humor

Ring In The Holidays

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I honestly thought it was a promise ring.  It wasn’t my fault though, the man gave me absolutely no direction.

I’d only known Petey three years, but I already knew he was the hedgiest of bet hedgers.  He avoids straight answers and declarative statements the way other people avoid bathing suit shopping and taking the last doughnut at work.

It was Christmastime, and we’d been dating almost a year.  We enjoyed each other’s company, understood each other, and were absolutely okay with that knowledge.

We hung out together almost always when we weren’t at work or school.  We ate a lot of Pizza Inn, Sonic, and walked around the tiny mall often.

There was a Belk’s on one end, a Roses on the other end, and twelve or fifteen smaller shops, including a Jewel Box.  As we glanced in the window and I saw a diamond ring, and said, “Buy me that!” It was a joke, like saying buy me a sparkly pink pony, or asking for a ride to work on the space shuttle.  We kept walking, and never mentioned it again.

These are actual 80s ski togs. You could be buried 100 feet in an avalanche and they’d still see you…

We’d begun thinking that for Christmas, we might go up to the mountains for some skiing. I’d bought him a ski parka for Christmas and had already given it to him.  As we were leaving my folks, he asked if I wanted mine. 

The three-year-old inside me was screaming and jumping up and down all over the place.  I calmly answered, “Sure if you want to give it to me now.”

And there, in my mom’s garage he put his hand in the pocket of his new jacket, pulled out a ring box and handed it to me—without opening it.  But his grin was huge and the sparkle in his eye could have lit the whole place.

I opened it.

It was that ring from the jewelry store at the mall. I was as flabbergasted as a possum presented with a spork.  Not only could I not speak, I also had no idea what the ring was for.  I’d had no inkling that marrying me had even entered his thoughts.

I couldn’t make my mind believe that it was an engagement ring, so without the power of speech to ask, and with nothing forthcoming from Petey, all I could come up with was a promise ring.

For the young and/or uninitiated, a promise ring represents the intention to become engaged sometime in the future of the future.  It was normally a tiny diamond chip surrounded by a collar of sparkly metal to fool the eye.

The ring didn’t fit, so we headed to the mall for it to be sized.

At the mall, we ran into a girl from school who worked at Belk Tyler’s.  I showed her the ring.  She was the one to finally ask the half carat solitaire, four-pronged question.

“What’s it for?”

Good question, Mary!  I looked at Petey.

His infuriating, enigmatic, response? “It’s for whatever she wants it to be for.”  Honestly, it was like I was going steady with the Oracle at Delphi!

I finally lost my patience.  We left Belk’s and walked over to the fountain in the center of the mall.  I sat down and said, “Look, I have a few ideas, but I want you to tell me what this ring is for right now!”

Men!

Still standing, Petey held the ring out to me, and said, “Debbie Ross, will you marry me?”

And we lived happily (mostly) ever after.

Thanks for your time, and from silent Petey, The Kid, and me, have the very happiest of holidays and an uninteresting but joyful 2021.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

The Ballad of Susan

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When you’re a military kid, every house is temporary, usually only lived in for three years or so, then you pack up and move on.

We’d arrive in a new town with almost nothing; no house, no friends, no school, and aside from what we carried with us, no possessions. 

It would eventually become a pseudo-home, but it wasn’t a hometown, with history, extended family, and friends that you’ve known since diapers.

Living this nomadic life meant that our parents’ hometowns were designated “home”.

Granny and Pap-Pap’s house is gone, but here is where it stood in Pittsburgh.

Dad’s from Pittsburgh and on visits, we’d stay with his parents, Granny and Pap-Pap.  They lived in a house built right into a steep hill, so the kitchen and basement were on the same level, up the narrow, steep stairs, were the bedrooms and Pap Pap’s workroom, where there was a door which opened up right on to the backyard.

It was as if the house had sprung from of the slightly creepy, Byzantine imagination of Roald Dahl.    

