KC and Others

Posted on November 5, 2013 by Jerrie Cate

Many of you probably don’t know, or maybe you just don’t remember, that KC, the ‘other’ California Kathie, is having surgery tomorrow in San Francisco. Apparently her doctors found a willing donor for the ‘new’ elbow she needs. We will be thinking good thought toward her all day tomorrow, instead of only once a day like normal.

The doctors were going to use titanium for the joint, but the guy on the surgical team, who hooked up the bungee cords used to replace tendons, quit in fit of anger over which color he could use, and moved to Nicaragua. He was also told he had to start wearing underwear in surgery, not just the gown, which ruffled his feathers the wrong way.

So, they paid a visit to the San Francisco VA Hospital and found a willing donor, from WW II, who figured he didn’t have much use for his remaining elbow, and gladly donated it for Kathie’s cause. We’re anxious to find out how things turn out.

Continuing the medical theme, I established contact with my new Primary Care Provider, Dr. Sen, who works for the Legacy Health System here in town. I know, I just went to the doctor a week or so ago to re-establish contact with my former PCP whose front office determined that I was no longer a patient there. Now, I am not. Perhaps the young lady I spoke with at the previous doctor’s office is a prophet and knew I was going to switch.

My appointment was this morning at 8:20 am … gotta stop here and share how redundant that statement is … I mean, “…this morning at 8:20 am” … “morning” and “am” pretty much convey the same meaning. Actually, they convey the exact same meaning. So, I’m going to quit being redundant and use “only” military time in the future. I makes more sense to me. So, let me start over …

My appointment was today at 0820 … see how much cleaner that is? … and I was impressed with the vast size of the waiting room, and that there were three (3), yes, 3 (three) really adorable ladies, sitting behind a counter that didn’t have bullet-proof glass to protect them, waiting to check me in.

On the end sat Kristin, a familiar face. Someone I’ve known since the 90’s, before she could legally date. Here’s an old photo that I’m absolutely positive that she doesn’t know exists. Find Kristin

Incidentally, in case you’re wondering, she’s sitting on the lap of one of her first “Love’s”, her brother Daniel, who also happens to be my, and Diane’s, favorite son-in-law. So, that kinda means that Kristin, when it’s all said and done, is also part of our family. She is, after all, Aunt Kristin to our Grand Children Cedric, Lydia, and Jeran.

Here they are all grown up, with their older cousin, Logan …

Diane is better this morning after eating toast so I’ve decided that toast has magical healing properties and I’m looking for some venture capitalists to invest with me to produce it locally and sell in on-line to all those unfortunate millions of folks who don’t have toasters. They have computers, but not toasters. How unfortunate is that? Might be a Hundredaire yet …

I suspect I better stop. Diane is up roaming around the house and I know she’s wearing herself down. Won’t be long before I’ll have to stuff her back under the heating pad and start making more toast.

Hope all is well with everyone.

Church, Pigs, and Heritage

Posted on November 3, 2013 by Jerrie Cate

I didn’t do anything today except go to church. It surprised a lot of people. It’s good we went because Pastor’s birthday was November 1st, All Saints Day, so we got cake. We were actually late for the service because we stopped at Safeway on the way and got the cake. It had raspberry jam in the middle. Very good.

After church, we brought Diane’s Mom, Jean, home with us, just like a normal Sunday. It’s a good day to spend with family. Diane whipped up a terrific lunch of broccoli, carrots (for her), mashed potatoes, applesauce, and pieces of dead pig. We have no idea how long the pig has been dead because the pieces were frozen together so well that she had to use our portable jaws of life to pry them apart so she could fry them. They did, I will add, look a lot like pork chops. Tasted like them, too.

Diane also baked a terrific cherry crunch pie, our favorite from Marie Callender’s. It’s frozen, like the pig parts, and will last pretty much forever. We don’t have them often, but as soon as it’s baked, she buys another one just to have it ready for the next time we decide to have one. Marie also makes a pretty good lemon meringue.

I’m curious about that last word, meringue. I honestly don’t know how something spelled like that can be pronounced like mə-rang, or meˈʁɛ̃ɡ, depending on your nationality. I guess that falls in the category with why me, and most people I know, call Washington Worshington. In know, it’s a pretty minor difference, but I’ve discovered that some Worshingtonians take exception to my pronunciation of their favorite state. Funny how things like that come creeping out of the woodwork, like all the sudden naming conventions for some sports teams are totally unacceptable.

