Coffee tables

I have a scar on my left cheek from a brief tangle with a coffee table. I was young, maybe three, and the coffee table won the scuffle. It is not a big scar. If you didn’t know the story, you might assume I’d had a bad bit of acne that left its mark. But the coffee table did it. I tripped and fell face first into the corner of it when I was about 3 years old or so.  It is one of my few specific memories of pain.

Along the way, there have been broken bones, and dislocations, and surgeries, but the memories of those are vague recollections. Shadows of the real pain I felt at the time. The coffeetable incident seems is clearer in my mind…sharper in intensity. The dull ache in my cheek that continued for a couple of days, following the initial sharp pain, is memory that persists.

Once, in my first apartment by myself, I woke and stumbled into the kitchen to make coffee and then sit on the couch to watch the news, as I did every morning. I was a heavy smoker back then, and as I leaned over the coffee table to put out a cigarette, I realized the ashtray had been cleaned. Odd, I thought. Until I noticed the entire table had been cleaned. The magazines were neatly stacked and a jar of cigarettes filled, a clipboard with a fresh pad of paper and pens arranged and at the ready. And it had been wiped clean of all the stray ashes and dust. I was perplexed. A notion gnawed at the back of my brain but refused to surface, until I returned from the kitchen with a second cup of coffee and could now see the pile of cigarette butts on the rug in front of the coffee table. It all came flooding back to me. Sitting drunk on the couch the night before, I had finished my drink and stood up to go to bed, when I staggered and fell into the coffee table, knocking it on its side and emptying the ashtray onto the rug. “As good a time as any” I remember thinking, and grabbed the Windex and cleaned the table and replaced everything neatly. I remember thinking it was too late at night to get out the vacuum cleaner, so I left the butts for the morning.

I’ve quit smoking, and don’t drink myself into oblivion anymore. And I can’t run through the house like I did when I was three…

Over the course of my marriage, my wife sold 80% of my belongings. So when she divorced me and moved out, she took all but a couch, a tv, a microwave and two lamps. Over the next couple of years, I eagerly took whatever furniture and housewares people gave me. I bought a bed and my Dad bought Savannah a bed. My Aunt Helen gave me the dining room table and Tiffany-style lamp that hung over it… I remember eating at it with my cousins on holidays or sleepovers during the summer.

But I never ended up with a coffee table. My Dad advised against it. He remembers my fall face first into his coffee table, and now Savannah is running through my house. My clumsiness is an issue. And I spend all of my time at home barefoot, as does my child. We both stub our toes regularly.

So, a lowly ottoman has become the coffee table. We use it as a tiny table when we order pizza. And it is usually where the remotes to the TV and DVD player reside. My keys & wallet hang out there. So, it was no surprise when, Monday, I sauntered through the living room barefoot, and kicked the leg of the ottoman. This time, there was not a lot of a pain. But the sound it made was not good. I thought I’d cracked the wooden leg of the ottoman, when I saw blood. I had split the nail on my big toe right down the center. The crack only ran about a third of the way down the nail, but it is a nuisance. It catches on my sock, and the carpet and the bedsheets. It is a pain in the ass. And it has caused another problem.

Now, I want a real coffee table. No glass top, no sharp corners. And I want to pick it out. If my furniture is going to end up damaging me and leaving scars (on me and likely my kid) I figure I had better like the way it looks. When I pick one out, I’ll have you over…for coffee.

It’s that time….again.

I have a friend who says, “For God sakes!”  It makes me crazy. The correct phrase is, “For God’s sake.” Unless he has been talking about Japanese rice wine all these years. I doubt it.

I’ve also never seen a TV weatherman (or pregnant weatherwoman…why are they always pregnant?) who can just say, “behind.” They always say, “back behind” as in “back behind this cold front…”  It is redundant. It makes me crazy.

I had a girlfriend who always said, “Condensating” instead of “Condescending”, and “grammarically” instead of “grammatically”. My ex-wife said, “electronical” instead of “electrical”. And more than half of my friends say, “expresso” instead of “espresso”. It makes me crazy.

And so it is with Daylight Saving Time. It is not Daylight Savings Time. It is not enough that I hate Daylight Saving Time, nearly everyone mis-pronounces it, too. It is insult on  injury.

