I hadn't touched it, but the man sniffed indignantly, snatched up the jacket, and rushed away stiff-legged like he was suffering alli "treatment effects". Guess I didn't want to buy it after all.

We were then handed off to a tour guide for a half day tour of Florence. She was 30's, pretty, and dressed very stylish. And then she gestured toward a statue. Ho. Lee. Crap. She could have braided the pit hair that was flowing from underneath her arm. It was like the woman on the bicycle in that Boost Mobile commercial. I made sure to stay upwind of her from then on. I hate having hair in my face.

She showed us tons of churches and statues, and I think the R-rated figures may have broadened my mother's horizons more than I'm comfortable with. Her trip pictures look like a slideshow of marble porn.

Of course, each one of the statues had some pretty little story to go along with it, generally involving violence, greed, war, lust, and sodomy. You know, all the ingredients for a children's book. Here we see the Rape of the Sabine Women.

There were street performers everywhere, and while I would normally scoff at their expectation of money for doing very little, it was freakishly hot the entire time we were there. You couldn't pay me enough to paint my body and prance around for strangers in 100 degree weather. Then again, no one would want to see me do that, so it's kind of a moot point.

Once our tour was over, we headed back to the shops we had bypassed during the race of the sights. In one of the piazzas stood a golden boar with lines of people waiting to touch it. Legend has it that if you put a coin in its mouth and rub its nose, it brings you good luck. Swine flu is more likely.

And of course, a trip wouldn't be complete without a picture of a diplomat who had just left our U.S. embassy, also known as McDonalds. Can you find her in the picture?

Speaking of food, the restaurants in the piazzas have a host/greeter trying to draw people in. They will stand outside the restaurant and shout at passersby. Normally, I was very good at not making eye contact. But the man outside one spoke to me, and I made the mistake of looking his way.

"Buon giorno! Que bella! You hungry? You look for good meal?"

I smile and shake my head. We keep walking.

"How about a nice boy?"

"Husband?!"

Sorry. I just don't want that kind of commitment for a meal.

We ended up eating at a place near our hotel, where no one spoke English. The surly waiter directed us to a back room, which was actually an outside area enclosed by latticework and grape vines. He handed us menus and wandered away, only to return a couple minutes later to take our order. We asked for more time, and apparently that is the equivalent to peeing in someone's soup. He sighed, said something in Italian that I'm pretty sure meant "stupid frickin' Americans", and scurried back to the kitchen, where he shouted and waved his hands like a drunken air traffic controller. But to be fair, that's what I did when I had to deal with idiot customers too. It just doesn't sound as pretty in English.

But the menu decoder in my phrase book was very helpful, the food was plentiful and we had a good time all the same. Once he brought us our food, he disappeared and never returned, so there was no fear of my pidgin Italian causing an international incident. Here is one of the ginormous calzones.

On our way back to our motel, we had to pass an area that was a little dark and seedy looking. I wasn't too concerned until we came around the corner into an area where all the homeless were laying out their blankets for the night. Still wouldn't have been a problem until I saw one man's companion: a huge German Shepherd with a pink collar. I swear that sucker was tall enough to look me in the eye. The man had her tied up next to his "house", and she was eyeballing anyone who walked near it. That's one way to protect your shopping cart. I casually strolled by it, careful not to make eye contact. The last thing I needed was a hobo's girlfriend tearing my throat out on a urine-soaked street.

Part IV might be more interesting. But don't count on it.

Quest for an Italian Stepfather: Part II

2009-09-11T11:50:00.006-04:00

If you haven't read the first Italy post, check it out first.

Alrighty then, now where were we? Oh yes, this was the day we flew out. We awoke to pouring rain once again, and so we decided to just stay all day at the airport, instead of going sightseeing after dropping off the luggage. As it turned out, that was a wise decision. The roads to the airport ended up flooded and many people were unable to get in. We would have missed our flight to Milan, and I would have had a royal freakout. Nobody wants that.

Our flight out was supposed to leave at 6:35 p.m. All the flights around our gate were being delayed or cancelled due to the weather, so we were holding our breath. The lightning was unbelievable, and the thunder was rocking that place like a taco fart in church. We were sure that even if they did let us fly, our plane was going to end up in a fireball over the ocean. But they let us board at 5:50 p.m. and then we sat and waited. And waited. And sighed, shifted, cursed the weather, and contemplated how long it would be before the toilets would start to overflow on the tarmac. At 8:50 p.m., they finally let us start an active taxi, at which point we discovered my mother was in the bathroom. I fully expected her to return to her seat, the bottom of her shirt wet and stained blue, but she came back unscathed just as we were taking off.

My seat mate and I watched the airport lackeys hauling loads of luggage to the various planes. Remember, there are sheets of rain coming down. And not one load of luggage is covered. So we were chuckling about how many people were going to be seriously pissed when they picked up soggy suitcases at baggage claim. Yeah, well, when we got to our hotel, I opened my suitcase and discovered that everything around the edges of it was soaked, and the suitcase color had dyed my clothes. That's karma, baby.

It was about an eight hour flight to Milan, so it was 10:00 in the morning when we arrived there. It was then a four hour bus ride to Florence. We had decided we would all stay awake for the day to lessen the jet lag. Guess who was the only one who didn't snooze on the bus?

We were all stoked about staying at the Hilton Hotel, since we had checked it out online and it looked relatively awesome. Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure the rooms were actually designed by Paris Hilton. The shower doors were clear glass, the bathroom door was blocks of frosted glass separated by lines of clear glass, and the wall separating the bathroom from the bedroom was also glass. Oh sure, there was a sliding door that would cover it, but really, are there a lot of guests requesting the ability to see their fellow room dweller perched on the throne or scrubbing their bits? Creepy. Oh, and they don't provide washcloths, and they ran out of towels the second day we were there.

In addition, the elevators clearly were not equipped for the number of us who were there. Shortly after arriving, Paralegal Barbie and I were attempting to get on and our bus captain was already in the elevator. We stepped in and the alarm sounded that the elevator was overweight. It was supposed to hold eight people! Now I'll admit I appreciate my fast food as much as the next guy, but it's not like people moo when I lumber past them. And the pavement doesn't crack when PB falls, so clearly there was a maintenance issue. They finally quit working altogether, some with guests stuck inside.