Take the Worshington Redskins, for example. Since that’s a double whammy from me, I wonder if it is, in fact, technically correct, kinda like a double negative. You know, like saying, “I ain’t no idiot!” or, more grammatically correct, “I am not no idiot!”

In my humble opinion, I think the ACLU need for everyone to be politically correct in all things is getting out of hand. The Redskins? Really? I heard one Native American on the news say that referring to her as a Redskin was the same as using the “N” word for an African-American. All my life the Redskins were a football team. I don’t believe I actually connected the name to ‘real’ Native Americans until someone complained about it.

Here’s another one that kinda frosts me … African-American. Native American, I get. They were here first, I think, and Columbus thought he’d landed in India. So, those he me when he got off the boat really aren’t Indians. If he had known where he was, he would have called them New Worldians. But African-Americans, to me, is an odd naming convention. If we are going to begin adding our nationality to what we are as Americans, I must be a European American. That’s because I only know what half my heritage is. There could possibly be some African in there somewhere that would make me, say, an Afro-Euro American. Then there’s gotta be Canadian-American, South American-American, Russian-American, Australian-American, Japanese-American, Chinese-American, and oh ya, Indian-American. Love that last one.

Actually, using the African-American naming convention, all of us have only one of seven choices for picking our nationality, based on where we were born.

Africans
Antarcticans
Asians
Australians
Europeans
North Americans
South Americans

If you find it necessary to qualify your continent, based on heritage, then I guess I’m a European-North American. But, most forms ask us about Nationality, not Heritage.

I’m getting used the name changes, slowly, and honestly do not have a problem with most of the hoopla surrounding it. It just seems, to me, that too much effort is being devoted to making it all a big deal. I’ve, personally, got more important things to worry about. If you’re offended, I’m sorry, and you have permission to call me absolutely anything you want. If you do that, don’t expect a reaction from me if your intent is to offend me, it’s a wasted effort. I’m a honky, whitey, haole, whatever. It’s not going to affect me or how I act. Honest. I’ll still do dumb things and might even reinforce whatever pet name with which you wish to anoint me.

Wow! I have no idea where that soap box came from?

OK – I understand why people, all of them, have a tribal need, if you will, to identify with their heritage. That’s fine. I think I’ll start putting down Oregonian-North American on forms that ask for race. One of my brothers is Nebraskan-North American, and another is Wyomingan-North American. I’m the only one in my family who married a woman of the same race as me. Diane is also an Oregonian-North American.

This is just getting stupid and I cannot find a safe way to extract myself from this topic other than to just quit. I regret going down that rabbit hole, and mean no offense to rabbits by using that term.

And, I apologize to all the pigs, cows, chickens, and turkeys of the world because at some point in my life I will consume some of you and/or your offspring. I really don’t think you care about it, but there it is.

I must quit.

I’m A Weeble? Really?

Posted on October 11, 2013 by Jerrie Cate

This morning Diane called me a Weeble when she warned the dog to look out because I was wobbling around a bit in order to position myself to give Panzee a belly rub with my foot. Yes, I wobble, which is not a surprise to many people, just to those who fleetingly viewed me as a solid, stand up citizen. No, I’m not one of those. I’m a citizen, true, and I stand up for our flag, but I’m far from solid.

I sway in a gentle breeze, turning to the left, mostly, but also to the right, if the wind is right, causing Diane less and less concern as she gets used to my new abilities related to vertical acuity, and not embarrassing her by falling in public. I’ve only done that once, but cannot remember the occasion because it was insignificant. A mere blip on my radar that went mostly unnoticed be everyone except the girl who screamed.

Calling me a Weeble makes me wonder if there is more to the name than a quick look could ascertain. Everyone knows what a Weeble is, right? You know, “Weebles Wobble But They Don’t Fall Down”? Remember that? Everyone had to have them because they were so cute, and they couldn’t be knocked over.

However, after being compared to one this morning, the name has been circling in my head wondering if there is an underlying meaning to her comparison. Just a moment ago I realized that she’s making a reference to my less than adequate sized testicles. What she’s really saying is wee balls. That’s got to be it. I’ll confront her in a couple of weeks about her underhanded name calling, if I remember. Or, perhaps within a few moments of her reading this, as I know she will.

In my youth, I was able to walk straight down that thin, well-defined line of decorum, never causing anyone on either side grief, or dismay about what I said or did. With Diane’s back-handed reference comparing me to a Weeble one might think, on the surface, that she’s concerned about me straddling the line, more than walking it, due to the increasing wobble in my gait as age overtakes me, and my brain isn’t quick enough to interpret my balance correctly causing it to over correct. It’s like the cruise control in Diane’s Buick that works just fine until a hill appears, then the vehicle slows down from 55 to 50, then shifts and speeds up to 60+ before settling back down to 55 just before the hill is crested. Doing that causes problems for everyone on both sides of the line defined specifically for me, for my passage through this life.

