The Trap (and Welcome To It)!

Usually, Snapchat is utilized by my daughter, brother and myself for sending ludicrously filter-altered pictures of ourselves to torture our family and friends on a daily basis. You know...like God intended Snapchat to be.

But the other day, my daughter sent out a Snap, nothing in the picture but darkness, with this thought splayed across the blackness, "Waking up is hard. Don't do it. It's a trap!"

At first I thought, wait is this some sort of nihilistic emo-drudgery bull-stuff or maybe a cry for help? Then I thought how funny it was. And thought-provoking.

Waking up--and staying up--is indeed hard. (Just ask my wife who sets a barrage of alarms and triple snoozes them all. So does my daughter, actually, except her alarm is a horrendous air siren-like sound that could wake up the dead. Me? I wake up when a fly sneezes.) 

But how is "waking up" a trap?

Let's break it down...

We're all conditioned to wake up at a certain time throughout our life-cycle. As children, mean ol' Mommy and Daddy wake us up to go to the dreaded school. Same thing goes in high school and college, but by then, you're on your own, hopefully life's lesson having sunk in without perhaps not-so-mean-after-all Mom and Dad having to aid you in getting up by this time. 

 After school, you're definitely on your own. Or at least, I would hope you're waking up all by your big-boy self. Unless you're a millennial, of course, who's moved back in with your parents (16% of today's millennials have taken the horrific return to roost plunge).

Once you enter the work-force, it's all over. You have to wake up every day at a certain time. Or else you move back in with your parents. Therein lies the trap. Call it the "Parent Trap 21st Century Style."

And why are we subjected to The Trap? As I implied, the programming starts from childhood. In fact, even as babies, you're expected to go to sleep and wake up at a certain, predictable time (and we all know how well that works, right?). This early training prepares you for a life of drudgery in the work force where waking up is mandatory. This is the price we pay for living in a capitalistic country.

"But, Stuart," I hear you thinking, "are you trying to tell us that people in socialist and communist countries don't have to wake up at a certain time?"

Hold the phone, folks, put down the pitchforks and don't pack your bags yet! Of course said countries have to wake up at certain times as well, whether it be to go stand in bread lines or go to the factory or super-secret KGB training or whatever. In fact, it's one of the very few things (outside of eating and sex) that unites humanity across our great world: the forced trap of waking up.

Now, before you all start thinking that retirement is sounding better and better because you won't be forced to wake up at a certain time, I've got news for you... Hello, prostate!! Sheesh, I can't remember the last time I slept through the night without a nocturnal bathroom run.

Also--and here's the most unfair, ridiculous rub of all--once you get older, the ability to sleep late vanishes! Poof! Like an evil David Copperfield waved a wand over your shrinking, shriveling body and said "abra abra cadaver, I wanna reach out and wake ya'." (Apologies to the Steve Miller Band; not that I'm a fan, mind you, but I can never resist an easy joke.)

I remember all through college, when I possessed the preternatural ability to sleep until noon or sometimes even later (probably didn't help that I'd just gotten in about five in the morning). But once you get out of school, the sleep late gene begins to dissipate. By the time you're in your "golden years," you're up before the roosters.

I'm telling you, avoid the trap, heed my daughter's sage advice! Just get used to your parents' basement, you can adapt.

On that cheery note, y'all could probably use a laugh. If so, check out my Zach and Zora comic mystery series. The first title in the series, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock pretty much tells you what kinda humor you're in for. Hey! I didn't say they're great books, but if like me, your inner 12-year-old needs a release, have at it! Get 'em here!

Knee Fun in 2024

My 2024 has started out with a bang. Or at least that's what it felt like to my knee. For over two months, I'd been suffering severe knee pain, completely jacking up my mobility and ability to do stuff.

It all started in mid-November. I woke up, thinking (more like mentally screaming), "Say...my knee sure does hurt."

For weeks I suffered. My wife watched me hobble around (finally busting out her antique collectible cane), shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She'd been down this path with me before.

"Do something about it," she said. "Go to the doctor."

For you see, going to the doctor is completely against everything I stand for. A) I hate it; B) it takes forever; C) things usually have a way of rectifying themselves; D) it sucks (did I say that already?); and finally, the Big E) I'm always worried about some life-threatening disease the docs may accidentally uncover. Why...I'd almost rather ask for directions when lost than go to the doctor. Almost.

At long last, one morning I woke up and it felt better! "Honey," I said, "I'm finally on the road to improvement!"

"Uh-huh," she answered.

Alas, the next day, the constant, agonizing pain had returned. With great sacrifice, I hauled myself upstairs to our bedroom and finally conceded. "Hey...I think I need to go to Urgent Care in the morning."

"Hallelujah," replied my wife.

Okay, the next morning, a Sunday, I found out when Urgent Care opened. My plan was to get there at that very moment, thus limiting the endless waiting time. Before the doors opened, I was there, banging on the doors with my cane.