We then spent the next hour searching for the stairs. If you were in the lobby, there were stairs to take you to the first floor. That's where they stopped, unless you took the set on the other side. They returned you to the lobby. It was like being trapped in an MC Escher painting. We finally discovered that the door to the stairwell was behind the bar, but as the burly bellman informed us, they were "for emergencies only." Ignoring his glares, we ripped open the door and headed to the third floor. Just one problem: the doors off the stairwells were locked. After much gesturing and breaking out my mad face, the bellman finally sighed and unlocked them. There was a mad dash of people using the stairs, much to the disgust of the staff, who apparently preferred we spend the evening sprawled in heaps in the lobby. Stupid demanding foreigners.

Of course, once we got to our rooms, there was the little matter of getting the lights to stay on. Now I realize that I'm not the most traveled person in the world, so I fully accept that there are going to be times when my redneck reality rears its ugly head. But come on now, even I understand the basic concept of a light switch. Off. On. Bam! Let there be light! Yeah, well, not so much here, past the first thirty seconds. So we spent the next 10 minutes trying to figure out how to keep the suckers on, short of having one of us open the door every 30 seconds. For those of you better-traveled than I, perhaps you've already figured out that they required the room key being inserted in the sensor in the wall and left there. Pardon me 'most to death, but wouldn't it just be easier to have a switch? Surely the Hilton can handle the occasional light switch being left on when someone leaves their room.

In addition, the TV didn't work right either. The picture kept scrolling while I attempted to watch an episode of Bonanza dubbed in Italian. The windows wouldn't open past a half inch, there were only two outlets in the entire room, both of which were used for lamps, and there was no swimming pool, only a jacuzzi that cost extra to use. Where's my Super 8, dang it?

We decided to hit the town on our own for the night. But after waiting an hour for the hotel shuttle to come back, we gave up and took off walking. We found a strip mall nearby, where they were playing American Christmas music. In July. We wandered around until we found a restaurant, only to discover The Crazy Bull was a sports lounge that serves... American food. I went with the pizza, which is sparse on cheese, sauce and toppings and is always thin crust in Italy. Their pepperoni is very spicy and has a strange aftertaste, but the beer helps you forget that. Plus, you are easily distracted by the sports shows that, between news items, feature random women dressed like they are headed for an S&M party, prancing past the news desk and giggling. Not sure what sport they represented, but I think it involves a whip.

By the time we got back, the hotel was pretty dead and the elevator worked...until the third floor. The rest of our group had to hoof it up the stairs to get to the ninth floor where they were staying. If a fire broke out that night, we'd have just laid in our beds and held out marshmallows on sticks.

Part III coming soon...

Weirdos and Tragedy

2009-09-08T23:36:00.000-04:00

Interrupting Italy Replay for Breaking News:

Do you remember my story about a former classmate's crazy dad? Well, early this morning, the cops found him inside his ex-wife's house with a gun. Details are still sketchy as to exactly what happened, but the cops shot and killed him. About a month or so ago, he had gotten in trouble yet again for choking a hired man's girlfriend. He had plead out some of his cases and was out on bond on the original attempted murder charge, but he hadn't been sentenced yet. Supposedly, he was hiding in the closet with two guns.

I had dealt with him in the office recently, and there was just a look in his eye that wasn't right. As much as he repelled me now, I made a point of being nice to him still. He acted like we were best friends, as though he hadn't tried to murder the mother of his children. He was a total creeper.

I feel bad for his family. His kids have been through a lot. But at least his ex-wife no longer has to fear for her life.

Quest for an Italian Stepfather, Part I

2009-09-07T20:58:00.000-04:00

Where to begin? Considering I was gone sixteen days, I figure I can wrangle quite a few posts out of this little experience. I may not have to come up with anything original for months!

Ok, so we flew into Newark a day early so we could go to Wallkill before leaving. That required renting a car from the trusty Enterprise near the airport. Now bear in mind that I am from Hicksville, Nebraska, and I don't exactly love driving in the city. So I planned ahead and brought along the trusty Tom Tom to guide me into the trash-filled depths of Newark. Just one problem: I reached in my bag and no Tom Tom. It was apparently sitting comfortably on the dash of my car... in Omaha.

So I rented a nifty little Garmin GPS from the car rental in hopes I could keep the new Chevy Malibu they gave me intact (only 4 miles on it!) and we were on our way. The delightful British woman living in the Garmin patiently directed me through parts of Newark I would have rather not seen, and we were on our way to New York. Everything went fine on the way, and I was feeling pretty confident about my driving abilities. And then we started back to Enterprise, just as we realized... it was freakin' rush hour.

The bumper to bumper traffic and rage-filled drivers wouldn't have been so bad. You know, if it hadn't started to rain. But somehow torrential downpours seem to bring out the worst in New Jersey drivers, who I'm sure on a good day kiss their mothers with those mouths. Just as an hour and a half of dodging animals lining up two by two leaves me with white knuckles, it apparently doesn't bring out the good side of the natives either. I'm pretty sure I received the international hand greeting of NYC more than once, and truckers love nothing more than to get right on your bumper when there is nowhere for you to go. I almost became bug guts in the grill of a Peterbilt.

As we got nearer to the Enterprise where I needed to drop the car, I realized that I was supposed to put gas in it before it was returned. We were about 20 miles from the place, and I started looking for a station. Guess what? Gas stations in Newark are as plentiful as nuns selling themselves on street corners. We were back in front of Enterprise and I still hadn't found a station. My solution? Go back on the road we initially took when leaving Newark.

But this time I was wandering with a particular destination and I had time to look around. The further we went, the grittier it got. More graffiti, lots more trash, drug deals in the open. I kept looking around for Patty the Daytime Hooker, but no luck. And still no gas stations!

I finally spotted a little hole in the wall place that looked like there was a fairly good chance of contracting hepatitis from touching the gas pump. I whipped in, only to discover that we were likely the only whiteys for miles. Mind you, we are also all in dresses (from our tour jaunt) and driving a 2009 shiny vehicle. Calling all carjackers!