No, it’s not about that at all. It’s all about the size of one’s testicles. I’m sure.

That’s all I got for now. Later we’re going to Portland to have lunch with some southern relatives, Diane’s side, from Arizona – Julie, Duncan, and Jake. We’ll also get to see Bill, Carolyn, Terri, and Lisa. We’re eating Italian at Nona Whats-its-place in Beaverton.

Now I’m going to stop, get a mirror, and contemplate my Weebles.

Bathrooms, Rose Poaching, Diabetes, and Dead Chicken

Posted on July 7, 2013 by Jerrie Cate

Greetings from the BRRR – that’s Bathroom Renovation Recovery Room. Daniel and I worked all day yesterday rebuilding a wall that we had to partially dismantle in order to remove the offending tub. I suspect a “real” carpenter could have knocked it out in a couple of hours, but we learn as we go. The end result is a wall much sturdier than the one we started with, before removing the tub. All that remains is for us to get the tub in place and nail it to the wall, put down some roofing felt, cover it with plywood, install the linoleum, install sinks, re-plumb the tub, install ceramic tile, paint walls, cleanup .

It sound like a lot, I admit. At the rate we’re going, I figure we should be done before school starts in September.

I guess I should take some pictures for those of you who would really, really like to know what we’re dealing with. I’m sure it’s the majority of you; maybe 3-4 of you.

A couple of days ago Diane talked her Mom into going over to the neighbor’s house to poach their roses. In their defense, the house is empty and is being prepped for sale. A guy comes around once a week to mow the yard, but he doesn’t do anything with the climbing rose-bush which reaches to the upper deck and spurts out dozens of blossoms. Deer love them. Here’s what it looked like when they made their break for freedom …

Again, in their defense, they trimmed the roses up very nicely. We had one of those roses on our house when we moved in and it was taking over the upper deck so I cut it down to the ground. It grew back, but I won’t let it get taller than six feet. We argue a lot when I’m mowing around it and I usually wind up with new wounds from pushing it’s arms away as I mow past it. It’s almost like black berry vines that can snag on pretty much anything and leave memorable slashes on arms and legs. I’ve learned it’s not wise to trim anything with thorns while wearing shorts and with bare hands. It’s just not healthy.

Speaking of health … I have another dentist appointment tomorrow morning at 0800. Kinda early for that kind of thing, but I like to get to folks like that early in the day before they meet any mean people and are fresh. When you make afternoon appointments it’s a crapshoot as to what kind of attitude you’ll encounter. Normally, they are all professional to the end of their work days, but I’m not taking a chance of having someone snap when they have my mouth pried open and they’re using extremely sharp tools. For my own wellbeing, I always check the tools for rust before they go to work. This does, of course, please them no end.

Now for the downer … I got the results of my last retinopathy test and learned that I probably have diabetic retinopathy, the leading cause of blindness in the USA. I just learned of this today because we didn’t pick our mail up yesterday. There’s no real danger of me going blind any time soon, as long as I obey the rules and watch my BS level. Diane tells me I’m full of BS most of the time, but I have a meter for that and my BS levels are very low compared to life long diabetics. Those are Type 1 folks. I’m just Type 2. I never get 1st place.

Today was very pleasant. Not too hot, not too cold. We took Diane’s Mom, Jean, to church at 0930 then Diane drove us to Longview, Washington where we had lunch at Sizzler. We always get the all you can eat salad bar because it includes dead chicken. I really like dead chicken. Especially legs. This Sizzler has only legs and arms. They have no idea where the rest of the chicken goes. It’s possible, I suppose, that there’s a rehabilitation center somewhere for legless and armless chickens, but I doubt it. Considering the size of the chicken legs, you’d think they came from either an olympic chicken weight lifter, or really old chickens that just keeled over because they got too fat. They look like they came from turkey’s, but they are definitely chickens. Maybe they’re from the Amazon – they have big things down there. Regardless, they are very tasty and it only takes 3-4 to fill me up. To give you an idea how un-normal that is, I can eat about 12 pieces of a normal size dead chicken. Honest, I can. Ask Diane.

I hope everyone is enjoying whatever type of weather you’re having. If it gets too radical, one way or another, you can always visit Oregon to get refreshed.

Cheers.