The doctor saw me, a speed-talker, and gave me a quick cursory examination. "I don't think it's broken, can't say about torn ligaments, I doubt it, but we'll give you an x-ray anyway, take lots of Ibuprofen, ice it until we call you, next!" spat out Dr. Over-Caffeinated. 

Later that morning, the nurse called. "Um, yeah...Dr. Speed-Overdose says there's just some mild arthritis there. No big deal. Take Ibuprofen."

Translation: "Why are you wasting our time and resources? Stay home, you cry-baby, take some aspirin and shut up."

Yet...yet...the constant pain continued. One more month goes by. In absolute despair, I picked an orthopedist on-line and gave his office a call. After I left a message, two days later(!), a nurse calls me back.

"At this point, we're two months out from being able to get you in. You're better off getting into one of our walk-in clinics."

"Two months?" I railed. "That's worse than trying to get somebody to fix our fence. Have you ever tried to get someone to just mend your fence? I mean, it's crazy! They either want to replace the entire fence or...Hello?  Are you still there? Hello?..."

So. I gave in. It became decided. The next morning, my wife (who was working from home that day) graciously said she'd drive me to the clinic. (I actually think she likes to go with me on medical appointments because she realizes that I'm terrible with giving accurate medical background information). 

Of course, this was during the worst snow blizzard in years. Oh so carefully, my wife plowed through packed and backed up snow covered streets, the visibility less than two feet ahead of us with the wind blowing wildly. All the while, my knee screamed for relief, any relief.

Finally...finally...we made it. Not sure how. Naturally, we parked at the complete opposite end of the long-ass building we needed to go into. Limping through the blizzard, I traversed the snowy and dangerous winter lands until we landed in the right section.

After seemingly hours of electronic paperwork, I handed it back in. That's when the receptionist said, "Well, the clinic doctor isn't here yet. I hope she does make it in, but I'm not sure. I'll let you know."

"Gee...thanks."

Fortunately, it wasn't too much longer before she did make it in.

"Hmmm," the physician, not much older than the cheese I ate last night, said, "betcha what you need is a cortisone shot in the knee."

"Bring it!" Of course I'm no fan of shots, but anything to alleviate my suffering.

"It usually lasts about three months, then you'll need to come back for another one," she continued. "Does that sound like something you'd like to try?"

"Oh, HELL yes!"

After filling out some scary paperwork that absolved them of my accidental death, she brandished a hypodermic in front of me.

"Okay, when I put this in, you'll just feel a little prick."

"'A little prick?' Hah. I can handle that. Um...I don't mean I can handle a 'little prick', heh, if you know what I mean, I mean to say, AIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! The pain! Make it stop! How much longer is this going to go on???? AIEEEEEEEE! Oh! What happened to the 'little prick?' The pain! Boss, it is zee pain!!!!"

In the icy cold agony of the shot, I'd accidentally channeled Herve Villechaize from Fantasy Island. 

The process did seem like it'd gone on forever, like acid burning up my knee.

At long last it was over. I limped back through the storm to the car.

And by cracky, once night hit, I started to feel relief! Sweet, sweet relief! On top of the world, the next day, I actually went out and shoveled the sidewalk and driveway (of course it took me about five out-of-breath attempts, but I did it!).

Sadly, the shot's effects only lasted about two weeks and now I'm back to Ground Zero of Pain.

My wife's on me to call another orthopedist.  

"Been down that route already," I said.

"Try again."

Humph. I hardly see the point. I'm thinking of finding a nice witch doctor on-line instead.

While I'm thinking about witches, you'll find an entire coven of witches (along with other ghosts, spooks, beasties, and things that go bump in the night) in my book, Peculiar County. It's a wonderful place to visit (kinda), but trust me, you don't want to settle there.

Welcome to the Dog Pack

When I woke up that fateful morning, I had no idea we'd have a dog pack by the end of the day.

Let's jump into the Way-Back Machine for a minute. Several years back, my wife floated the idea of a new dog. I dragged my feet because...well, because I truly hate putting dogs to sleep when it's their time (which is kinda a dumb thing to write, since I doubt there's a huge contingent out there who enjoy putting dogs down. But...considering the nature of our world right now, you never know. But I digress.)

Long story, short: we ended up adopting two dogs because they were "bonded." That, of course, was Bijou and Mr. Loomis (which I've written about before). One is a Lhasa Apso, the other an inexplicable blending of Saint Bernard, Australian Cattle Shepherd, and about a dozen other species (Bijou had very randy parents!). But the dog we'd always wanted was a Cavalier King Charles. Alas, they're very hard to come by unless you want to shell out two grand (hello, Bijou and Mr. Loomis! Plus, adopting is the way to go.).

Mr. Loomis wondering what fresh hell we've brought into his home.

Skip ahead several years...my wife found a mix of a Cavalier King Charles and a Shih Tzu (we think) up for adoption, a puppy of one year. We jumped on it and the woman called us back immediately. She said, "You were the first interested people I was able to get ahold of."

Ta-dahhhhhh! Two days later, we set off in a very windy rain storm for a small town in Missouri about 2-1/2 hours away with our two O.G. dogs in tow for the big meet 'n greet.