A large Arab man came strolling over and said, "How much?" I'm not used to full service stations out here, but I told him to fill it up. He replied, "How pay?" I told him credit card, and asked if I needed to go into the building to pay, thinking I could just pay at the pump. He reached for my card, and I wrongly assumed he was just wanting to see what type it was. Instead, he grabs the sucker, puts it in his shirt pocket and walks away. Uhh, helloo?! I'm not paying for my gas and your big screen tv!

Just then, this hunched over, dirty, raggedy black lady comes shuffling over to me and says, "Girl, don' be worryin'. He cool, he cool. Now anywheres else, you be sayin' , 'Where he goin' wit my card?' But dis da way dey do it here in Newark. He da gas man, he do dis all de time. It's all good, he bring it back, cuz he cool." Yes, well, thank you, homeless lady, but I prefer to keep tabs on my card a little better than that. It was at that point that I realized the building I assumed was the station was actually closed up, and the shack I thought was a dirty concession stand was actually the gas station. We are not in Kansas anymore. The homeless woman proceeded to hit me up for money, "cuz all I got is dis thin dime", I gave her a dollar for crack or Colt .45, and went to collect my card. As it turned out, it was "all good", my card was returned to me without paying for anyone's falafels, and we made it safely back to the car rental without dying in the streets in dresses.

When I got back to the motel, we met up with the two friends who were joining us from Rapid City, SD. I was grumbling about forgetting things in Omaha, reached in my purse and there was my Tom Tom. My brain had been more organized than I gave it credit for. But the $16 Garmin rental was still worth it, if only not to die in a pile of trash and used condoms in Sucktown, New Jersey.

Next up: Day Two!

Blood Pressure Risin'

2009-08-24T10:43:00.000-04:00

OK, OK, so I know I've been back for over a week and you still haven't gotten a rundown of my trip. Yeah, well, it's a little busy around here, so how 'bout you just back off?!! I can't take the pressure anymore!!!

Whew.

Ahem.

So anyway, I'm working on it, but you might not get it for another week or two. I'm still in the middle of calling life insurance companies, faxing death certificates, consoling family, and pulling my hair out. But I promise I'll make up a few little stories for ya in the upcoming month.

2009-08-11T22:04:00.000-04:00

We flew into Newark today at 2:00 p.m. At 2:15 p.m., all my voicemails and text messages flooded my phone. My grandfather died Friday night at 7:30 p.m.

Dov'e La Toilette?

2009-07-27T13:35:00.000-04:00

The day has finally arrived - my quest for gelato and sunshine begins tonight. So if you see a tragic fireball on the news that used to be Continental Flight #44, I expect flowers.

Back in sixteen days!

Water, Beer & the Nectar of the Gods

2009-07-13T16:35:00.001-04:00

Since the countdown to Italy or Bust 2009 has begun, I made a decision. What better way to prepare for an extended vacation than to ignore responsibility and go on a mini-vacation? So this weekend I and some friends went whitewater rafting in Colorado.

The bulk of my vacation time has already been decimated by the upcoming flight to the land of vino, so I had to leave after work Friday night. What's a 7 hr drive in the grand scheme of things? I rolled into Loveland about 12:30 a.m., and we rolled out of bed at 6:30 to hit the river.

Now, there were those who had cautioned me about our trip, implying that it may be difficult to traverse Italy while sporting a body cast. But I was confident that after my years of canoeing and kayaking, I could handle myself on a puny raft. Then I read the hold harmless agreement.

Guides are not infallible?! Are you kidding me? Possibility of severe head injuries? Uhh, about this part here on likelihood of death...

After signing away our lives, the guide gave us strict instructions as to how to stay alive in the event that we became a "swimmer." That didn't exactly up the confidence level either. However, once we were on the river, we realized our guide was highly experienced and gave great instructions. At no time were we ever in a situation where I would be planning changes to my will. It was actually a blast, not too incredibly dangerous, but not so tame that I could catch up on knitting or anything.

At one point, our guide Matt gave us instructions as to our next Level III drop, which they called Deliverance. I made it clear right then that if I heard banjo music, all bets were off. If Ned Beatty isn't safe, I don't stand a chance.

We were pretty awesome for our first time. In fact, our guide told us that if we come again next year, he would recommend we advance to Level IV. We are thinking about rafting Royal Gorge next year, and we will request Matt. After all, not all guides can be taken seriously while sporting a Nazi helmet.

Here is one of their overpriced pictures of our adventure. For the record, the helmets reeked of head sweat and I'm pretty sure the splash jackets had been previously worn by wet dogs. Next time, I'm so going without. It was nowhere near cold enough to need the jacket. Those pansies need to tube the Niobrara River once, and maybe they'll stop whining about "cold" water.

When we got off the river, it seemed high time for a cold one, but we're all incredibly cheap. The solution? A tour of the Coors Brewery. While I'm well aware that most Coors beer tastes like variations of refrigerated horse urine, it was free. We got to wander around with about a hundred other alcoholics, listening to the history of Coors, (now Miller Coors) all with one purpose: free samples. I was expecting the samples to be little shot glasses of beer, so imagine my delight when it was actually a dixie cup of plain Coors, and then THREE glasses of the Coors product of our choice.

I tested out the Pale Moon, and I can now say without question that I prefer beer that doesn't taste like a donkey relieved himself after eating pepper plants. What is up with spicy beer? Sick. However, the Killian's Red helped me to wash that nasty taste out of my mouth. And after the third beer on an empty stomach, even Coors Banquet starts to taste drinkable.

HOLY CRAP!

(Sorry about that. There was a bat in a paper bag under my desk, and when I heard it rattling, I thought it was a bug and opened it. Excuse me while I go have a heart attack.)

Anyhoo, obviously risking life and limb on the river was not enough for us, so the next day we went hiking. Yeah, you heard me. I hiked. Yes, I know that on an ordinary day I don't walk unless I'm broke down, but this was about communing with nature and all that crap. Of course, at the beginning of our little sojourn, someone forgot to mention that it was 14 MILES roundtrip. Nice.

But we got to see some beautiful scenery, scare up a few critters, and do a little impromptu rock climbing. It was pretty cool up there, and we checked out several old homesteads along the way.

I'm pretty sure I had my life threatened by a barking squirrel.

On our way back down the mountain, we got caught in a heavy rainstorm, so we hung out in one of the old homestead cabins along the way.