Old Toilet Paper Rolls, Shower Nozzles, Urinals, and Other Stuff

Posted on July 2, 2013 by Jerrie Cate

I’ve always had a penchant for endowing inanimate objects with sentient emotions and feelings. I don’t know why, I just do.

This morning I discovered that my toilet paper roll was down to the last few sheets. As I was about to throw it away I wondered what it must be like for them, being stuck on a small cardboard tube for months on end, buried beneath layers and layers of siblings who they know will find the light of day long before they do, and who will find release in the sacred bowl of water, to be recycled into nature. Then, as they bask briefly in the light, perhaps they reconsider and decide that maybe the sacred bowl of water isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. It’s heard rumors, and little toilet paper screams, as it’s siblings were swept away, never to be seen again. Maybe it’s OK to be tossed in the dry recycle bin and spend what little time they have left basking in the light. Consider this when you reach the end of your roll.

Then there’s the shower head … do you think the water coming out of it is from it’s nose or mouth? Either way, do you think it hurts them if you get the water too hot? Does it get lonely if you don’t use it? When it drips, is it sad and crying, or does it just drip because it’s old?

How about urinals? What do they think about while hanging on tha wall with their mouth wide open just waiting for some guy to come along and, well, you know, relieve himself into the back of it’s throat? What kind of life is that? Probably OK, since that’s their purpose, but do you suppose they gargle in the middle of the night? Maybe that’s what it’s doing when you press the “Please Flush” handle. Maybe it should be “Please Gargle”.

The worst is toilets. I won’t even go there because with the previous thoughts in your head I’m sure you’re imagining all kinds of things right now. I’ll just say that they at least have the capability, with help, to close their mouths once in a while. That’s got to be at least a little bit of relief.

I explained to Diane what this was going to be about and she wasn’t pleased so I’m sure I’ll hear about this.

Today I put the carburetor back on the truck and it started without blowing up so I won’t have to go back to the doctor right away. It’s only bolted down with three bolts for reasons explained yesterday. It may remain that way for the rest of it’s life. After I did that I reattached the gas tank to the old D22 and am taking a break from the 90 degree heat before connecting the gas lines. When that’s done I’ll go get some gas and dump it in the main tank and see what I can do about getting it to start.

Sure hope it doesn’t blow up. If it does I’ll probably have to go back to the doctor anyway. Diane will insist.

Prunning and Other Injuries

Posted on May 31, 2013 by Jerrie Cate

Due to numerous requests, here’s a picture of the prunning injury I sustained last Wednesday. It’s worse than it looks, unless you ask Diane …

The injury in the next picture hurt almost as bad. It was done with a really sharp box knife, when I wasn’t looking, so it happened much quicker.

How To Disable A Rhododendron

Posted on May 30, 2013 by Jerrie Cate

Today was interesting for a variety of reasons. The one that got my attention most was when Diane determined that it’s been some time since I inflicted injury to a body part, and longer yet since I had an opportunity to bleed significantly. With this new-found knowledge she thought it would be an excellent idea for us to go trim her Mom’s rhododendrons. She said, “Jerrie, were going to go trim Mom’s rhodies before she hires someone else to do it. Get your chain saw and c’mon.” I also got a variety of clippers, one of which was a bit rusty, but it worked.

She felt pretty confident about my improving abilities when she snuck back into the house and caught me replacing a wall socket without turning off the power. I’ve done that a hundreds times, on ships at sea, and in our houses and I’ve hardly ever disrupted power by channeling it through significant parts of my body, which causes VCRs, Radios, CD players, to announce their temporary loss of power by blinking 12:00 … 12:00 … 12:00 over and over until someone can find a smart allecky 12-year-old who know how resolve the issue.

I’m stoppling right here becasue I’ve aleady taken my zolpedim and my ares coordinated well enough to carry on a lotgical ongeragtionl see what I meen?

Sorry about the way I terminated that last night. I lost control of my little fingers … the ones that work anyway. It’s now 0610 and I’ve had the 6 hours of sleep allowed by the dogs. They’ve been fed, I’ve had my meds, and I’ve had my 1st of many glasses of water, my morning banana, and my yogurt. I distinguish my morning banana because I sometimes have an evening banana, too. Last night I had grapes, instead.

We were talking about trimming things with dangerous equipment, I believe. At Diane’s Mom’s house.

Around Jean’s house are about 15 rhododendrons, four of which are close to the house, one by the corner of the street, and the remainder out back by Milton Creek which runs through the town on its journey to the Columbia River. They’ve been growing for 35 years, the last 15 of which they’ve lived under the threat of pending doom because they were blocking windows, and paths, with absolutely no concern for humans.

