Ooo, ooo... that smell

The moment we walked in the door, Turtle gave me a strange look and I knew we were thinking the same thing: cat pee.

We checked the obvious things first. I scooped the litter box; Turtle tracked down each protesting cat and gave it a thorough sniffing. Finding that neither was the source of the problem, we spent the next half hour moving from room to room, scenting the air like lions on the trail of a pack of wildebeest (or wildebai, of you prefer). Nothing. Through the evening, we’d occasionally catch a whiff but never strongly enough to identify the source.

The next day, Turtle met me at the door when I came home from work.

“I smell it again,” she said. “I think it’s in my office.”

I dragged out the Floor Mate and gave the hardwood floor a thorough cleaning (for which it was overdue, in any case). That ought to do it, I thought, but as I made my way to the closet to put away the vacuum, I smelled it again: cat pee.

So off I went, on my hands and knees, with my nose in the carpet, trying to sniff out where one of the kids had dribbled or expressed his/her displeasure olfactorily. I sniffed my chair. I sniffed the fireplace facing. I sniffed the sofa, above and below, and the pillows. I sniffed the basket of cat toys. Nothing.

Finally, I found myself in the living room and noticed that I only seemed to catch a whiff of the offending odor when standing in the vicinity of the fireplace. My gaze passed over the Fall flower arrangement I’d gotten Turtle for her birthday a couple weeks ago, and I absently wondered how long it would take a pumpkin to go bad when filled with water and used as a vase.

The answer is “a couple weeks”, apparently.

The gauntlet run

Most anyone who has read this blog for any period of time knows that I had a smallish run-in with thyroid cancer, back in 2001. Most cautiously agree that I'm cured – except the life insurance providers, of course – but ensuring that I stay that way demands a certain level of vigilance. What that means is that I must periodically submit myself to a week-long protocol of injections, followed by the ceremonial swallowing of a radioactive iodine capsule, culminating in an hour-long full-body scan.

It's all fairly routine by this point, but the week was not without its notable moments.

First off…

Since you've stayed with me this far, it's only fair to come right out with the good news (there is no bad news in this posting, so please… relax). After yesterday's scan, I received a phone call from the radiologist informing me that my scan was clear of any glowy bits. Glowy bits would have been bad, indicating thyroid cells that had absorbed the radioactive iodine. Since I no longer have a thyroid, thyroid cells could only mean cancer. So no glowy bits is a Good Thing™.

I thank God for granting me a continuation of my nearly eight years cancer free.

But there was a moment

The full body scan is actually done in stages, kind of like a series of x-rays. While the technician was repositioning equipment between scans, I happened to look over at the monitor where an image of the just-completed scan was displayed. It showed a bright blob of light (the aforementioned “glowy bit”), and I was filled with unease while lying there through the rest of the series.

As I gathered my things to leave, I commented on this to the technician.

“Oh, that's just a marker,” she said. “Remember when I was touching your neck? We place a radioactive marker on the [somethingorother] notch – where your collarbones meet – because it's right below where your thyroid used to be. It gives the doctor a reference point for that big dark area right above the notch.”

Big dark areas = Good Thing™, but I'd spooked myself. That's what I get for knowing just enough to be dangerous.

There Will Be Blood

After the scan in Dallas, I had to drive up to Baylor, in Plano, to have my blood drawn. I usually do this sort of thing at first light, at an hour that most people don't have the stomach for, but not this time. The waiting room at the lab was packed, and I carefully picked a chair that would observe the social nicety of preserving an empty chair between mine and that of any other occupied chair.

This honoring of personal space was especially important, because the occupant of one of those chairs was actually overflowing into the empty chair buffer zone. A short woman, her feet barely reaching the floor, she was very… colorful in her attire, hair color, and makeup selections. As I sat down, she lay slumped in her chair with the topmost of her three chins nestled in the others, snoring.