My mom’s parents died years before she met my dad.

So, our home base in Jersey was at Mom’s oldest sister, my Aunt Polly and her husband Uncle Bill’s, our surrogate grandparents.  They had a huge yard, a damp, cool, slightly mysterious cellar that was under the house, and a kitchen cupboard dedicated to cookies, candy, and chips. 

When we lived on the east coast, we would often spend Christmas at both homes; a few days in one, six hours on a turnpike, then a few days in the other.

This particular year we spent the first portion of our trip in Jersey, so we were there when Santa came and opened our presents there.

One of my presents was a baby doll, but not just any old baby doll.  She was a Vogue doll, a well-made, beautiful baby with brown hair and bangs like mine, a soft body, and the sweetest expression.  Vogue dolls were the Rolls Royce of toy dolls; in today’s dollars, it cost about $100.  It was my main gift from the jolly fat man.

A couple of days later our family was in Pittsburgh. Once there, I was happily swilling my grandmother’s homemade grape juice, eating her potato bread, and following my older cousins Cookie and Gerry around like a Christmas puppy.

The first evening after dinner, my two-year-old brother Bud and I went upstairs to change into our pajamas.  I came downstairs, and my little brother hurried after, not wanting to be upstairs by himself. 

He took the first couple of steps, then lost his footing and tumbled down the rest of those treacherous stairs.  He landed in a heap at the bottom.  My mom, a world-renown worrywart and nervous mother was a writhing ball of frantic.

Luckily, the only injury was a busted lip.  They cleaned him up and settled in for a night of keeping Bud awake to watch for signs of concussion.

Then something rather curious happened.   

My bro had been wailing away, non-stop, ever since he fell.  When I came over to him, holding my fancy new doll, he suddenly stopped.  He was fascinated by her, and the only thing that kept him from hysterics was holding her.  I was persuaded to temporarily turn her over to calm him down.

I never got her back.

He named her Susan, shaved her head, and gave her a face tattoo with a magic marker.  She was his constant companion for years. 

To be honest, I don’t think Susan would have gotten from me anywhere near the love and devotion he showered upon her.

So, that injury-induced change of custody was probably for the best.

It is shocking how much this little guy looks like a toddler-aged Bud.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at d@bullcity.mom.

Thoughts While Watching TV On A Sunday Afternoon

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Before I begin, there’s something you have to know, Gentle Reader, about my ever-loving spouse.

Petey watches television, especially movies, like no one I’ve ever met before.  Except for sporting events, he doesn’t schedule any viewing.  For my spouse, the only “Must See TV” is Duke versus anybody and all football. Lately though, because of pandemic-related issues, the pickings have been tragically slim. But he loves to watch it and has an uncanny ability to find televised contests.

This is some type of competitive…something.

Recently, I have walked in on him watching sheepdog trials from the Outer Hebrides, Mongolian wrestling, and flaming puck unicycle hockey from Saskatoon.  If there are scores recorded and folks yelling at the participants, he’s in.

I get the sports, though.  I have yelled at the screen during more than one episode of Ru Paul’s Drag Race, and you don’t want to be in the same zip code with me when I’m watching Britain’s Best Baker (OMG, Paul Hollywood’s eyes!).

But it’s Petey’s viewing habits of non-sporting television that still puzzle me after almost forty years of marriage.

The man is constitutionally unable to watch a movie on TV all the way through.  We’ll be sitting on the couch together, watching a movie, it’ll go to a commercial, and ZAP! He changes the channel.  The new show will be on for a bit, long enough for me to get interested.  I’ll wonder, “What’s the deal with the shoes?” or “Who is the guy with the rusty soup ladle?”

And ZAP!

It normally takes 17-39 showings of a movie before I’ve seen the whole thing, and even then, it’s like watching a film made by a director who just heard about the concept of flashbacks and can’t stop using them.  It’s jigsaw-vision.