Having heard about the pending pruning event, they banded together in a pack of self-preservation by directing all their growth upward instead of outward, interlocking their branches until even a small monkey couldn’t navigate them safely.

This is what I faced, as I strung a very long extension cord across a damp yard and, flirting with electrocution, plugged in my chain saw. It worked, and everyone appeared to still have lights so I positioned it near the one furthest from the house.

Diane and I actually began the dismantling process with small, handheld, mechanical pruner, lopper things, much like those used in movies to remove fingers that are sent back to loved ones, or to facilitate the removal of an especially coveted ring. This worked well for a while, allowing us to get to the innards where the brown branches live and thrive. The outside branches are green and tender and easy to remove whereas the brown ones are more like tree limbs to which the green ones cling.

These inner branches are so thick and intertwined that most work must be done by feel as you clear the way to make room for your head so you can see what you are doing. Just as I was making a breakthrough, it happened. I had a group of finger sized branches gathered in my left hand, and started snipping away, willy nilly, confidence building, until I heard this horrible scream! Startled, I glanced around to see what was going on, and then the pain hit.

It was absolutely horrible! The sneaky rhodie had lulled me into a dream state, causing me to push all my training aside, creating a false sense of security which ultimately resulted in my finger nippers actually nipping a left-handed finger.

As soon as I realized that the scream was mine my training came back with such a rush that I was momentarily disoriented. I fell to my knees, then over onto my right side, curled into a little ball of pain. I didn’t know it at the time, drenched in pain as I was, but the area I cut, on my left middle finger, is where all the nerve endings in my entire body resided. It was excruciating. I know this is true because I am not a stranger to pain. I’ve had a lot of it over the years for various reasons, and this one was the absolute worst. Far worse than childbirth, I don’t care what anyone says.

I heard someone calling my name from far away but it wasn’t getting through the wall of pain very well. Eventually the voice got louder and I realized it was Diane. She was telling me to remove my glove so she could check the injury. This caused me to jump to my feet because I knew if I removed my glove this close to the ground I’d bleed out quickly. I then realized my right hand was tightly squeezing my left middle finger, cutting off all circulation, a trick I had learned during two previous incidents with left-handed fingers … squeeze it, and keep it above your heart. Good advice.

Finally heeding Diane’s demands, I released the pressure and waited for blood to start spurting through the new hole in my glove, but nothing happened except the pain increased. This caused me to grab the damaged digit again and prance around the front yard making the inhaled “sssssssss” sound which everyone knows means it really hurts a lot.

Diane caught me on my third pass and said, “Jerrie, you’re embarrassing us. Stop and take the glove off so we can see if you need stitches,” which I’ve been known to need.

So, I did. I took my glove off then spread the wound so she could see how bad it was. With a deriding remark of some kind at the state of my nearly bleeding finger, she marched off toward the house commanding me to follow. Being in no condition to object, I acquiesced, and followed her like a sad little puppy.

In the bathroom the wound began dripping which she searched for the band aids, which she deemed was the only item required to staunch the now free-flowing blood. OK, it was only trickling a bit and she admonished me, telling me to not get blood all over the sink. So I didn’t. To punish me for cutting my finger she put iodine on the wound before attaching the band aid. Oddly, it didn’t hurt at all, or it just didn’t hurt more than the pain that was already employed.

Once the band aid was secure we went back outside to complete our assigned tasks. Now, however, it was personal so I just fired up my electic chainsaw and went to work taking that rhodie down to size, about three feet tall instead of eight.

As I dismantled the first bush, I could feel the others peering around the house at me, talking about what they would do to me if I so much as touch them. But I wasn’t worried because I know bushes don’t have opposing thumbs, something they apparently failed to consider.

The resulting pile of now harmless branches was further dismantled by the three of us so it would fit into Jean’s brown yard debris container which Hudson Garbage picks up every other week. We also filled four rather hefty garbage bags.

We did the same thing to one more rhodie, by the corner of the house, before calling it a day, but the day wasn’t really done. It was six thirty post-mortem for the rhodie, but many fragments of it was stuffed into the back section of Diane’s Buick, destined for our burn pile. I forgot to mention that. Sorry.

After all that, I find it ironic that I was injured by a finger lopper, not the chainsaw. So did Diane and Jean. I believe they were betting each other how far I’d get with the project before having to make the dreaded Emergency Room Trip (ERT). Well, I fooled them, didn’t I?