Her purse, which appeared to have been fashioned from the remainders of her dress, suddenly slid off her lap on to the floor. I spent a few moments in internal debate before deciding that, while the gentlemanly thing would be to pick it up and hand it back to her, it might be best to let sleeping potential litigants lie. Shortly, the question was made moot when one of the technicians came in to the waiting room, calling the name of someone who didn't answer. Several of us tentatively pointed to the sleeping woman.

Waking her was no simple matter, and getting her up and moving toward the lab was less so; but the technician managed, carefully leading her still-groggy, muttering patient by the elbow. As they left the waiting room, those of us who remained shot each other looks that said, Whoa, dude. That was, like, kinda weird.

I, of course, couldn't just return to examining the multimedia prints from Target that filled the empty space on the walls and leave well enough alone.

“I saw her purse fall and felt like I should pick it up,” I said, speaking more or less directly to a fellow patient who had smiled at me. “But then I sort of had this premonition of myself in handcuffs, trying to call my wife from a pay phone.”

For a moment, the waiting room was filled with tension-dispelling laughter before we all returned to the serious business of disacknowledging one another's existence.

Luck of the draw

After a while, I was called to have my blood drawn. My previous experience at this lab had been less than satisfactory, with the technician clumsily tapping two different veins before getting his sample. I drew a young woman, this time, and crossed my fingers as I sat down in the bloodletting chair.

“This is usually a good producer,” I said, indicating a favorite vein in my left arm. “But the last guy I had here didn't have much luck.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. You must have had Peter,” she said, glancing at the technician working at another station.

“Um… that's him. I'm sure he was just having an off day.”

“Oh no,” she said. “Peter sucks. He knows he sucks. Just this morning, one of the patients accused him of being the janitor, he made such a bloody mess of the guy's draw.”

Just an unfortunate choice of words, I hope.

For the record, my technician was so smooth, I barely felt the needle and today show only the very smallest of bruises.

Failure to lunch

Every workday for the past seven years, I've gotten out of bed, showered (and sometimes shaved), and then packed myself a lunch. If I'm reasonably awake, I make a sandwich, select some sort of fruit cup and maybe a pudding, bag up some manner of Frito-Lay product, and pack it all neatly inside a purpose-made Cordura® nylon lunch bag. If I'm not so awake, I may grab a hot pocket or a Lean Cuisine dinner instead of making the sandwich.

I then gather up my lunch bag, my travel mug filled with black coffee, and my sausage-egg-and-cheese biscuit and carry them out to the car. I open Dorian's rear hatch, set my lunch next to the old ball and chain my laptop, and close the hatch. I climb behind the wheel, set my coffee in the cup holder and my sausage bicuit bowl in the passenger's seat next to me.

It's all quite routine.

This morning, I seem to have missed a step, but I wasn't sure which one – until that “Oh crap. Was that a curb or a small child I just backed over??” moment. Fortunately, it was neither. It was my lunch, which I'd set down behind the car to open the hatch but then, instead of opening the hatch, had proceeded directly to the climbing behind the wheel step.

The lunch bag suffered minimal damage (being, as it is, Cordura®). The potato chips, slice of pasteurized cheese product, hamburger bun, and one of the two cutey oranges were totaled. The frozen pre-grilled hamburger patty was cracked but otherwise unmarred. The cup of pineapple chunks was, miraculously, unexploded.

I have far too much on my mind.

Gone in 60 seconds

In a sweetly magnanimous holiday gesture toward my friends and/or coworkers, Turtle sent goodies to work with me today. She lined an 11"x14" cake pan with festive tissue paper and packed it with an assortment of snickerdoodles, oatmeal chocolate chip cookies, peppermint fudge, cranberry bread, and (the infamous) cinnamon popcorn. She gave me clear instructions regarding the manner in which these treats were to be distributed, noting that there wasn't enough for everyone.