When I joined Petey on the sofa today he was watching an X-Men movie—but of course, not for long.  So, I thought I’d share with you the things running through my head during this entertainment tsunami.

This is the guy from the movie–Juggernaught. And what the heck with the name?

That mutant bad guy is wearing some sort of leather harness and what looks like a foam helmet.  How do these guys decide to wear this kind of thing?  And every single day?  Don’t they ever wake up and think, “It’s a snuggly sweater and boots day.”?  Or “I feel like a nice, bright Hawaiian shirt.”?

 And where do they procure these ridiculous getups? Do they make them themselves?  I can’t quite picture this dude squinting, trying to thread a needle… Do they have a guy?  Evil Mutant Uniforms Я Us?

Oh.

Alright…Wait, what?  Are they doing an interpretive dance in church? 

Oh.

OMG, I know he loves sports, but please don’t tell me this man is going to seriously watch a high school basketball game from 1978?  Is he really that desperate?  Good grief those shorts are short.  They look like they’re playing in bikini bottoms.

Oh.

 Oh look!  Ooh…It’s Robin Williams, I wonder what this is?   OMG!!!  Noooo!  It’s Hook!!!  Change it, for the love of all that’s holy, change it…

 Oh.

Sheesh.

It’s…a musical.  Rock of Ages?  So, musicals.  What is the actual deal? How is it supposed to work?  Somebody just bursts into song, and suddenly there are all these random passersby in coordinating outfits, dancing a choreographed number?  Is it all in the singer’s head?  Does that mean every musical is a look at someone’s descent into madness?  Oh, I forgot Tom Cruise is in this.  What misguided casting director ever thought this was a good call?

“Thanks, Petey, but are you sure you don’t want the remote?  Ok, I guess I could find something to watch…”

Hello boys.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom

The Nicest People In The (My) World

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Well, so far, 2020 has been an e-ticket ride in the worst possible way, hasn’t it, Gentle Reader?

To keep from curling up and crying for the rest of the year, I decided to take inventory of the people in my life whose goodwill is inspiring, and a good reminder that not everybody in this world has been broken by this year.  The folks who never fail to share a cup of the milk of human kindness when I’m all out and need to borrow some.

     Mizz Katz.

Before she retired, Mizz Katz used to run the hot bar at my local Carlie C’s.  She always had a minute to chat, and always answered my cooking questions.

She knew I loved her slow-cooked Italian green beans.  She also knew that I usually didn’t make it in on time the days she served them.  So, when she made them, she’d set aside some for me and stash them in the cooler.  Those delicious beans always tasted even better because of her thoughtfulness.

     Angela.

The entire Matthews Family Band goes to the same doctor.  At the office, they have a liaison person to facilitate communication between patient and office.

This remarkable person is Angela. 

If you’ve ever been married or even spent any time around a man, you know that guys are not the best when it comes to medical matters.  And when Petey forgets to let me know his medicine needs a refill, and now he’s out, I call Angela.  When our doctor is out of town, and we have a question, I call Angela.

And, far from ducking my calls, or having no patience, the woman’s a ray of sunshine.  She is always sweet, friendly, and actually seems happy to hear from me. 

If you’re having any kind of trouble in your own life, call Angela.  She’ll happily fix you right up.

Jose and Becky.

I’ve known this couple for five or six years and just adore them.  They are masters of Puerto Rican cooking, and like my Italian mother, food is love.  They share lessons, recipes, and food, food, food. 

Also, like my parents, they are ridiculously generous.  One day, I was in their kitchen and admired a funny fork/tool.  About a week later they called and asked if I could come over to see Jose at work—they had bought one for me!  I mentioned that we, but especially The Kid adore pernil; a slow-cooked pork butt full of garlic and citrus.  So, for my child’s birthday, they made one.  And made sure we got it when it was still hot from the oven.

In the before times, we would meet for smoothies and conversation.  To occasionally pay, I had to physically wrestle Jose to the cashier. 