I started hating DST when I was a kid. I am old enough to remember when it was practiced in Indiana 30+ years ago. I hated going to bed in the summer (when I didn’t have school) when it was still light outside. In fact, I blame it for my insomnia now…messing up those circadian rythyms at an early age. Now, trying to get my own child to bed while it is still light outside is difficult. Not just because it is light out, but because I sympathize with her.

And, as if there were not enough reasons to despise the blood that courses through the veins of George W., the Moron-in-Chief moved up DST’s start date by a couple of weeks!If only for this, he must go!

So, every Sunday between 8:30 and 9:00 p.m., when the throngs crush through the doors at Some Guys to put in their last minute orders, do not stop by the counter and ask me if we are going to start staying open later because of Daylight Savings Time. I am likely to respond from back behind the counter, in a condensating tone, “Oh, for God sakes…”, even if it isn’t grammarically correct.

Achey Breaky Ears

Because of my hip surgery, I had not seen Savannah in a month. I managed to pick her up a day early for our weekend together, and told her that we would do some extra things since we had some extra time. I always feel obligated to reward her good report cards, too.

Friday night we saw a movie, like we always do, but I thought I would surprise her Saturday with something we had not talked about. Since the tickets for the recent Hannah Montana concert run about as much as my monthly mortgage payment, I opted for the less expensive option of taking her to see the 3-D movie of the concert.

It was an experience not unlike ones first car accident. It left me stunned and badly in need of a glass of wine or a sedative. We arrived early enough (40 minutes) that we didn’t have to stand in line very long. At the ticket window, I said, “One adult and one child for Hannah Montana”. The girl behind the glass stared blankly at me and said, “$30.00″. 

I had forgotten that the IMAX 3-D movies were $15.00 a head. $5.00 for a slushie and we were then corralled at one end of the lobby with all the other 6-12 year old girls.

Once in the theatre, I noticed there were very few mothers. You know you are in for trouble when the mothers are absent. My experience is that when there are more fathers present than mothers in an activity involving children it only means two things: it holds tremendous potential for unpleasantness or it could be dangerous. That is why fathers wield the fireworks, go camping & bike riding or show the kids the power tools in the garage. It is also why we end up behind the wheel of a long roadtrip with the kids, go to the State Fair or end up at the Hannah Montana concert or movie.

The lights dimmed a bit and we watched the trailers for the upcoming kid movies. And then it happened. Louder than a tornado, matched with the shrillness of a locomotive braking to a halt, the squealing began. Two hundred girls did what only girls can do…that high-pitched whistling scream. One girl starts it and instantaneously the rest fall in with her. And when they aren’t screaming, the girls on the screen are.

When the lights came back up and the credits rolled, every father in the theatre looked shell-shocked, and every little girl was hopped up on sugar-filled slushies, their little bladders ready to burst. By the time we made it to the lobby, there was a line snaking out of the bathroom, and the crescendo emanating from the women’s room was deafening.

I looked at Savannah and said, “Clench until we get to Some Guys.” I drove 34 blocks in 10 minutes, and was able to have half a glass of wine while I waited on her. July 4th and the State Fair can’t come soon enough.

To “Sir” with contempt…

Last Saturday, a week ago, I needed to go by Trader Joe’s for coffee and wine. Located in the same strip mall is a fairly new fast food restaurant called Five Guys. They make burgers and fries and hot dogs. That’s it. Nothing fancy. The kind of food that will kill you if you eat enough of it. Only two types of people eat there: Fat guys who are working hard on having a heart attack, or teen-aged boys who will someday be fat guys.

But, I had a hankering for their bacon cheese hotdog and cajun french fries, and it was in the same strip mall as Trader Joe’s….and I am perched on that thin line between fat guy and making the decision to be healthy and thin.

I was still using my cane, as it was only three weeks since my hip surgery. As I lurched toward the front door of the restaurant, one of the three 17-year-old boys behind me stepped up and opened the door for me, saying, “Let me get that for you, sir.”

It was his tone of voice. “Sir.” It was not said with respect. It was said with deference to my age…”Sir” hissed out of his mouth the way it slid out of Eddie Haskell’s on Leave it to Beaver. But I thanked him and went on in and ordered my food.

