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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
So, I’m not dead.
I’m not even maimed, or sickly, or lying comatose in a muddy ditch somewhere.
Which is a relief, since that’s how many of my weekends turn out. Especially during football season.
“If I developed a full-blown migraine, I’d probably bury my head in a Zip-loc bag and toss it in the freezer to kill the pain.”
What I did have — and what scrambled up my posting schedule — was a week-long headache. I’ve never had a week-long headache before. I can’t remember ever having a day-long headache before. Nor, frankly, can I recall my last non-hangover-related headache. So a noggin throbbing for seven straight days isn’t something I was quite prepared for.
Also, when it comes to headaches, I’m a whimpering little boo-hoo Nancy boy. I’m not proud of that. But I’m whimpering little boo-hoo Nancy man enough to admit it.
The truth is, headaches bring me to a quivering halt. There’s something about those stabby jabs in the back of the head, the pounding surges in the temples, and the blinding flashes behind the eyes. I’m not even talking about ‘real’ headaches, either. I’ve never had a ‘real‘ headache. If I developed a full-blown migraine, I’d probably bury my head in a Zip-loc bag and toss it in the freezer to kill the pain.
Meanwhile, my aching odyssey began on Sunday evening. A mere twinge at first, I had no idea what was in store. When I woke up on Monday, it was a little worse, and clung to my brain all day like a remora on a great white underbelly.
On Tuesday, I started fighting back. Advil. Aleve. Bayer asprin. I raided the medicine cabinet with extreme prejudice — but with little effect. By Thursday, the headache was still going strong, and I was down to Ex-Lax, NyQuil, and half a bottle of rubbing alcohol. I decided not to go down that road — who needs another prom night? — and resigned myself to the possibility that this headache just might last forever.
At that point, I began guessing what might have caused my predicament. A concussion? Earwig? Brain tumor? Being overzealous with a Q-Tip? None of these seemed likely from what I could remember — but all that thinking made my head hurt worse, so I couldn’t rule anything out. Maybe I’d finally popped that gasket my mother always warned me about.
(But why would I believe her about that? I didn’t go blind, or grow hair on my palms. Why should the ‘gasket’ thing turn out to be true?)
Anyway, long story marginally shorter, the head hurting lasted a few more days — and made the weekend fairly miserable — but finally eased up last night, and I’m more or less back to normal now. Just as persnickety — and verbose, apparently — as ever.
So that’s the story. Apologies to any of you who’ve checked in for updates recently, and found none forthcoming. Hopefully — brain freezes, hangovers, and debilitating aneurysms notwithstanding — things around here will be back on track for a while.
Just in time for Christmas vacation. Bleh. Just thinking about it gives me a headache.
Oh, dammit.
Permalink | 4 CommentsFor the past few months, I’ve been playing volleyball once a week, and sometimes twice.
Until last week.
“At the office cafeteria, they started calling me Mr. Creosote. I couldn’t buy a wafer-thin mint anywhere.”
Last week was Thanksgiving week, and the volleyball leagues took a vacation. Meanwhile, the only exercise I got for two full weeks was cramming food into my gob with one hand, and waving with the other for the waiter to bring me more. The workouts stopped. The eating was relentless. At the office cafeteria, they started calling me Mr. Creosote. I couldn’t buy a wafer-thin mint anywhere.
So when the time came to squeeze into a T-shirt and a pair of shorts tonight and get out on the court, you might say I was a bit rusty. Shaky. Lazy. And roly-poly.
By the end of the first game, I was sweating. By the end of the second, panting. And by the third, I was cooked completely. All I wanted was a towel and a nice soft pillow. And maybe a jelly doughnut.
Too bad we play eight games. I wasn’t even halfway through the gauntlet. I’ll take that doughnut now, thanks.
Luckily, I found my second wind a couple of games later. I picked it up somewhere between crawling off the court after a long rally and falling on my ass after one of my patented two-inch vertical leaps at the net. Those things don’t come easy, you know. I train all the time — jumping over matchbooks, stepping up on envelopes, hurtling over dimes, eating turkey sandwiches, that sort of thing.
(Okay, that last one isn’t training, exactly. It’s Thanksgiving week; we’ve got leftovers. All work and no tasty basted dead animals, you know how it is.)