This adorable couple has retired and spends time taking classes together.  They’ve taken a painting class and love showing me the art they’ve come up with. 

One day they showed me their latest subject—a nature scene with a bear.

I absolutely adore bears.  I think they are the cutest squidgy faces ever.  So what did that wonderful couple do? 

They framed and gifted me with Becky’s painting. 

Thinking about the nicest people I know makes me so happy. 

So, two things.

I know way more than four kind folks.  Every once in a while, I will tell you about a few more that are just the best.  And second, I want you, Gentle Reader, to think about the people in your own world that continue to be a ray of sunshine in what has been a pretty gloomy year.

Then tell them.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

The Mayo Caper

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If, Gentle Reader, you call North Carolina home, I promise you are familiar with the subject of this week’s essay. 

I guarantee it.

You might not know her name (although you probably do), but I’m absolutely certain you know her face.  She is the woman who never fails to lift you up.  But, as she will confess, she also lets you down.

Her name is Cherie Berry, and she is the friendly face you see in every public elevator in the state.

After seven years serving the 45th district in the North Carolina House of Representatives, in 2001 she became the first female Commissioner of Labor.  The department is responsible for safety inspections of public elevators.

Each one has to display its Certification of Operation.  And since her second term, the photo of Ms. Berry AKA, the “Elevator Queen” has been on every one of them.

It has made her something of a state mascot; the sweet Southern aunt that looks out for the safety of every one of us.

Two years ago I asked her to participate in an annual holiday article that I write for another publication.  She agreed, and I discovered something.

 The woman is a certified, card-carrying hoot. 

The hoot herself, Cherie Berry.

Last year while speaking about mashed potatoes, she told me that she puts mayonnaise in them (actually not as strange as it may sound, it makes them creamy and rich.  Many restaurants do the same.).

Like many Southern folk, her mayo of choice is Duke’s (even though all sensible people are team Hellmann’s).

Them Duke’s folks ain’t right.

This led to her recounting of a hilarious story about the depth of her Duke’s devotion.

Ms. Berry and her sister used to have a little holiday place in Mexico.  When they visited, they would cook.  Like me, she loves potato salad.  But Duke’s in not sold south of the border, and the mayo that was available just didn’t taste right in her dishes.

So, one year, she decided to purchase some Duke’s to take with her.

She wanted it near her to keep it safe during the trip.  But this was post-9/11 and even the NC Commissioner of Labor can’t carry a big old jar of mayonnaise onto an airplane.

So, the determined woman contacted the Duke’s parent company, Sauer Brands in Richmond.  She purchased a box of 200 individual packets, like the kind you get at a drive-through when you ask for “Extra mayo.”

They were small, but even small, 200 packets take up space.

She had a brilliant idea.  For the flight, she’d wear her late husband’s fishing vest and divide the packets up into its many, many pockets.

Picture it, if you will: a genteel Southern lady dressed for traveling with not a hair out of place, and probably a string of pearls, sporting an old-school fishing vest with pockets full of packets full of Duke’s.

Security gave her the furry eyeball, but she wasn’t breaking any rules, so they let her board.  Ms. Berry thought she was home free.

Until the plane took off.

Then, when the pilot pressurized the cabin, the sealed packs reacted and began to swell. 

And swell.

And swell.

The NC Commissioner of Labor sat, looking like the Michelin man on summer vacation, with the vest pockets getting tighter and tighter.  She waited for the explosion while imagining the humiliating headlines that would be generated by this mortifying experience (“NC official tries to hijack plane with condiment”, “Mayonnaise Mishap at 20,000 feet”, “Airplane forced to make extremely greasy landing”…).  She wondered what airplane jail would be like.

Luckily, the blast never occurred.  The cabin pressurization ended just in time, and Ms. Berry spent her Mexican vacation opening packet after packet of Duke’s to make her NC-style tater salad and other tasty mayo-based treats.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

Like Totally Tubular, Dudettes!