When we got back from hiking, we took a quick trip over to Estes Park and did the touristy thing. The prices are outrageous, but it is really pretty, and I got to see several freaky people that made me feel better about myself. And really, isn't that what it's all about?

I now have all the fun out of my system, so procrastination time is over. Now it's going to be all about planning and stressing and freaking out, just so I can go on vacation. Something doesn't seem right about that.
--------
Only two weeks left til I'm eating Italian food that doesn't come from Olive Garden!

Hugh Hefner Seeking Nurse For Sponge Bath

2009-07-06T14:33:00.002-04:00

Old Man River is not doing well. Over the last few months, his health has deteriorated considerably, prompting his doctor to give him a six month expiration date. His heart isn't pumping hard enough to keep the fluid off, so it's building up in his lungs, around his heart, and in his tissues. They give him water pills to help shed the fluid, and then he spends all day wheeling to and from the bathroom down the hall. Of course, that flushes all the potassium out of his system, and his heart goes wonky yet again. Meanwhile the fluid returns, and he is now 306 lbs. Before long, he's going to need to be borrowing manzieres from Beth Chapman. Because of the issues with his breathing, he aspirates food into his lungs, which leads to infection and a constant state of pneumonia. The docs shoot him full of antibiotics, which work about three weeks, and the process begins again.

This weekend, the doctor informed him that he has infection once again. And Old Man River has decided this is it. He's tired of fighting the inevitable. He has refused any more antibiotics, and everything has been put in place to keep him from being put on life support should he get to that point. He has agreed to continue the water pills, and the hospice nurse promised him morphine if he gets to the point that he can't breathe, so he won't feel that he is suffocating. They can make him comfortable, but beyond that he's not interested. Enough is enough.

We had gone to see him on Saturday, and he was appropriately crotchety and belligerent. Were it not for his size, you wouldn't know anything was wrong with him. He told stories, informed my mother she'd make a rotten nurse, told me to stop rolling my chair over his oxygen hose ("Are you trying to kill me, you round head?!"), and announced he would not be buying a new pair of moccasins since it would be a waste of money at this point. He demanded I take money to pay for his death certificates and gas for traveling back when he "buys the farm", which I prompted returned to him and told him where he could put it (back in his Bible - what did you think?).

He asked me to go pick up a housecoat for him while we were out shopping, because in his words, "I might be fat, but I still have enough dignity not to wear sweat pants." I told him I would gladly get him a robe if he promised never to use the word housecoat again. All I could picture was him wheeling down the halls in some lacy coverup from Victoria's Secret. Yeesh.

I stopped at several places, only to find that apparently people only wear robes during the week of Christmas. Finally, I walked into Sears, only to discover that the man behind the counter was as wide as a Wal-Mart sign and looked like a Ballchinian. He politely directed us to the robes, where we discovered the only one available was a One Size Fits Most. Yeah, well, most of us aren't tipping the scales that far, but we'll give it a try. If it doesn't work, we'll come back and get another one he can wear backwards like a straightjacket.

But when I got up to the counter to pay, my mother said to the clerk, "I have a question." Oh crap, this is not going to end well. "We're buying this for my father and there's only one size. But he's over 300 lbs." Picture that last portion being said in the horrified, hushed tones usually reserved for describing John Merrick or discussing biracial marriage in the 50's. As I willed the floor to open up and consume me, the clerk reared back and said, "Well, I'm over 300 lbs. Would you like me to try it on?" My mother says, "Really?," and I wonder if she is expressing wonder that he is offering to be her little model or if she is trying to pretend that she didn't notice that he's only missing a big blue ox. Nice try, but Meryl Streep she is not.

The guy proceeds to try on the robe, which comes nowhere near meeting in the middle. I figure we're still safe, since that fella is easy rounding the bend of the big 4-0-0. We purchase the robe, thank John Popper for his assistance, and race out of the store. I then repeat the request I have made so often over the years, that my mother just once engage her mouth filter when in public. She repeats the statement she has made so often over the years: "Oh, he knew I didn't mean it like that!" Great googly moogly.

The robe did, in fact, fit Old Man River, and he proudly modeled it for us, while my mother attempted to justify her part in the day's saga. OMR agreed with me that, just once, I should be allowed to bring along a muzzle. He shooed us out of his room and told us it was time to give him a break.

We got a call from my aunt yesterday while we were at the lake. She was in tears, saying he was refusing all treatment and we needed to come back to Grand Island. He was getting his heart spells, where he feels sick all over and short of breath, more often and they were lasting longer. His fingernails were blue from lack of oxygen, wasn't going to the bathroom and she didn't think he would make it through the night. Envisioning a long night of watching him slowly suffocate, Sister Cripple told Mom she could stay down and SC would bring her home later in the week if I needed to be back for work. We made the plans and headed back to GI.

We walked into Old Man River's room, dreading what we would see. There he sat in his wheelchair, a surprised look on his face. "What are you doing here?", he demanded. We explained that we decided to come back since he wasn't doing too well. Mom asked him if he wanted her to stay. The response? "For God's sakes, no, I don't want you to stay! What have they been telling you?" It seems there had been some miscommunication. Yes, he was low on oxygen, but he was breathing as well as ever. He'd been using a urinal and wasn't broadcasting it to the world. He was having bad spells, but he has them all the time. He was no worse than the day before, but he had just clarified his wishes. We were ordered home, and after belligerently staying longer than we should have, I finally crawled into my bed at 1:30 this morning.

He lives another day. But the clock is ticking. I leave for Italy in three weeks. He'd better be here when I get back.

That's Not Gonna Heal

2009-06-16T13:37:00.001-04:00

So this friend of mine, Portly Patty, has always been a bit of a hypochondriac. Now, with the help of the internet, she is also a cybercondriac. Who knew one person could have every disease on WebMD? Uhh, Patty, I don't know how to tell you this, but you don't have a prostate.

That's not to say she hasn't had her fair share of poor health over the years that didn't start in the gray matter between her ears. PP has ulcerative colitis, so she's spent the last 20 years or so on prednizone, which has been the culprit behind that portly part. There's a reason her jowls look like she's smuggling peanut butter sandwiches everywhere she goes. Because of the prednizone, her immune system is riding the short bus, which leads to problems if she does get sick. But it is still difficult to be sympathetic when a 50+ yo woman starts to hyperventilate over a paper cut.