At any rate, it was good to get out of the dining room and work up a sweat that didn’t involve snorting jalapeno relish. It may be two weeks — or two years — before I’ll be in any shape to get out there again, but at least I’m back on the exercise track. And that’s a good feeling.
Now pass the mashed potatoes. And where the hell is that jelly doughnut?
Permalink | No CommentsMy contact lenses are betraying me. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten a new pair, and my vision has gradually drifted from ‘barely passable for safely operating a pencil sharpener’ to ‘sorry, officer, I thought the sign said STOOP’.
(Yeah, it seemed weird to me, too. But what could I do? I stooped.
All the way through the intersection. At forty miles an hour. The damned thing didn’t say how fast I could stoop. I’m definitely fighting that ticket.)
My failing eyesight has led to quite a few inconveniences. For instance, it’s difficult to make out people’s faces at a distance. Or up close. Or at any range that doesn’t involve actually poking them with my eyelashes. So many conversations have started lately with someone walking towards me, and me squinting them down as they approach.
“For instance, it’s difficult to make out people’s faces at a distance. Or up close. Or at any range that doesn’t involve actually poking them with my eyelashes.”
On the good side, this does tend to scare off some of the newer people in the office, coming by to ask me questions. They take my squinting look to mean, ‘What the hell are you here for?‘ And occasionally, they’ll do an about-face, and I can go back to staring at my keyboard and monitor to see what’s really in that email I thought I was writing.
(Usually, it’s gibberish. Which is true whether I can see or not. But I want to make sure it’s properly-punctuated English gibberish, or the boss will think I’m boozing it up in my cube.
Again. I don’t see what all the fuss was about, frankly. It was only a mini-keg. Sheesh.)
Of course, the old-school folks in the office don’t care how I look at them, and charge ahead, anyway. Still, not being able to recognize people at a glance poses quite a challenge. If Bill’s talking to me, and I call him ‘Fred’ or ‘Joe’ because I can’t see him, he won’t appreciate that. Certainly, the time I called Doreen ‘Frank’, she took it very poorly.
And don’t even ask how it goes when my wife climbs into bed and squint and ask:
‘Honey? Is that you?‘
(I’ll give you a hint — it goes only marginally better than when the dog jumps up and I ask the same question, where my wife happens to hear it.
It doesn’t seem to bother the dog nearly as much. I can still get a little tongue from her after the mistake. Whether I want it or not — because lord knows I can’t see it coming.)
I suppose I can’t really blame my contact lenses. They’re still the same bits of flimsy clear plastic they always were. Maybe with a few extra scratches and fingerprints, but they’re bent in the same shape they were when I bought them a year ago, which means they’re correcting my vision to exactly the same degree.
Which means it’s my eyes that are getting worse — a clear sign of advancing age.
(Or in my case, an indistinct blurry sign of advancing age. Maybe with a set of bifocals, I could focus on the sign a little better.
And maybe I should wear a shawl while I sit in my rocking chair, so I don’t get the old people pneumonia. *Thhhhbbbbtttt!*)
Still, I need to make time to visit the peeper doctor. If my eyesight gets much worse, it might not be entirely safe to drive my car.
Who the hell am I kidding? If it gets any worse, I might not be able to find my car. Not without activating the alarm and playing ‘Marco Polo’ to meander me toward the driveway, anyway. At that point, those STOOP signs and SPUD LIMIT markers will be the least of my worries.
Who knew you’re only allowed to carry 55 potatoes on Interstate 95, anyway? You learn something new every day.
Permalink | 1 CommentIt’s that time again. The season of rabid and unbridled Christmas shopping is upon us. For many people, this time of year involves long hours standing in register lines, wandering through mall aisles, and beating the hell out of old ladies hoping to buy the game console you’ve been eyeballing.
Well, not me. The only lines I’m waiting in are at the bar, and my wandering is limited to finding where the hell I parked my car. As for beating old ladies — well, a guy’s got to get some exercise.
What am I going to do, run on a treadmill? I don’t think so.
As for Christmas shopping, I’m firmly committed to doing all of my gift grabbing online. I’ll get my consumer freak on at Amazon and Woot.com, or I won’t get it on at all. I’m not above giving pocket lint as Christmas presents. It’d beat those Michael Bolton CDs and ‘All I Ever Needed to Know…’ books I used to give as a kid, at least.