Finished, we bid our adieus and motored away. I suggested to Diane that she could just park the vehicle in the garage as I could remove the offending rhodie from the rear with no problem.

From the back yard I retrieved my trusty lawn mower from its home on the lower patio, near the hot tub, removed the bagging unit, attached my trailer, and turned it into a lawn tractor.

Getting the rhodie debris out of the vehicle was uneventful, but it took two trips to get it to the lower 40 burn pile. It’s not really a lower 40. It’s more like a lower 1/2. I just call it 40 for fun. Anyway, once the transport was done, the pile was pitifully small. I was disappointed. I needed to do more.

So, I drove the mower to the middle of the yard, engaged the blades, and started making one crop circle by going around in circles until I’d completed the entire area, pulling the trailer the entire time. I went as fast as I could because the threat of rain was ever-present and I didn’t want to get wet.

When I finished I put the mower away and entered Diane’s house via the lower patio. Not far inside that door is her laundry room and, since I was coated with the smell of new-mown grass, I dropped all of my clothes there, as I’ve been instructed to do, over, and over after previous mowing adventures. Doing this poses a bit of a problem if someone has come to visit during the mowing evolution, and might still be upstairs when I transit the area to my shower, but that doesn’t happen often. Most of the time Diane will warn me but once in a while she doesn’t, just for fun. The object, of course, is for me to make the trip to my shower quick enough that I leave as little grass clipping smell in the house as possible since Diane is terribly allergic it.

Once I was a scrubbed up, it was 9 pm or so, and my day was truly done. I could relax. I could lounge on my half of the couch, eating a bowl of grapes which Diane refused to peel.

Then I took my nightie time meds, and you know the rest of the story.

Now it’s Thursday, and my day is already almost half gone because Diane didn’t wake me up from my morning nap until after 9 am. It’s really OK because I deserved the rest since I worked on Diane’s computer until almost midnight trying to figure out how Windows 8 works. It’s very different. Then, Ozzie got me up at 0530 for his pouch food fix.

Diane is off to visit with the Bethany Quilt Ladies (BQL) with her Mom. That leaves me here, all alone, with a need to conjure up a project that will be meaningful, necessary, and one Diane will like. This concerns me because I tend to pick the wrong projects when left to my own devices.

Oh well. I’ll just have another cup of coffee and think about it for a while. If nothing “pops”, I’ll just take another nap with my iPad.

Hope everyone has a great day.

Oh, ya … Diane took a couple of pictures but they are on her phone and I don’t have them yet so I’ll update this when I have access.

Update – Here’s the last branch of the first rhodie to bite the dust. Neither Diane nor her Mom would let me leave it.

Here’s the remains of the dismantled rhodie from the right side of the house. Diane and her Mom are whittling it down to size to fit the bags. Whatever was left over, because they couldn’t cut it, went in the Buick.

You can almost see my crop circle out there.

These are four of the many rhodies in our yard that are going to yield to my efforts. They probably looked really nice when they were a couple feet tall. Now they are just too crowded. I have no idea what the bush is on the right side, but the birds love it because the cat can’t climb it.

Life In The Ozone

Posted on May 22, 2013 by Jerrie Cate

Greetings Earth people. I come in peace to render a report from your faithful minion, Jerrie Somethingorother, whom we borrowed for a short period of time to conduct experiments crucial to our need to dominate all species on earth of the classification Chromista and below. The purpose of our experiments is to develop a new life form, though no one on the team seems to know why, so I cannot divulge that information. Most of us surmise that our leader, Krrooggllee, had a brain fart that infiltrated his need for attention and dreamt this up as a way of appeasing that particular fart. It happens.

At the exact moment this fart occurred, teams of investigators were roaming about in a small town near a river and not far from the ocean, our very favorite place, and were instructed to execute a short-term lease on the first semi-erect being they encountered. Negotiating short-term leases must commence immediately upon receipt by all teams and the winning team gets to plant a patch of ding dong bushes and spend 3.25 days at the beach.

So, it’s a race, if you will.

Fortunately, Roodee, on Team 19, for lack of a better description which you just wouldn’t understand at all, swiveled his eyes to the right at that exact moment and spied Jerrie, who was on his knees making rapid back and forth motions with a small tool for which we have no name. He appeared to be removing the skin from a prone, inanimate life form which we later discovered was a headboard, something about which we knew nothing at the time. Having since been provided a meaning for such a device we still do not understand the need for such a life form. Whatever. Earth people amuse us.