It wouldn't be so bad if there wasn't a never-ending list of ailments and tragedies befalling her at any given time. First, she got bit by a brown recluse. Naturally, her case was the worst the doctors had ever seen. Months later, she was still in therapy and shaking at the sight of a spiderweb. Then she fell down the stairs (about 3 steps) and banged her leg. Next thing ya know, she's in the hospital with cellulitis and her leg is split open like an overcooked weiner, oozing matter that should only be that color if it's inside a bavarian creme-filled donut. I've heard her story about the perils of getting her lady parts ripped out her bunghole (or a simple hysterectomy to the lay person) more times than I care to count. She's had more black eyes than Tina Turner, more surgeries than Joan Rivers, and to hear her tell it, John Merrick had it easy in comparison to her.

So imagine my utter lack of surprise when I was informed that, once again, Portly Patty was in the hospital. I may have even utter something completely uncaringfriendlike along the lines of, "What is it this time? Rabies, scabies, or emphysema?" Not this time! It turns out that an abcess burst in her stomach, shooting poison throughout her body, not unlike a friend's mom, who recently died of a burst abcess in her brain. Maybe mocking was the wrong way to go.

The doctors had her taken by ambulance to Norfolk, where surgery was done to repair the damage. But a few days later, her condition was not improving and she had major pain, so they flew her to Omaha. The GI specialist took one look at her incision, reached his fingers into it, and HIS FINGERS WENT INTO HER INTESTINES. She was rushed back into surgery, and the specialist fixed the hole that should have been taken care of the first time around.

But within a few days, she was getting worse again, and she had been put on a ventilator. It was discovered that her flesh was tearing away from the stitches, and her colostomy bag had been put in on the wrong side. The bag was moved to her other side, and stitches were repaired, and the Bride of Humpty Dumpty was back together again. Things started to look up, and her family was told they could go home.

Her husband had just pulled in the drive of their home, 6 hrs from the hospital, when he received the call that yet again, PP had taken a turn for the worse. Infection was spreading faster than STDs at a Motley Crue concert, and it was time to wheel her in for another surgery. This time, they cleaned out all the infection they could, shot her full of mega loads of antibiotics and steroids, and made the decision not to close her up. Her massive incision would now be left open and she would have to heal from the inside out. Her hospital room is draped with plastic, and only her husband is allowed in after gowning up and wearing a mask.

That was a month ago. She is no longer on a ventilator, and she is now being allowed to see semi-solid food. The doctors said yesterday that she will have to be in the hospital for the rest of the summer. And she has no insurance.

Probably means I shouldn't whine about the two days I spent praying to the porcelain god and begging someone to kill me, huh? Yeah, didn't think so.

Best Laid Plans Of Mice and Idiots

2009-06-02T14:04:00.001-04:00

Thought for the day:

The grass is always greener on the other side, unless Chuck Norris has been there. In that case the grass is most likely soaked in blood and tears.

It started out like any other plan for a free weekend - lots of high-minded intentions, plenty of beer in the cooler, gas in the tank, friends to meet. If only I could have remembered where that road led that was paved with best intentions...

Memorial Day weekend was going to be outstanding. I could feel it in my bones. First, I would head out to my mother's hometown for the annual Circle C celebration. I would sit around with my cousins and their fellow cowboy degenerates, drink beer, eat hamburgers, and generally mock those who are not adept at riding a hide behind a galloping horse. From there, I would borrow a trailer, load up my horse, head to a buddy's place in the country for a weekend of canyon riding, food, and general laziness. Monday morning would see us on the Niobrara River for a day of canoeing, sunburning, and stuffing our faces. Notice a common theme here? Yeah, I don't leave home without the grub.

I awoke Saturday morning to gray skies and drizzle. Ok, I can live with that. A little sprinkling from the skies never kept me away from a rodeo. I loaded up the coolers, made my kitty litter cake for the afternoon (yes, it's in a litter box and it was excellent), and ran out to my mom's to grab my saddle. Only now, it was no longer drizzle. It was full-on showers from the heavens and the temperature had dropped about 15 degrees. This day was not going to go well.

I decided that spending the morning sitting on soaking wet tailgates and sludging around like a pig in slop wasn't my cup o' tea, so I scrapped the rodeo idea and decided to head to my buddy's house early. He lives about an hour away, so I could get in a little riding time, and surely the weather would be wonderful at his house. The sun would be shining, the bluebird would be perched on my shoulder, and all would be magical.

Yeah, so the bluebird crapped on my shoulder and then made out with my grandma. It poured the entire way to his house, I had to wait for almost an hour at road construction, the horse was pissed, I almost got the trailer stuck on the muddy country roads, and there was no way any of us wanted to ride after the lightning knocked out the power in the house.

We made the best of being stuck inside, and we all spent the day playing games, watching movies, and making chocolate fondue. The weather cleared up just long enough for us to ride about four miles on Sunday, which was better than a jab in the butt with a carrot. The highlight of the ride? When the know-it-all Wisconsin girl next to me was giving me advice on how to handle the horse I was riding, then her horse shied and she fell off. My innards did the happy dance at the sound of her 35-lbs-crammed-in-a-5-lb-pair-of-jeans arse smacking the mud. The leprechauns in my head giggled with evil laughter when they heard, "I think I broke a rib. I think I broke a rib!" No worries, honey. Those ribs have plenty of padding to protect them. We had just put the horses away, Ms. All Hat and No Cattle had limped to the house, moaning in dramatic fashion, and the storms hit again. Back inside for beer and kitty litter cake.

And then Monday rolled around. Once again, there was an 80% chance of rain, and all those cornfed sissies were afraid to go out on the water. No canoe trip for us. I was in full-on scoffing mode when the thunder cracked and the skies opened yet again. In no time at all, it was raining, hailing, and the wind was about 50 mi/hr. Ok, ok, so maybe it would have been a little chilly on the river. The day was shot, and I'd pretty much had my fill of Pictionary and Guesstures by that time. I decided to load up the horse and head for home as soon as the storm lessened a little.