“I’m not above giving pocket lint as Christmas presents. It’d beat those Michael Bolton CDs and ‘All I Ever Needed to Know…’ books I used to give as a kid, at least.”
Barring an unfortunate internet outage or sudden crippling carpal tunnel syndrome, though, it shouldn’t come to that. There’s still plenty of time to order trinkets and doodads that nobody wants, and have them delivered before Christmas. With a little luck — and two bucks a pop — I can probably even get them pre-wrapped.
Of course, they won’t be wrapped properly. I’ll have to rip the corners and wrinkle up the bottoms a little bit. And if there are hand-tied bows — forget about it. Those are coming off. If the things are wrapped too perfectly, people will know I had nothing to do with them. They’ll get suspicious. They might call the bomb squad. Again. Not so festive.
I suppose there are downsides to shopping online. The merchandise might arrive damaged or broken — even more broken than if I’d dragged it home from the mall myself. And the pants I buy for my Aunt Rhonda might not fit. But at least I don’t have to wander the mall looking for an eggplant-shaped woman to try them on for size. I walked into the dressing room too early one year, and it took years off my life. Honestly, that’s time I can never have back.
So it’s all-online, all the time for me. If I order all the random Christmas crap I need to give out by the weekend, it’ll be here in plenty of time for the big day. And I won’t have to step foot in a mall, or a parking lot — or heaven forbid, a dressing room — for the rest of the year. And frankly, that’s the best damned present I could ever get.
Permalink | 3 CommentsI woke up this morning in a bit of a predicament. I was groggy, as usual. I had no motor coordination, as usual. I had to pee really badly, as usual. And my hands were completely, one hundred percent asleep. No feeling at all. None.
I’d apparently been sleeping on my arms for most of the night. From the elbows down, it’s like I wasn’t even there. There were two fat-fingered lumps of limb down there, and I had no control over them.
Did I mention that I had to pee? Really badly?
“Without going into too much detail, let’s just say it involved some swaying, some shimmying, and more than a little gyrating. My local Elvis impersonators’ union would’ve been proud.”
I managed to wiggle myself off the bed and shuffled to the bathroom. I was afraid to sit on the toilet to pee, for fear I might not have use of my arms to push myself back up afterward.
Also, because I have a penis. Someone might have seen me there. Yeek!
Negotiating a path through the peeing hole in my boxers took a bit of doing. Without going into too much detail, let’s just say it involved some swaying, some shimmying, and more than a little gyrating. My local Elvis impersonators’ union would’ve been proud.
Eventually, I managed to assume the position. With my hands still abstaining from participation, I stood facing the open toilet bowl with a clear path, a full bladder, and a heart full of hope. I pointed myself at the water, told my fingers to cross themselves — which they didn’t — and let loose.
What followed felt a little like surfing, or maybe skateboarding. With nothing to hold onto for balance, I had to make tiny and constant adjustments at the hips, knees, and shoulders. One small miscalculation, and I’d be scrubbing down the bowl and floor as soon as the feeling returned to my fingers.
One large miscalculation — or god forbid, a sneeze — and I’d be dry cleaning the drapes, repainting the ceiling, or buying new toothbrushes. I tried very hard not to think about ground pepper or direct sunlight for the duration of the procedure.
Luckily, I had a clear sight line down to the old unmentionables, so I could see what I was doing. I may be a ‘fat old man’, but I’m not that fat. I can still visually confirm how things are progressing when I’m peeing, if need be. Unlike, say, John Goodman, for instance. I bet he hasn’t seen himself pee in years. For all he knows, there’s a midget down there siphoning urine out of his bladder with a turkey baster and shooting it into the bowl.
(Yes, I agree it’s unlikely. But he can’t possibly know for sure. Not without a lot of free time and a complicated series of carefully placed mirrors. I’m just saying.)
I’m happy to report that my handless bodily control was nothing short of impeccable. By the time I could feel my arms again, I had finished without spilling a drop, and had even flushed the toilet.
Don’t ask me how I flushed. It’s not my proudest moment, and I nearly threw out a hip.
And now I still have to buy new toothbrushes. Dammit.
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