Anyway, Roodee spied Jerrie out of the passenger window of the team’s bright gray 1995 Toyota celica undercover vehicle, which is used by all teams, and initially discarded him as a choice since he wasn’t erect at the time, kneeling as he was, but, before Roodee looked away Jerrie stood, more than fulfilling our need for a semi-erect being. Therefore, he was lassoed with one of our snagger things and delivered to our research ship post haste.

Once aboard, and connected to all our electromechanical gizmos, we learned about the headboard and that he was situated on his knees in the garage, removing the plastic coating he had previously applied because it “wasn’t dark enough”, according to his spousal unit. All we could get from him regarding the tool was that it’s a ‘painter’s tools’ which makes no sense because he was obviously ‘scraping’ the headboard. It did, however, seem to be working nicely causing us to rethink our current compulsion to have a specific tool for every specific task. Needless to say, wanting to be ready for anything, our tool bags are enormous and must be placed in a trailer behind the celica. We can fix anything with the tools in our trailers.

We learned that another reason he was in the garage, in the cold, is because the headboard is too heavy for him to move to the basement by himself. We offered to help but he just stood there and peed down his leg, intimidated, no doubt, by our clever disguises which make us look like dogs, man’s best friends. We hadn’t, at that time, arrived at the conclusion that dogs don’t drive and have since altered our appearances to mimic that of little old men and women which are far less intimidating than very large dogs. As an aside, Roodee was garbed as a frolicky Terrier, Hooser was a non-shedding Poodle, Garment was a Retriever of some sort, and our driver, Zimlot, was a mixed breed of all three which we liked but he apparently created a very frightful appearance to Jerrie.

We interrogated Jerrie for 17 hours, gathering all sorts of useful information, then sent him back in time to his garage with no memory of what had happened, but with all manner of monitoring devices on him allowing us to see, hear, feel, and taste everything as if we were there.

He was returned to the garage about noonish, a new word we learned, so he quit his task and went into the house to make a snazzy nacho lunch. We really liked it and plan to add this tasty treat to our synthesizer memory for future delightful snacks, as soon as we can figure out what’s in it.

After lunch he urged two dogs to exit the domicile, and into the yard in order to fertilize specific areas of the yard. When they returned, he departed his domicile.

His first stop was at a large metal box, a shipping container, near the St. Helens High School that is used by local citizens to rid themselves of their discarded newspapers, and for students to dump their garbage. The purpose of the stop was to straighten up the donations and remove the garbage. There is similar box located in the Wal*Mart parking lot that does not get as much garbage.

Then he proceeded to a location between St. Helens and Scappoose to visit The Twins, whose names we learned are Eva and Evelyn. Eva desired assistance with her computer and printer which Jerrie, for reasons that are not apparent to us, knows how to do. Jerrie’s emotions revealed that he always enjoys visiting The Twins, old high school classmates, and he’s glad he can help with their electronical needs. Now he has to return and retrieve his favorite Navy baseball hat.

He returned to his abode where he languished for an hour before he had to return to Warren where he was to preside over a meeting of church elders. They call it a council. We understand the concept of having a council that oversees “things” but we are mystified why it is that Jerrie was chosen to preside. After giving it much thought, our conclusion is that no one else wanted to do it and he’s used to abuse, so he volunteered.

During the meeting Jerrie’s spousal unit texted him, on a nifty device he carries around in his pocket, to report she wouldn’t be arriving home until after 10 pm because they had so many ballots to process. Not knowing what ballots were, at the time, we thought it had something to do with procreation, and just skipped over to something more interesting.

Jerrie arrived home at approximately 9 pm thinking he only had one hour to spend alone in the dark. Apparently there is a rule that Jerrie isn’t allowed to do anything when home alone except attempt to organize words in a meaningful manner on his computer. He did that for a short time then began assembling a puzzle on his computer which we found to be absolutely fascinating! We do not understand the concept of puzzles yet, but we will soon because we’re positive he will do it again.

The spousal unit didn’t return until after 11pm. She was tired and anxious to learn who won Dancing With The Stars before she went to bed. Jerrie, not knowing she was checking those results on her computer was startled when she let out a yell to honor America’s decision to bless Kellie and Derek with the mirror ball. Having monitored earth for many years we know about Dancing With The Stars and each have our own secret favorite. Since we are not allowed to cheer about anything, we silently urge our favorites to win. Mine, incidentally, was also Kellie and Derek. After Jerrie recovered from the sharp exhalation of air from the spousal unit’s breathing apparatus, I discovered that he, too, was a Kellie and Derek fan. Knowing that made me want to be nicer to him so I let him go to bed.