Once inside, there is almost no way to make a space your own. The interior is sterile and brilliant white. Everything, floors, walls, tables, counters, ceiling…all white. And the lights are bright fluorescent panels…like a good Vietnamese carryout place. The best you can hope for is to establish yourself at a table equi-distant from the other diners.

But, as my good fortune would have it, these three boys sit at the table next to mine. It could be worse, I thought. They didn’t smell bad, or smoke, or talk too loud. They were fairly well-behaved young adults. And as I ate, their conversation drifted over to my table. It was not directed at me, just loud enough for me to hear it. They talked about how they hoped they would not have to take care of their parents when their parents got old…

There was no doubt that my presence had prompted their discussion. I started to fume. I thought of interjecting myself into their conversation by telling them I was recovering from having both my hips replaced, when it dawned on me that it only served to make me sound older. “Old people have their hips replaced, sir.”

And then the sudden realization hit me. I am as old as their parents.

After Trader Joe’s, I came home and put the cane in the closet. And I won’t be going back to Five Guys anymore. This old guy has to make some changes. I am going to have to start reading the labels on the food I buy…as soon as my bi-focals are ready.

The music

For some reason, many of you do not understand that you can turn the music off by pausing it, turn the volume up or down, or fast-forward to another jazz piece you will no doubt like about as much as the previous one.

I have been working on a post about Cafe Espresso Coffeehouse aka Cafe Depresso aka Cafe Hell. Need to scan the old menu and a photo or two and then I will post it.

Don’t forget to Check out the photos of Savannah listed in the sidebar.

Quote for a Sunday: “Nothing defines humans better than their willingness to do irrational things in the pursuit of phenomenally unlikely payoffs. This is the principle of lotteries, dating & religion.” — Scott Adams, creator of the comicstrip Dilbert

More to come soon…along with a nifty scar picture or two.

New sidebar

I added a new listing under Pages….I have added a section for photos. Right now they are all of Savannah. There will be plenty of others in the coming days…check it out when you get a chance.

While I am stuck at home and watching TV for a change, I have discovered a new favorite show. Other than the fact that I am not a brilliant doctor, I suffer an amazing resemblance to “House”. Limps, walks with a cane, takes Vicodin, is ruthlessly blunt…sounds familiar.

Quote of the Day: “There once was a time when all people believed in God and the church ruled. This time was called the Dark Ages.” –Richard Lederer

TORNADO! (or) Straight line winds, my ass!

     Tuesday, I did the things I usually do since the surgery: I wrote, made coffee, watched TV, listened to music on Pandora.com, surfed the web, read the NYTimes, ate & napped. The weather was downright balmy for January in Indiana…53 degrees. I had noticed a squall line on the radar that was headed my way. Behind it, the temperature was 13 degrees. I love thunderstorms, and this one had a lot of lightning associated with it, so as the evening wore on, I prepared myself for the storm. I turned off the TV and most of the lights and got ready to head back to the bedroom where I could stretch out and watch the light show. Since I had begun to use crutches, which makes carrying things nearly impossible, I made several trips to the bedroom with things I would need for the night, like bottled water, and grabbed a flashlight and what we used to call a transistor radio…just a little hand-held battery operated Am/Fm radio.

I called Savannah to say goodnight. The storm was already there, and the lightning was so intense she had to get off the phone. I hung up and gimped around the house turning off lights and locking the front door. Just as I got back to the bedroom, the lightning started. I sat on the edge of the bed.Before I could get comfortable in bed, the rain hit. It was coming down so hard, I could not see out the bedroom window. I got off the bed and stuck the radio in my pocket and grabbed the flashlight when, suddenly, I could hear it coming. The sound is hard to describe. It was a roar like a million golf balls rolling and bouncing towards me. And it was coming fast…I turned off the TV and lurched towards the laundry room in the center of the house. By the time I got there, maybe five seconds, the sound was upon us ( shittykitty & me). The lights were dimming and flashing, and the rain was hitting the windows with such force I could see nothing outside except for the ocassional flash of lightning. Every three seconds something crashed loudly outside or hit the roof. The power went out and the lights went with it. Within ten seconds of losing power, the storm began to abate.