But the moment we started loading Kismet for the trek home, we nearly became extras in Twister. Funnel tails started dipping in and out of the clouds, and ole Noah started herding critters two by two. We scrambled to get everything hooked up, only to discover the lights on the trailer weren't working. My buddy monkeyed with the wiring and repaired the trailer lights, just about the time I discovered the blown fuse on the truck that knocked out my brake lights. We jimmy-rigged the fuses to get me home, and I set out for greener pastures.

It was raining so hard, I could hardly see to drive. I made it about 30 miles when the trailer started pulling in directions I didn't want to go. I was right at the turnoff for a little podunk town, so I whipped 'er on in to confirm my suspicions. Sure enough, I'd blown a tire on the trailer. I started muttering vows to murder the trailer's owner, who had assured me the tires were just fine, and climbed out into the still pouring rain. I then discovered not only does my mother not carry a four-way lug wrench (or any other kind) in her truck, she only had a baby jack that comes under the back seat of a Dodge Dakota.

I unloaded my saddle, flung it into the front seat, and was lying on the floor in the back seat to remove the cursed jack when a guy pulled up. Mind you, I was soaked to the skin, looked like I'd been set on fire and beaten with a track shoe, and my patience level had been hurtled past about 20 minutes before. He took one look at my pathetic jack and just grinned. He had a handyman jack, a four-way, and few words. He changed the tire without me having to unload the horse, and was done in about 10 minutes. AND he refused payment, as any self-respecting cowboy in these parts would do. Of course, as any self-respecting appreciative unprepared fool would do, I figured out who he was, where he hung out with his buddies in that nowhere town, and returned a few days later with a case of beer.

From this point on, there is now a four-way wrench under the seat. There will soon be a decent jack in the back. And the next time someone asks me what I'm doing over a three day weekend, the answer will be, "I'm staying home."

Firemen Know How to Handle Their Hose

2009-04-21T13:13:00.001-04:00

The bank next door to my office is on fire. I guess it's in the attic, so let's hope it stays there. The wind is about 30 mi/hr, so if it gets out, my hair is going to smell like smoke for days.

Needless to say, it's quite the bit of excitement here in Hickville. I think the entire fire department is on the street right now, which includes 3/4 of the males over 18 in town. Two ambulances drove by my house at about 60 mi/hr, despite the fact that there are no injuries. I guess if you mow down a pedestrian on the way to a fire you at least have someone to transport back to the hospital. Hate to make a wasted trip.

Half the town is standing out on Main Street watching the goings-on. Most importantly, the streets are blocked off, so I had to hoof it a block back to work in the wind, in heels, and through a crowd of firemen. Lemme tell ya, that's only a treat in a Diet Coke commercial. In RL, the firemen are the same overweight dorks you went to high school with that spend more time peeing off the back of a fire truck than fighting blazes. And since they're all volunteer, this gets them out of their boring jobs for the afternoon, and they get to go play hero for a few hours. That guarantees them an evening of drinking beer at the fire hall and telling tales of how they barely made it out alive.

Our cute chief of police is standing in the middle of the street directing traffic. He seems confident and capable, and all the young ladies are swooning. And now he just shot his chew spit farther than any other sandbilly on the block. Golly gee, I sure is glad we got one of them there high-class po-licemen protecting us. Great googly-moogly.

Years ago, the building next to our office had a fire that totaled the building. The lackeys in our office spent their time hauling file cabinets out the back door, while everything else in the building got hosed down. That better not happen today. I have a bad back and a light-colored shirt.

Bits and Bytes

2009-03-20T16:23:00.003-04:00

Quote of the day:

Boy, I can tell I'm getting old. Instead of having romantic fantasies when I sleep, now I dream about getting wood. - my mom

(Isn't that the same thing? Just sayin'...)

Since I keep getting nagged about coming out of my head-shaving, naked-bongo-playing, beard-and-sunglasses retirement, I thought I'd throw you a token post today. Not that I don't delight in dramatizing the small details of my life to help me forget that I'm living in the middle of soul-sucking nowhere, but the sad fact is that things have been pretty dull lately here in Hickville. Without the daily exploits of the Wonky-Eyed Beast to set my eye a-twitching, I fear I may have to resort to telling you what I had for breakfast or describing the color of the fecal deposit I discovered on the sidewalk in front of my gate this morning (pretty sure it was not human).

Indeed, life in these parts has been slower than a stutterer at a spelling bee, and it's getting a little tiresome. It's not that I long for someone to go on a killing spree next door or anything, but at this point, I'd be giddy if I saw that fat guy across the street riding a minibike. That, my friends, is not a good sign.

So here are the highlights of the last few months:

My wife beater neighbor and his dumbed down enabler moved out in the dead of night, leaving behind a random child's toy and a planter that I'm pretty sure housed a marijuana plant on the front porch. I no longer feel prying eyes leering over a beer bottle at me, which will eliminate the need for this flannel burka.

Our speechies did amazing this year, becoming District Champions, with 11 making it to State yesterday. Of course, once there, they got all excited, then fearful, nauseous, and wild-eyed. None progressed to finals. However, that is the most we've ever had advance to State, so it staved off the vein explosion in the coach's forehead for one more season. And if she ever found out I had been planning to quit this year, she'd crap in a sock.

The dad of one of my former classmates was recently discovered to have a second family in South Dakota. He was found out because his wife, who just happened to work for the sheriff's office, saw a petition for child support come across her desk. Being the wonderful person she is, she forgave him and they stayed together. But when they went to CA to see their daughter and new grandchild, he received a call from ANOTHER woman (who is only 2 years older than his daughter) to tell him THEIR son was sick, and he abandoned his wife to return home to family #3. The wife decided this was the proverbial straw, and filed for divorce. About a week later, her neighbor saw him in the bushes outside her house, wearing only a banana hammock and carrying a gun. When the cops arrived, he had a gun barrel in his estranged wife's mouth, and had told her there was going to be a murder-suicide. Now sitting in jail, he can't understand what she is so mad about, because she should be happy that he couldn't go through with it after all. That man is crazy all day.