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After last week’s walk down a very preppy lane, someone requested I keep tripping down eighties street and talk about what happened we put down our boat shoes, found a tin of hair gel, and listened to Cyndi Lauper and Madonna.

We lost our cotton-picking minds.

It seemed like overnight the pastels of earlier had been struck by lightning and were now electrified neon.

The hair that was worn in prim ponytails and demure page boys exploded into giant halos of teased and shellacked hair.  The boys’ hair soon followed suit.  If the higher the hair, the closer to God is true, we were all lounging on clouds, dancing to hard-rock celestial choirs.

On purpose, Gentle Reader. We did this to ourselves ON.PURPOSE.

Tank tops, which before “the ’80s” had been worn mainly by Italian grandpas were now required wearing, in multiple layers and shocking colors.  Torn sleaves, ripped edges, and deconstructed layers replaced grosgrain trim and hemmed cuffs.

To emulate Madonna and Cyndi Lauper, one only had to pull the first fourteen items from a rag bag and put them on.

Oh; and add some shredded lace gloves.

There also was a polished new aesthetic for dressier or professional situations.  The colors were still luridly bright and the hair was still colossal. 

But so were our shoulders.

Women’s shoulder pads were so large you could land an airplane on them, and sharper than a Ginsu knife.  I put shoulder pads in my t-shirts—no lie.

Men’s suits came in two designs.  One was the mate to women’s oversized, gargantuan-shouldered attire.  Big and broad.

The other style was inspired by revelatory ratings juggernaught, Miami Vice.  Very unstructured, Caribbean-hued jackets and pleated trousers.  Underneath jacket were either collared shirts with twig thin ties, or t-shirts.

It wasn’t only big hair bands and fierce women that influenced fashion. 

New Wave and Rap music were hits on newly launched MTV.  This meant even kids in tiny little towns in the very Northeastern corner of North Carolina had access to a 24-hour-a-day fashion show.  My hair was big, my skirts were little, and my socks were slouchy.

Yes, folks, that’s me…

It was around this time that I got into retail, working at a store in the mall selling uber-fashionable clothing to my peers.

I sold shirts so colorful that sunglasses were required.  Another popular item was genie pants in which no self-respecting genie would be caught dead.

Doesn’t everybody want a coat that looks like it has the mange?

Also a big seller in those over-the-top eighties were fur coats.  In Elizabeth City the dead animals of choice were rabbit, at about 60 dollars, and red or silver fox at around 100.

One day we received a shipment of a new type of fur jacket.  It was a familiar shade of gray, with long coarse hair.  I was afraid I knew what creature it was, but couldn’t imagine that someone would actually make a coat from it.

It looked almost exactly like this possum coat.

Reading the tag, my worst fears were confirmed.  The coats were made from the skin of…possums!

I called my boss and asked why.  I was informed that the fur of the Didelphis virginiana was lush and beautiful.

I informed my boss that in this agrerian region, one did not wear possums.  One swerved to avoid hitting them on dark country lanes.  A small percentage of young men I knew sometimes swerved in order to hit them.  Possums were not coats, they were road kill.  I didn’t think they would be a big seller.

My boss responded that with my defeatist attitude they probably wouldn’t.  So, I gave it the old college try.  If someone came in looking for a dead animal jacket I would urge the purchase of possum.

I got plenty of laughs, quite a few odd looks, but not one sale.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at debbie@bullcity.mom.

Riding In Cars With The Kid

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Last Saturday afternoon, Petey and I took a nice long car ride.  We were making a trip to Scrap Exchange, in Durham.  The Matthews Family Band has opened an Etsy shop, and I’ve been haunting all the art and craft stores in the area for supplies.  We’d heard that the Exchange had a shop with a terrific, unusual inventory.

Even though we’ve lived in the area for many years, I still only knew one route to get to its location.  That meant we had to go through town to get to our starting place.

