Stress tests slurp shit. In only six pride-obliterating minutes they reduce me to a blubbering lump of hyperventilating meat. I readily admit that I’m not a young buck, but 47 isn’t that old. Like Garth Brooks sang, “I’m much too young to feel this damn old.”
(but garth brooks is not in the sad shape we’re in.)
A bit of background, I suffered a heart attack 15 years ago. Thus my need for these yearly shamings.
Continue reading “I Fail Stress Tests”
February 1st was my 47th birftday day. Hooray! I survived another year. And… ?
I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer. “Boo-hoo. Poor me.” It’s just 47 isn’t a noteworthy year—like 21, 30, 40, 50, etc. In other words, I’m simply a year older. So what? At this point, i.e. midlife, and after a “widowmaker” heart attack at 32, survival is about as good as it gets.
(there’s going out to eat several times on other people’s dime.)
Continue reading “Happy Birftday Day, Poo Poo Pants”
”Got a sharp mouth a sharp tongue” —G. Love
My wife is the best.
Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Yeah. . . I know. Your baby’s got sauce. But your baby ain’t SUH-WEET like mine.
You’re incredulous. I get it. You’re wondering, out of all the 70 hundred million billion wifes out there, how can I make such a bold claim? Cause this happened:
I was having a bad day. Full disclouse (assuming you don’t want to read the link provided), the shituation was completely my fault. I even realized it at the time. Regardless, a shit storm’s a shit storm and as much as I’d like to be a stoic master, I am not. I went full Hulk over some minuscule entitlement that was being denied me: Popeyes was out of chicken, for the moment, and I was going to have to wait for a full 15 minutes to get a freshly made batch.
Continue reading “My Baby’s Got Sauce”
Outside my window at work is a fig tree. The figs are starting to ripen. I noticed because the birds are busy working the tree for all they can get.
While I eat my lunch I watch them. A bluejay will land, hop around until it finds something tasty, and get after it. Shortly after another will join, then another, and another, until five or six are enjoying a snack.
Continue reading “Journaling June: The Old Fig Tree”
It is here, the disgustingly hot of Summer. It’s Houston, TX, so there’s still a few more degrees to add on, but for all intents and purposes it’s blue blazes outside.
I’ve moved into the bedroom, forsaking the rest of the house unless it is absolutely necessary—kitchen for food, garage for laundry or going out. Forget everything else. When the mercury reads 100+ degrees outside our A/C can, at best, get the house down to 80. Several years ago we purchased a rolling A/C unit to put in the bedroom. R2, as it’s affectionately known (thought it looks more like R5-G19, along with two oscillating fans, keep my polar-bear-with-gravy-for-blood fat ass from melting.
(we could not have survived before electricity. we’d have lost our shit and had to be put down.)
Continue reading “Journaling June: The Weather Outside is Frightful”