Beavis recently took a job as an irrigation hand, and he's been enjoying it much more than I expected, considering it forces him to remove his butt from the bean bag chair and lay down his Guitar Hero toys. However, he was standing in the back of the truck the other day, and the driver pushed the wrong lever, swinging the large hook right at Beavis' head. It caught him in the side of his face so hard that it knocked him out of the back of the truck. And since he's about 6'1", 250 lbs, that's some serious force. Other than sounding like this now, there seems to be no ill effects.

I have now switched degree paths, after suddenly discovering that Ihatefixingcomputerswiththefireofathousandsuns and Ihopeallhackersandspammersgetnutcanceranddie. I am currently working toward a paralegal degree and I quickly realized that for the last nine years, I've been doing the work of a paralegal anyway. Things are going smoothly so far, and I'm hoping to have most of it finished before I leave for Italy.

Speaking of which, does anyone have any brilliant info they would like to share regarding traveling from Newark airport to New York/Jersey City/Wallkill? We are flying out of Newark when we go to Italy, but we will have a day to screw around before we leave. I refuse to rent a car to travel to New York or Jersey City, but I would consider it for Wallkill. I know nothing of the transit system or crap like that, so I'd be loving any suggestions you could pass along. Also, what sights can we not miss? We will have about 5 hrs to kill in NY on the return trip before our flight back to Omaha. Bear in mind that I will have a 60 year old mother in tow who is always 30 seconds from full-on schizophrenic meltdown, so anything that will force her out of her comfort zone and into fetal position on public transportation will be greatly appreciated.

Oh, and I'm currently attempting to learn ASL. My mom is getting almost stone deaf, but that has nothing to do with the price of tea in China. I rather enjoy that, because I can sit 20 feet from her and confess to every dirty rotten deed I've ever committed and she still knows nothing of them. Either that, or she's been faking it all along and I'm now officially written out of her will. But a friend of mine in Rapid City has been learning sign language, and it seems like there isa shortage of interpreters for the deaf. Not that there are many in my area, but it would open up some opportunities if I ever move elsewhere. Plus, she's going to Italy with me, so it will be fun to entertain ourselves with on the plane when the batteries in my electronic toys die. So far, I can spell my name and do the sign for lesbian. For the record, those two things are completely unconnected, but the boys on the speech team were looking through my ASL dictionary, and that was the first sign they went to. I guess I also know how to say, "What up, cracker?", so I'm pretty sure I now have enough knowledge to get thrown out of a bar or beaten soundly by a deaf person. I now only need to get a job as a bullfighter at a midget rodeo, and my lifelong goals will have finally been met. Anyone know where I can get a job application?

The Fungus Among Us

2009-01-14T09:34:00.004-05:00

Someone sent me this e-mail, and I thought it was interesting.

http://www.familywatchdog.us/

When you visit this site you can enter your address and a map will pop up with your house as a small icon of a house. There will be red, blue and green dots surrounding your entire neighborhood. When you click on these dots a picture of a criminal will appear with his or her home address and the description of the crime he or she has committed. The best thing is that you can show your children these pictures and see how close these people live to your home or school. This site was developed by John Walsh from Americas Most Wanted. This is another tool we can use to help us keep our kids safe.

Of course, in a small town like Hicksville, I already know the perverts - heck, we've represented half of them. But it's still good to know where they live, especially since I didn't see any of my neighbors on there. Now I can go to bed without wearing the hockey gear and holding on to the Uzi.

Bring Your Own Fork

2008-12-12T10:51:00.000-05:00

I have been terribly remiss at socializing lately, and it's time for a change. I think I'll have a party and you're all invited. This will be dessert:

This will be the main course.

Beware the Dangers of Cabin Fever

2008-12-09T08:40:00.002-05:00

Following in the theory of a high rate of untimely death in these here parts, I give to you this little tidbit. Our temp secretary left us in August to attend college in Chadron. It's a little podunk town that pretty much doubles when school is in session. It is also the jackhole capital of the world. I've often said that there is no way I would ever live there, because I fear I would at some point snap and commit remorseless homicide on some schmuck who didn't know how to drive/take my order/speak proper English/etc.

Well, it appears I wasn't the only one. Right across the street from the dorm where our lovely ex-secretary lives, a college student was murdered Friday night by his roommate. He was stabbed 50 times, which in my line of work, leads to an obvious conclusion: it was self-defense.

The parents of one of our local principals live there. Scuttlebutt is that the doer fled the scene and ended up at their house. The mother locked herself in the car, and the father was in the bathroom and I guess locked the door too. Somehow, they called their son here in town, and he called 911. I'm fairly certain that was unnecessary, since the neighbors had all seen the freak running down the street wielding two pig stickers. The cops caught the kid, who just happens to be from a small town not far from Chadron. I've always said that living in these backwater towns makes you a little whimsical in the brain pan, but this is a bit beyond that.

My mother has the following rock solid theories as to a motive: a) they were fighting over a girl, b) one of them refused sex with the other, or c) the victim hogged the covers. When I pointed out the likely fact that even a small college can afford a bed for each person, that kinda took option C out of the running. I suggested that perhaps an evening of Rock Band got a little too competitive, but that was soundly mocked as being "a ridiculous reason to kill anyone." Clearly, she's never played Rock Band.

It is pretty scary to think of some punk kid wigging out and stabbing your child to death at college. Aren't drinking, drugs, and knocking up an ugly girl usually higher up the list of Parental Fears? And why 50 times? Maybe I could see it if you were using a penknife, but otherwise, you're just making a mess for no reason.

I haven't heard back from our ex-secretary yet, but since she's petrified of camping, bugs, and fat people wearing Spandex, I imagine she's not too comfortable hanging out at her dorm, what with the hacking up of peers going on nearby. This just confirms one important fact for me: it's always safer to live alone.

Update: Here's a link to the story.

Morticians Do It In The Cold

2008-11-27T22:40:00.003-05:00

That woman out there on the edge of town seems a little eccentric, but you're sure she's harmless. You make small talk with her occasionally, and you pretend not to notice when you see her talking to herself. Maybe she's just trying to remember a grocery list, or what was in her dream last night. Beavers and ducks!

But then you stop at her house one evening just to be neighborly. She begins to tell you about her beef with a certain obnoxious neighbor named Bambi. You start to get the feeling that she's pretty worked up, and you try to make a polite exit. That's when you see it.

