then he cut my head off

So…last week was interesting.  I had the right side of my thyroid removed.  Exciting times.  Only…very few people swell and turn black and blue within a few hours of the surgery.  I look like I have been in a losing battle.  It was so bad that the following occurred:

Midnight- I look up to see a lab teach staring at me.  “Dear God. What happened to you?”
Me: “Two words…fight club”

Tech: “Yeah?”

Me:  “No.  Running with scissors.”

Tech: “wow”

Me:  I am too drugged to keep this up.  But, here are the rest of the thoughts that wanted to come out:  1) assisted suicide attempt ,   2) trying to shave my head and slipped,  3)  Frankenstein is trying to create a new monster, 4) had a really bad headache, 5) trying a new look, 6) physician really Picasso.  

Really looks bad.    The four year old said that she could see where they did surgery.  She expressed her concern with how it looks,    If a four year old says you look rough…


Am I dying?

KE strutted into class today…all 5’4″, chest puffed out, hair spiky.  I looked at him over my glass and said “KE, may I suggest STRONGLY that you sit down.”  

“Oh, yea, right.”  He sat down.  The following is where it gets strange.

“Am I gonna Die?” (KE has tears in his eyes)

‘KE, you have a 100% chance of dying at some point.  That is my opinion as a scientist.”  I replied.  

“No, no…you don’t understand.  Will I die from Salmonella?”  KE cried out

“Boy, I am a scientist not a soothsayer.”  I should not have used this word.  

“A what-er?  I need to know if I am going to die from Salmonella.”   KE is frantic by this point.

“I am NOT a psychic  How would I know?”  I ask (Sometimes I don’t want to ask, but someone has to) 

“How much raw chicken would I have to eat to die from Salmonella?”  

(OK, this is different)  “I would not know how to quantify that for you.  Did you eat raw chicken?” nod, nod “Why did you eat raw chicken?”  

KE “I blame it on my mother.”

Me “She MADE you eat raw chicken?”

KE “No, she did not tell me how to cook the chicken.  I wanted wings and So…so…I put them in the oven.  But, I cheated and put them in on preheat.  Now, am I going to die?”

Me “Was the chicken hot?” nod,nod “Was it tender?” nod,nod “Was it white and NOT pink?”  nod, nod

KE “I only have 72 hours and you gotta hurry… am I going to die?”

Me “it has been over 48 hours?” nod, nod “Guess we will just have to wait.” 

I went back to reviewing the EOC, KE lives…



Is this it?

Years ago (1970s) my parents bought a country grocery store.  It was the epitome of a white trash grocery store.  But, we were way out in the sticks of Louisiana and it was miles to the nearest small town.  I have a great many memories of that old store.  No air, one space heater, outdoor toilet, and early mornings..great memories.  

I was twelve and my brother was ten when my dad bought the store.  After working all day the four of us would retire to our house behind the store.  We did have window units, but usually did not use them.  I think we were hardier then than now.  At night I just wanted to go to sleep, I was that tired.  My brother (whose room was down the hall) always wanted to talk to my parents.  At night I can still hear him order what he wanted for breakfast.  It did not matter that we just finished one meal, he was ordering the next.  My mom would always answer him.  Honestly, there were a lot of nights I would yell “GOOD NIGHT JOHN-BOY!”  This always produced a round of good-nights and laughs.  I was not amused.

We had been in the grocery business about a year when the following occurred:  

“Is this it?”  My brother groused from his room

After a few beats, my mom replied “Is this what, Jeffrey?”

“I mean is this all of it?”  He sounded really cheesed-off (1970s remember?)

“All of what???”  

“Well, we get up, go to the store and work all day to make money to buy food…just so we can eat it and go back to work.  Is this it?” He asked in the most irritated  voice imaginable. 

After a few minutes, I hear my mom say “Well, yes, I guess this is it.”

Sometimes when I want to get the grumbles, I remember…this is it.


REALLY Old Numbers

I have the pleasure of escorting my granddaughter from pre-k every day to her home.  Each and every day reveals a new truth, to-wit:

“You are old…” from the backseat

“WHAAAT???  Why do you say that?  Do I have wrinkles? Did my hair color wear off???” Me, panicking

“No.  You have REALLY old numbers.” 

Then I make the mistake of asking what does that mean…

“Well, If you are over thirty, you have old numbers.  Are YOU over thirty?”

Me: “Well, I am almost twice as old as thirty.”

“You mean you are one thousand and six hundred? (remember she is in pre-k and math is not her strong suit)

“Um…sure.  Somewhere around there.” I reply

“See, old numbers.”  Smugly she rests in her booster seat.   

Really OLD numbers…