We got a little off-track and ended up driving through Duke Forest.  It was a gloomy day, but the leaves were turning, and the color was glorious adjacent.  Petey and I enjoyed the ride had a very sweet, very meaningful conversation.

That enforced togetherness is such a wonderful catalyst to talk.  Even now, it’s where The Kid and I have our very best chats.  Well, not right now; The Kid, on immunosuppressants for rheumatoid arthritis, is self-isolating.  It’s been seven months since we went for a coffee together, or even shared a hug.

 As the years go by, our very first car ride seems ever more recent.  Sometimes it feels like only days ago.

Imagine it: A young couple with a brand-new human.  Petey and I spent the ride home in abject terror.  By the time we pulled into the driveway, I was ready to beg my husband to turn the car around and throw ourselves upon the mercy of the Duke maternity ward.

Instead, we screwed our courage to the sticking place and went into the house and became parents.

The first clearly enunciated word The Kid ever uttered that wasn’t “Mama” or “Dada” happened in the car.  Our child was teetering on the edge between baby and toddler, and the Matthews Family Band was going out to dinner and discussing what we felt like eating.

All of a sudden a little voice piped up from the back seat, “Cheeseburger!”.  That night, we dined on cheeseburgers almost as big as our heads.

A few months later The almost two-year-old Kid and I were in the car together.  The radio was on, and music was playing, as it almost always is and I was singing along.

Over my voice and the infinitely better voices of the professionals, I heard the voice of my child, in the back seat, yell.

“Rock and roll, baby!”

I laughed so hard I had to pull the car over.

I grew up watching afternoon soap operas with my mom.  It was a daily dose of familiarity and stability in our nomadic military life.

So after The Kid came along, I kept watching.  Many times I would watch my soaps while nursing my infant.  Sometimes, I would have a sandwich and we’d do lunch together. 

As the baby grew into toddler and then preschooler, I continued to watch, with The Kid playing close at hand.  One night we were in the car and our little one was in the car seat in the back, playing with a Barbie and Ken.

I wasn’t paying attention at first.  Then I heard the names of two characters from As The World Turns.  As I continued to listen, The Kid recited the dialog from a scene in the show, almost word perfect.

From that night on, I recorded the shows and watched after putting The Kid to bed.

Which brings me back to the drive Petey and I took.

After the scenic drive, we finally arrived at the Scrap Exchange at about 4:10.

The shop closes daily at 4.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.

This Ain’t No Pork Pie, So Have a Bath*

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*What you shall read here is all true, and I hope it amuses you (Cockney Rhyming Slang)

Those adorable Brits.

Most of the time when it comes time to write an epistle to you, Gentle Reader I have something on my mind that I want to share.

But sometimes, no matter how long I walk the dog, or how many long showers I take, I just can’t come up with an idea.  So, I keep a file of phrases, thoughts that need filling in, things I hear or read, anything that from which I might suss a column.

Last year, before Harry and Meghan made their escape from the royal family, I read a story about her paternal side of the family; the uber awful Thomas Markle and her step-sister, she of the horrible hair, Samantha.

I don’t know what the back story is, but there’s a ton of anger toward Meghan.  And of course, the media eats it up.  Samantha seemed to be furious that she wasn’t welcome at either the wedding or the palace to hang with the royals.

She was so upset that she went to London, and had taken up the habit of hanging around the palace gates trying to get noticed and provoke a reaction. 

She provoked a reaction. 

From palace security.  Working under the assumption that no stable relative by marriage of the royal family would act as she was, they decided that she was someone to watch.

They designated her a “fixated person”.

And if that isn’t the most charming, most British phrase, I don’t know what is.  Over here across the pond, we’d probably call her a crazy ass stalker.

That nation of jellied eel and mushy peas have the cutest way of saying things that we more prosaic Americans put in much more blunt and boring terms. 

Knackered means exhausted.  Which is fun, but it’s even better in cockney rhyming slang—cream crackered. 