So I rolled in at 6:20 and promptly fired off an email to any and every one at this place with whom I've ever had a remotely agreeable conversation, inviting them to come and avail themselves of my wife's largesse. Then, I sat back and waited to greet my holiday visitors.

By 10:00, only a handful of people had partaken – mostly after I'd corralled them in the halls – and each of them made a show of daintily picking out a single cookie or half a slice of cranberry bread. Finally, fearing that I might have to take the lot home with me, I placed the pan in the kitchen area for the general populace. I stopped at the men's room, after which I passed by the kitchen on the way back to my cubicle.

Half the pan had been emptied. One startled coworker was standing over the pan, cheeks full, with an expression on his face that I haven't seen since the time I was camping caught a family of raccoons raiding my cooler. He was one of the guys who had been on my original list of invitees.

Apparently, Christmas goodies are much more attractive when they can be eaten anonymously.

Weekend update

Yesterday, Turtle went on a holiday baking spree, and the house smells like cookies and fudge and popcorn drizzled with melted “red hots” (cinnamon candy).

Turtle: I hope I didn't scald myself. I spilled molten red hots all over the leg of my jeans.
Foo: You okay?
Turtle: I… yeah. I think so.
Foo: Then can I start calling you “sugar britches”?
Turtle: That depends on how you'd feel about living with a permanent limp.

All of this was kind of the result of an invitation to a party. One of our RBENT friends has just celebrated his first year surviving lung cancer, and the gang planned to converge on his house to help him mark the date. Some yummy Tex-Mex, a little wine, and a lot of laughs later, I felt like we'd impressed on him how glad we all are that he's winning the battle. Live Strong, Bud!

This morning, we slept in. Around 8:30 I put on a pot of coffee and set about whipping up some bacon and eggs. Turtle set about trying to help, and we were quickly in one another's way. I found myself channeling my dad.

“Look,” he'd say in situations when Mom or we kids were too much under foot. “Why don't you just go sit down someplace?”

I realized immediately what I'd said. I waited, thinking maybe Turtle hadn't been listening. She started laughing, and I knew I was busted.

Good thing my wife has a sense of humor.

The up side of the back side

The conversation went something like this:

Turtle: Did you put on a fresh pair of jeans today?
Foo: Yeah.
Turtle: …
Foo: Why? Is there something on them?
Turtle: No. Did you lose weight?
Foo: Some. I'm down to 160, last time I checked.
Turtle: Oh.
Foo: What is it? Are you saying these jeans look bagged out already?
Turtle: Well–
Foo: Wait… I'll put my wallet in my pocket. That'll help.
Turtle: Now your butt looks lop-sided.

It's a good problem to have. I think.

Now playing: The Contrast, Perfect Disguise: Introducing The Contrast

Does that make me a transvestite?

In the interest of full disclosure – and because I don't really have anyone else to make fun of write about, just now – I feel I should share something that happened this past weekend.

It was a bit brisk outside when I started getting myself together to ride Saturday morning, so I was procrastinating a bit about getting my stuff together. Finally, I'd convinced myself that it really wasn't that cold; and anyway, because the ride starts at 9:30, it always (okay, usually) warmed up nicely by the end of the first 10 miles or so. By the time I'd reached this decision, I was running close on time and dashed around the house preparing energy drink, putting my bike in the car, and finally throwing on the first jersey and shorts I found.

At the parking lot where we meet to ride, I finished the breakfast biscuit I'd picked up along the way and started unloading/assembling my bike. At the last minute, I thought to spray on some sun block and I remember thinking to myself that the elastic leg bands on my shorts seemed tight. Must be the hill training, I thought. My legs are getting bigger. The shorts also seemed just a bit shorter than I remembered. Woo-hoo! I thought. I finally must be getting my growing spurt!

We were about 10 miles into the ride (it had warmed up nicely) when my brain, in shuffle mode, replayed a conversation I'd had with Turtle off and on for a couple weeks.