The windows were covered with rain and leaves, making it difficult to see outside. I opened the front door and was greeted by a blast of cold air. There were limbs and trees down all over the neighborhood. I stepped back in and hurried to the back window. The top halves of two of the neighbors trees now lie across my backyard. Beneath them, the electric, cable, and phone/DSL lines lie pinned to the ground. The riser, the pipe the electric lines run through into the house, now sat at a 45 degree angle, with the lines frayed and yanked out of it. The phone interface, the grey plastic box that houses the phone connections, is pulled off the side of the house. And now that there is no electricity, the furnace sits silent. It is starting to get cold inside.

I begin making phone calls on my cell. First my Dad, then Indy Power & Light. A recording says it will be restored by 10:30 p.m….a couple of hours. Surely, I can wait that long.

{Pix per Kara’s request}

It is noon, Friday. Electricity was not restored until noon Thursday, two days later than estimated. The phone/DSL repair man is standing in the backyard looking stunned. I have yet to see the cable guy. And I have to go to the Doc and get these staples removed…more tomorrow….

I am home!

Surgery went well, and I got home sometime just after noon today. I am glad to be home! I had forgotten how little sleep one gets in the hospital. Initially, they constantly check vital signs. Every couple of hours an LPN or Tech came in to take my blood pressure (114/66 just before I left), blood oxygen level, rate of respiration, temperature, and to  see that I still had a pulse in my feet. Each shift change, the RN, LPN and Tech came in to introduce themselves and ask my name. The RN came in every three to four hours on medication rounds. My 8:00 a.m. round of medications consisted of 2 Norco tabs (Vicodin), 2 Celebrex, a vitamin C, an iron tablet, 2 dulcolax (stool softners), a simethicone chewable for gas, and a pill for nausea. Twice a day I also got an injection of Lovenox (spelling) into my belly fat, to prevent clotting. Somewhere in there I also got a cup of milk of magnesia. Both Thursday and Friday, at 6:00 a.m., someone came to draw one tube of blood. Both times it required a 3rd person (from another unit) to find a vein, after the first two failed.  One both occasions, the second person didn’t even stick me…just gave up trying to find a vein.

Every few hours the alarm on the IV stand would go off. It was loud enough to wake the dead. Someone would have to come in and change either the bag of saline or the antibiotic.

Three times a day, starting at 6:55 a.m., my meals would arrive. Twice a day, there was painful physical therapy. My main therapist was a young student who had the privilege of being a spectator at my surgery. As Dr. Hellman went on a skiing trip following my surgery, his nurse stopped in every day to change the dressing or yank out the vacuum drainage tubes.

To all of that, add bathing, 8 or so trips to the bathroom, catheter removal, changing the sheets, and visits by the janitorial staff. Even when I did manage to doze off, I would be awakened by someone pushing a cart down the hallway, or an IV alarm going off in one of the rooms on my unit.

I am so glad to be home…

“H” Day has arrived…

Well, today is the day. I won’t be back for at least three or four days. I leave for the hospital in about twenty minutes. If all goes well, they should have me up and walking by early this afternoon.

On Monday, my hemoglobin count was 14, which is perfect…especially for someone who had major surgery less than 6 months ago. My blood oxygen level was 99%, and my EKG was textbook normal. For someone who smoked 3 packs of Camels a day for 27 years, I am healthier than one would think. (Hang in there, Anne, the payoff to quitting is worth it.)

Looking forward to sitting here writing my next posts…

Charley

Job Hunting!

Due to the astronomical bills (the first hip cost $101,000.000), I am looking for a part-time job. In addition to Some Guy’s, I need a day job for the rest of 2008. Ideally, the hours would be from 9a.m. to 3p.m, Monday – Friday. I am too old and sarcastic to wait tables, so I am best suited to a kitchen position, either prep work or line cook. I prefer line cook…less thinking involved.

I won’t be available until March/April. A kitchen in Broad Ripple would be great. Of course, if anyone has a desk job that doesn’t require me to dress up and allows me to leave at 3 pm, I’d be interested in that, too!

My new goal for my return to Some Guys is 4 weeks. Unless St.Vincent decides not to charge me, which I suspect is unlikely. If anyone has an “in” with the sisters of perpetual weeping at St. Vincent Hospital, let me know. Anything to get these bills reduced would be appreciated.

More to come soon…