Chuffed, gutted, and gobsmacked.  All very much more charming than our pleased and excited (chuffed), completely, utterly disappointed (gutted), and shocked down to one’s toes (gobsmacked).  They are also much more economical than the three or four words which we need to describe the same emotion.

Cheeky; often used with monkey, as in “You’re a right cheeky monkey.”  Charming, mischievous, and a little disrespectful of the high and mighty.  Ryan Reynolds and Chrissy Teigen are cheeky.

 Pissed is not angry, it’s drunk.

Snog means make out.  Have a nice snog sounds so much nicer than necking and petting.  Necking and petting sound like something you’d see at a dog or horse show.

Bagsy.  If you’re in England and you want to get the front seat for a car ride, don’t yell out “Shotgun!”.  They’ll just think you’re an American gun nut.  To get that primo seat, sing out, “Bagsy!”.

I had an Uncle Bob, I’m guessing that a good many folks have or had one.  But if you’re in Yorkshire or Southwick, “Bob’s your uncle!” means, “There you go!” or even more excitedly, “Ta-Dah!”

Bingo wings are the flappy arm parts on women of a certain age.  As one of those women, bingo wings is both kinder and funnier than ‘arm flaps’.

They are so bingo wings…

If you nick a car in Altoona, it probably had something to do with a shopping cart (trolly in the UK) and you can buff it out.  If you nick a car in Nottingham, you’ll do time in jail (Gaol-England), because to nick over there means to steal.

Take care, Gentle Reader, I hope your week will be tickety-boo.

Care to guess that one?

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at debbie@bullcity.mom.

New England Interlude

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One morning, at college in Montpelier, Vermont, The Kid woke up blindsided by a  ferocious wall of pain. 

It ran from neck to elbow, and felt like fire was pouring down upon my child.  But that was when no one was touching it.  At the slightest touch, The poor Kid’s pain went from a barely tolerable eight out of ten to a sanity-draining fourteen or fifteen.

Obviously, this sudden and debilitating pain needed medical attention.

Somehow, The Kid dressed and made it to the emergency department at the small Central Vermont Medical Center. 

Not actually the hospital.

At the ER, when told them the reason for the visit, and where The Kid studied (New England Culinary Institue), eyes glazed over, and acetaminophen was suggested.  They assumed my child was just one more partier from the cooking school and wanted something stronger than Budweiser and Acapulco Gold.

So, The Kid went back home and took a couple of Tylenol.

But not only did the pain continue, it got worse.  Classes and meals were missed because it just hurt too much to get out of bed.

Finally, a neighbor and good friend had seen enough.  “Get up, get dressed, I’m taking you to Burlington.”  Burlington is a university town about 30 minutes from Montpelier and the largest town in Vermont. 

They went to the emergency room at UVM, the University of Vermont.

There, serendipity occurred.

The doctor that caught my child’s case was one of the most respected teaching doctors in Vermont.

Not only that, he’d made a study that was particularly pertinent to The Kid and The Kid’s hurty arm.  This doctor had made an in-depth study on a disease, and this is the disease he thought was causing all the trouble.

He diagnosed the scourge of middleaged, immuno-compromised post-chicken pox sufferers—shingles.

My mom has had shingles, so The Kid knew from shingles.  “But I’m young, and there’s no rash!  How can I have shingles if I’m young and there’s no rash?”

The doctor asked, “Did you get the chickenpox vaccine?”

The Kid was actually in one of the final chickenpox studies at Duke.  Petey and I had always thought we did right by our child by getting the vaccine before it was approved for wide-spread use.  It had been used in Europe for years and we thought we’d saved the child from the itching that drove you crazy and those weird lumpy oatmeal baths. 

We’d saved the Kid from childhood chickenpox, but it looked like that tiny bit of virus in the vaccine stayed around inside.  And now, like the monster thought dead at the end of the movie, it had resurrected and transformed itself into shingles and risen to wreak havoc within the body of our little scholar.