Perscriptions & BO

Posted on May 14, 2013 by Jerrie Cate

Today was cold enough that Diane invoked her feminine rights to crank up the heater a bit. I admit, it was a lot cooler than it has been the last few days. Today was about 60 degrees after 4 days in the 80’s, up to 88. I didn’t think I was going to ever quit sweating, but I had no choice because Diane insisted that I do “stuff” even though I was perfectly OK with just sitting quietly on the couch with my book.

Consequently, over the course of the last 4 days, I had to take about 8 showers. That’s just a huge waste of water, don’t you think? Her tactic for making me head for the showers is to tell my deodorant quit. Very subtle, huh? That’s good that she has a sensitive nose, I guess, because it’s rare when I notice when my deodorant quits. It’s not like something goes dark, like when you switch off a light, when your deodorant quits. It’s a nose thing. I think I’ve seen her nostrils flare just before she tells me that which I find odd because you’d think they would shut down a little if the odor is that offensive. Instead, they flare, as if to gather in as much of my manly aroma as possible before making be go wash it off.

Contradictory, if you ask me …

… but no one ever does. It’s just, “your deodorant quit.”

Makes you wonder if eye-glass prescriptions have a terminal date like other prescriptions. You know, like all the pills you take have a warning on the bottle telling you to “renew before 3 August, 2018,” or something similar. That’s the only warning you get. With eye-glass prescriptions, however, there is no warning. One minute you’re walking down the street admiring all the pretty people, your prescription runs out, and everything goes blurry. It would be especially bad if you were driving at the time, or navigating crowds on your Segway, or water skiing, flying a plane, watching TV … one of those important things. What would you do?

That’s happened to me. Honest. The first thing I did was tentatively say, “Diane?” because she’s always lurking around nearby, and she would hear the question in my voice.

She said, “yes, dear, what now?”

“I can’t see,” I responded.

“You can’t see what,” she queried back.

“I can’t see the TV.”

“Is it on?”

“Yes.”

“Are you wearing your glasses?”

“Yes”

“Are they right side up, like the little nose pads are actually touching your nose?”

“Yes.”

“Are they yours?”

“I think so.”

“Well look at them!”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t see.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so before?”

“I did.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

And you know where that goes.

Finally, she tore herself away from American Idol and came to see what was going on. Turns out I fell asleep and the cat was laying on my face. I was hallucinating in my sleep during the entire conversation.

It’s good to know that I can carry on a conversation when I’m unconscious because that might come in handy one day. Maintaining control of what flies out of my mouth might be a concern, you think, but that’s never been one of my worries, awake or asleep.

Like at Lydia’s game last night. The umpire, Pete, has his own version of a strike zone and it’s different for every game. I say things throughout the game regarding what I believe are blatant bad calls and I hear Jennie in front saying, “Dad …?” which means don’t do this, while Diane is beside me doing the wife version of the same thing. They are, of course, afraid I’ll get kicked out and embarrass Lydia, or them.

Pete ignores me, so it’s really not a problem.

I think that’s it for now … it’s 10:36am and time to get started with my day now that I’ve shed the weariness of the night, and my morning 3-hour nap.

Vacation – Day 13 Still in Reno

Posted on April 23, 2013 by Jerrie Cate

It’s 0900 and we’ve been up for an hour. I know that’s true because I asked the boss. But, what she doesn’t know is that I was awake long before that. It was still very dark outside the first time I stumbled to the bathroom and I’m guessing it was about 0600. I didn’t look because I didn’t want to add a bright light to an already dangerous situation caused by me bumping into things in the dark. It was a long trip to the bathroom and I’m sure I’ll be able to identify all the pieces of furniture by the location of the bruises. You’ll all be proud to know that I didn’t utter a sound during that round trip.

Turns out is all for nothing because she was already awake, too. I suffered for no reason.

Today we plan to visit as many second hand stores as humanly possible in the 4-5 hours we allow ourselves to be outdoors in areas with a rarefied atmospheres.

Now I am compelled to make a shameless plug for our friend, Cindy A, who owns Pearl Fiber Arts in the heart of Portland’s blooming Pearl district. I’m going to go there and buy something to make a pretty doily. Yes, I really do that stuff …

And, here’s something from our friend, Kat B, who still lives in Minnesota. Voluntarily …

Us? It’s going to be 75 here in Reno today. I think.

Now it’s time for breakfast – Cheerios, toast, and my 4th cup of coffee. Just used the last of my creamer so we’re either going to have to leave for home today, or find a second-hand store that sells it.