Turtle: I'm missing a pair of my bike shorts. Do you think they might have gotten mixe in with yours?
Foo: Mmmm-hmm... that sounds fine.
Turtle: Seriously. I think they might be in your closet. Are you listening?
Foo: Huh?
Turtle: Would you check your closet to see if you got a pair of my bike shorts?
Foo: Why on earth would I have your shorts?
Turtle: [sighs]
Foo: Okay, sure. Just let me wrap up this bug fix I'm working on, and I'll go check. But I'm sure I would've noticed if I had any of your shorts.

When we stopped for a break at our usual spot, I dug out my cell phone and called Turtle to tell her I'd found her shorts.

Don't get me wrong. This isn't the first time I've worn women's clothing. There was that time back in the mid '80s when I dressed up as a nun for Hallowe'en (going to hell; got it). I guess what I found just a little amusing is that I almost couldn't tell the difference between a pair of women's shorts and my own.

Look to the future

Over on Write Lightning, Deb suggests an interesting visualization technique that might be used in clearing away emotional clutter when one is faced with a decision. The short of it is this: you imagine walking in to a house, then into a room where you sit with an older, wiser version of yourself and discuss the situation.

Some of you may recall from one of my earlier postings that I have not been, historically, a huge believer in visualization techniques; but I've been trying to decide whether I really need this [some nondescript luxury item that won't distract from the point of the narrative], or if it's my inner child whinging down the aisle of the virtual toy store, so I gave it a whirl.

I walk up to the stoop*—my imaginary old folks' home has a stoop—and knock politely on the front door. No answer. Old Foo must have his hearing aid turned down again, I think, so I try the knob and find the door locked.

Curses.

I take off my t-shirt, wrap it around my knuckles, and clench my teeth as I punch through one of the door's glass panes. No burglar alarm (not that the old codger could hear it if there were). Older and wiser, my hindquarters.

After reaching in and unlocking the door, I step into the foyer, grimacing at the sound of crunching glass and feeling guilty about scarring the hardwood floor. I make my way toward the living room and spot my older, wiser self. He's sound asleep in his chair, with a crocheted throw pulled over him and a laptop computer on his lap. Tropical fish swim across the LCD display, uninterested in my arrival.

"Old Foo?" I say, tentatively, not wanting to startle him.

No response.

"HEY OLD FOO!!"

The old fart duffer jumps, blinking his eyes, disoriented. "Huh? Wha--?"

His eyes focus and I see recognition dawn in them.

"You! GET OUTTA MY HOUSE, YA LITTLE BASTID!!"


Seems I'm 0 for 2 in the visualization exercise department.

* n. Chiefly Northeastern U.S. - A small porch, platform, or staircase leading to the entrance of a house or building.


Now playing: Kansas, Song For America

The flip side of Mac & PC

No matter which side of the issue you come down on—or if you're like me and don't really care—you've got to admit that as spoofs go, these have the originals dead to rights.

Now playing: Spock's Beard, The Kindness of Strangers

A belated Thanksgiving joke

This just in from my mom...

An elderly man in Phoenix calls his son in New York and says, "I hate to ruin your day, but I have to tell you that your mother and I are divorcing. Forty-five years of misery is enough."

"Pop, what are you talking about?!" the son screams.

"We can't stand the sight of each other any longer," the old man says. "We're sick of each other, and I'm sick of talking about this, so you call your sister in Chicago and tell her."

Frantic, the son calls his sister, who explodes on the phone. "Like heck they're getting divorced!" she shouts. "I'll take care of this."

She calls Phoenix immediately, and screams at the old man, "You are not getting divorced! Don't do a single thing until I get there. I'm calling my brother back, and we'll both be there tomorrow. Until then, don't do a thing. Do you hear me??" and hangs up.

The old man hangs up his phone and turns to his wife.

"Okay," he says, "They're coming for Thanksgiving and paying their own fares."