But this variation had the added twist of an M. Night” Shyamalan feature.  The main identifying feature of this sickness is a rash with blisters.  The shingles The Kid had, and other young people who’d had the chickenpox vaccine produced no skin irritation.

This type of shingles is known as “Ninja Shingles”.  The lack of rash and the youth of The Kid explained the failure of the original ER to diagnose, or even believe my child was in distress.

See, you can barely see him…

The reason I got to thinking about this unpleasant interlude is because The Kid has been tirelessly haranguing me to get the shingles vaccine.  Not wanting to suffer like my child, I got the first of two inoculations last week.

OMG, my shoulder hurt.  But then I thought about The Kid and what shoulder pain could really feel like.  So, I took a couple of Tylenol got on with life.

Thanks for your time.

Contact debbie at debbie@bullcity.mom.

They Call Him Fluffy

/ momsequitur / Leave a comment

Every dog has a signature move.

They have some weird quirk, or funny game, or strange physical ability.  Every single one.  If your dog doesn’t, it just means you haven’t noticed it.

Riker, our two-hundred-pound Anatolian shepherd was, literally, a big crybaby. 

He cried when he wanted love.  He would lay in the living room, look as pitiful as caninely possible and weep and wail.  He also cried at night when he went to bed, until I went over and tucked him in with his blanket and gave him a goodnight kiss.

Yeah, he wasn’t spoiled at all.

But the big payoff was when you went over and showed him some love, he would actually purr.  Like a sofa-sized kitty.  Purr.

When we go on walks, Crowley, our current pup, has one of the nuttiest moves I’ve ever seen.

He’ll take a few steps, lower his left shoulder, and drop like he’s been shot.  Then he lays there, on his side, and laughs while looking to see if I’m watching him.  If it’s not 1000 degrees or I’m not in a rush, I run over and make a huge fuss over him, “Oh poor Crowley fell over!  Whatever shall we do?”  He thinks the whole production is hilarious.

Our boy, at 4 months.

Turns out, it’s the actual technique for stuntmen to fall dramatically and also something the army teaches for hand-to-hand combat.  I’m not quite sure how Mr. Crowley Pants learned it, but I’m seriously thinking about trying to get him a gig as a self-defense instructor.

 All the love and knowledge that I have to show my dogs came from the original dog; Fluffy.

We got him when we lived in Puerto Rico.  He was the surprise love child of a chow and a Borinquen terrior, which was the colloquial term for a mutt of indeterminate lineage.  He and I would sit on the curb, watch the world go by, and share a Charms pop (I took a lick, he got a lick…).

My big brother Homer who was also stationed in Puerto Rico adopted Fluffy’s brother.  Unlike his black, extremely hirsute littermate, Eric was short-haired and as red as Opie Taylor’s tresses.

Just like that.

As for Fluffy’s move, he jumped.

He didn’t leap into swimming pools like those frenetic pooches you see on ESPN when there are no human sports to televise.  He didn’t jump over felled trees and across brooks and streams like National Velvet.

From a sitting position, he would leap straight up.  If you held a piece of cheese as high as you could, he would vault toward the ceiling, grab the nosh, and land again into a sitting position.  And all in the blink of an eye.

My dad is 6’4” and his reach is somewhat north of eight feet.  No sweat for Fluffy.  That dog would make Zion Williamson weep with jealousy.

He had one other odd “talent”.

In San Diego, we lived in a house with a chimney.  In that chimney was a beehive.  Periodically a bee would fly out of said chimney.  The first time we saw it after we moved in, Mom freaked.  She was just about to call an exterminator when Fluffy walked over and caught it and ate it.

We were afraid he’d get stung and swell up and get sick.  Never happened.  The dog just loved the taste of bees.  And for the entire time we lived in that house, Fluffy never missed one.

That dog and his insect predilection would have come in very handy a few weeks ago.  Instead of stinging me more than twenty times, Fluffy could’ve just gobbled them up.

Thanks for your time.

Contact me at d@bullcity.mom.