When we finally--finally!--found the woman's house (a treacherous road full of hills and winds and heart-stopping gasps {at least from me riding shotgun}, the four of us entered into the Wild Kingdom.

A small house, it was packed to the rafters with animals of all sorts. An entire wall was jam-packed with cages of birds unleashing a maddening cacophony of tweets, squawks, and caws. A snake slithered around the inside of an aquarium. Somewhere, a cat rumbled his distaste for our intrusion. The woman went on to tell us about the rats she'd adopted (rats, for God's sake, rats!). Mercifully, they were sequestered in the basement. Bijou growled at everything. Mr. Loomis wandered around smelling various items and animals. And in the midst of all this madness, our new puppy ran scattershot, barking, wagging his tail, and avoiding the strange new quartet of people and dogs.

Things happened fast. Before I knew it, we were headed home with three dogs in the back seat, the new guy in the middle. (Side note: Of course we got lost on the long and winding roads {the convenience guy wasn't much help: "No problem. Hang a left at the church, go a spell, turn right at Fred's barn, go all the way outta town, then about a jot past that..."}, thus rendering our trip into three hours plus.) And what a journey it was. Our two O.G. dogs didn't know what to make of their new fellow traveler. Growls were exchanged, a few snips, uncertainty and no sleep whatsoever for all three wary dogs. By the time, we made it home, we were travelling in a rather pungent odor of poop.

Bijou ready for normalcy to return.

I'm writing this on the third day of our new dog pack. Gone are the mornings of ever hoping to sleep in again. Little time do I have to get anything done, for I'm wrangling dogs 24-7. Also, while I'd always wanted a little lap dog (Mr. Loomis was supposed to fill that role, but made it clear early on, he is above lapdom, while Bijou--although much too big--dearly wants that role.), the new guy has to be in my lap 24-7. This makes taking the trash out rather difficult.

And the accidents, oy, the accidents! We're going through bottles and bottles of enzyme spray keeping on top of it.

As for the dynamic between the dog pack? It's been rather tricky. Mr. Loomis--a cranky old veteran of 15 years (a dog after my cranky old heart)--chooses to ignore the new guy. Until he intrudes on his territory, then things turn snappish. And Bijou will not tolerate the little fellow coming close while he's getting attention from my wife or me. 

Today seems a little better. Bijou is finally playing with the new addition, although the little guy was terrified at first to reciprocate with the much larger dog. But today seems encouraging. Still gotta work on Mr. Loomis, but I doubt the old man will come around. Maybe with time. But, like me, he has a low tolerance level for impertinent young whippersnappers.

The new pup's name was originally Bailey. But we're working on changing it to...Biscuit. Behold, Prince Biscuit, newest member of our unholy dog pack!

Speaking of wild animals and packs, there are no dogs, but a slew of werewolves running rampant in my darkly comic horror novel, Corporate Wolf. Hey! It's just another day at the office! Check it out here.

"I'm so glad you survived your autopsy."

Over the holidays, the neighbors invited us over for wine. We commenced talking about our medical issues because...well, that's what people do when they get older.  (I know it sounds boring, but heed my word, whippersnappers, you'll some day be in the same boat.)

The problem is I'm not much of a medical guy. My knowledge of physiology pretty much comes from old Warner Brothers cartoons (Hey, you can learn a lot by watching Bugs Bunny torture Elmer Fudd!). So the conversation came around to our strange skin conditions, something that the male neighbor and I had in common. (I won't go into detail about my weird, necrotic, skin-eating rash because I've yakked about it in the past at great lengths and some of you may be eating breakfast. But thankfully, it seems to have finally resolved itself.).

I said, "Gary, I went to numerous doctors, allergists, and dermatologists, and nobody could figure it out. One quack said it was caused by the sun. I'm never out in the sun! They even did an autopsy on my back!"

Well... I was met with silence. Then the ridicule set in.

"I'm so glad you survived your autopsy, dear," offered my wife.

More laughs while I sat there helpless, turning fourteen shades of red. "Yeah, um...well...I think I need to go tend to my TV dinner I left in the oven."

Then things got worse. We moved onto my horrible knee pain, something that's still bugging me. "I don't know, guys, but the pain keeps me up at night. I might've torn my hibiscus."

Again, silence. Then the laughter erupted. Now, the one thing I know even less about human anatomy is flowers. Apparently, I'd told them I'd torn my flower. How was I supposed to know "hibiscus" is a flower? It's not like they taught that in school. They definitely didn't have Daffy Duck talking about the hibiscus flower.

Sheesh. If this is the way my 2024 is gonna go, I think I'll just go back to bed and sleep the year away.

Speaking of really dumb guys, meet Zach Cavanaugh, loveable, yet dunder-headed male stripper (but don't call him that!). Zach's got a problem: he can't help but accidentally stumble across dead bodies constantly. It's up to his long-suffering, usually pregnant, but very competent sleuth sister to bail him out. You'll find lotsa zany situations and characters in my Zach and Zora comic mystery series, but don't take my word for it! Go buy 'em already!