You try to quickly avert your eyes, but it is too late. She sees what you are looking at. "Oh, would you like to see what's inside?" You stammer no, telling her someone is expecting you at home. But she ignores your protests and throws open the package.

You can't be certain, but you fear you may have stumbled upon a gruesome crime scene. You make every effort to act natural as you back away, but the woman insists that you come inside her house. "It'll just take a minute," she promises, as she practically pushes you through the door. Once inside, there is no mistaking what you see before you.

This isn't good. You have a sneaking suspicion as to the whereabouts of the bothersome neighbor. The woman calls you into the next room, and fears are immediately realized.

It's official. Bambi is no more. Wondering how to get out of there and contact the authorities, you stumble backwards toward the door, fumbling for your keys and praying the woman has poor aim up close. Just as you get to the door, you hear her shout, "Can't you stay? I'm just about to have dinner!"

*There. That ought to stop all the jokes.*

Givin' It Away For Free

2008-11-17T16:12:00.001-05:00

And in related news (Well, not related in a manner denigrating their character or anything), here is a song especially for John and nypinta.

More Than One Way to Get Amoebic Dysentery

2008-11-07T10:10:00.005-05:00

As I sit here grumbling in the middle of a full-on winter storm, I thought it was time to check in. I've been frightfully lazy about posting for awhile, so I thought it best to confirm I have not yet kicked the proverbial bucket. And I wanted to confess something: for about the last year and a half, I have had a drinking problem.

I realize now that I was in denial, but at the time I thought I could handle it on my own. Maybe if I just ignored the signs, it would go away, right? Sadly, things began to escalate over the last month, and it was time to come to terms with things and admit I had a serious problem - there was something majorly wrong with my water.

Oh, I'm sorry - did you think I just had a revelation and was now giving up my Crown? Yeah, not so much. How else would I maintain this padding on my abs? Besides, I don't have a drinking problem. This funnel works quite nicely.

No, the facts were these: awhile after I moved in to my new place, I was swigging a glass of water in my kitchen. It was a clear glass, and I happened to look at it in the light and noticed floaties in the water. That's not okay.

It looked like little bubbles of rust or something, so I looked in the water pitcher in the fridge. Sure enough, they were in there too, and it appeared to be staining the inside of the pitcher. I dumped it out, washed the pitcher, but the discoloration was still there. How many times had I drank this and not noticed? Cripes. Excuse me while I go boil out my mouth.

I called the ole BIL/landlord and whined that the water in his house was going to atrophy my brain. He promised to come up and take a look at it soon, but in the meantime, don't drink it. Duh, McFly. Jack of All Trades said it was probably just rust from the pipes and was likely no big deal. Sure. No big deal. Maybe for a change of pace, I could drink water directly from the toilet.

I started getting my water from my mom's house, since she is in the country and has a well. It was a hassle, but it was better than drinking water the color of Tang. It got to the point that it was even staining white clothes in the wash, and the washer even quit. Months went by, and JOAT hadn't made it up to look at the pipes. I did that wonderful nagging that SILs are so good at, and this spring he finally came and put a filter on the system. By this time, there were also white flakes in the water, but JOAT was convinced that it was all just residue from the old pipes and was nothing to be concerned about. Finally, I can shower and do my laundry at home! Sneaking into the neighbor's house was such a drag.

A friend gave me their old washer (which they didn't shut off completely after testing and it flooded my basement), and I was back in business. I wasn't seeing the flakes in the water anymore and it no longer looked like an Oompa-Loompa was rotting in the water heater, so I started drinking the water again. And then I filled up my pond in the back yard from a hose that doesn't go through the filter. Stuff shot out of there that looked like blended up earthworms. Big slimy flakes of disgustingness were now clogging up the pond filter, and I was thoroughly grossed out. That's not just residue from the pipes. I drained the pond, soaked my hands in acid, and quit using the hose outdoors.

I was gone to Sioux Falls on a building project last week, and my mom stopped to check on things at my house. She turned on a faucet in the basement and guess what? THEY'RE BAAAAAACCCCKKK. Floating nastiness shooting out of the pipes. She got all worked up, took a sample of the water, and headed to the city water department to see a buddy of mine. He took one look at the water and took it down to the water treatment center. They put it under the microscope, and would you like to guess what they found?

TAPEWORMS! Millions and millions of tapeworms, other kinds of worms, parasites and bacteria doing the breaststroke in my drinking water! Let me tell ya, I got that phone call and did a full body shiver. My buddy was grossed out too, and he ordered me to stop using any water. He shut off the water at the street, because he was afraid it might spread to the town water if it hadn't already.

As it turned out, the interlopers were only hanging out at my crib, but they were growing quickly. I'm pretty sure I saw one in the kitchen, making itself a sandwich. It was suggested that I call a plumber to flush the water heater numerous times, or buy a new one, since it was suspected that's where the colonization of my world began. Since I was none too eager to have our horribly overpriced plumber driving a Porsche at my expense, I said I would flush it myself. So for the last week, we have been flushing the water heater, pouring in Clorox, flushing it again, cursing the hose that won't screw on straight, growling over the water needing sopped up off the floor, and skinning my knuckles on the concrete floor.

The upshot? Despite my astronomical water bill that will be coming soon, this house is cleeeeaaaannn. No more creepy-crawlies wriggling their way through my pipes, and things are once again safe here in Whoville. The water guys come to do their final test next week, but I've been given the go-ahead to resume drinking the H2O shooting from ye old water faucet. But you know, I'm in no rush. I think I'll stick with beer for now.

---------

It's a good thing I wasn't exposed for too long. I may have ended up like this.

---------

My favorite horse race ever.

All Hail the Photo Post

2008-09-25T16:38:00.004-04:00

Alright, I'll admit it: I'm too tired to write anything to go with these. So here's your challenge for the week: 100 points and my respect to whomever comes up with the most creative story to go along with these pictures. And for anyone who can tell me what they really are from, I give to you a curtsy and a "Whoop-dee-doo and a tra-la-la!" Feel free to post them in the comments or put the tale on your own blog, and I'll link to them. Hey, if I have to post, so does everyone else. Now get to work.

(P.S. This song has been in my head ever since Saturday. Frankly, considering my gender, I like it out of here, please! Thank you. That is all.)