The Worst Week of My Life

Even now last Tuesday seems like it was a month ago. One horrible month ago. The date was September 11th, the most hallowed of modern dates, and not just because of the hip hop throw down between Fifty Cent and Kanye West.

You never fully appreciate what you have until you get the horrible phone call, "Your wife wanted me to call and tell you that she and your daughter are on the way to the emergency room." There was more said, but to be honest I couldn't remember it. All I heard was my girl was headed to the ER. The missus had just taken her in because we thought the girl had a particularly bad cold bug that was messing with her breathing. By the time I made into town and to the hospital, a nurse in the room called me to tell me I needed to get there ASAP.

I walked in there she was, her little body heaving to catch each breath. The missus above her, holding the girl's arms down to keep the IVs in her little arms, her face red and streaked with tears. There were nurses and doctors everywhere, buzzing around to help keep my little girl breathing. I remember her being sick when she left and her breathing was getting more difficult, but nothing like this. Nothing. I made my way to her head to hold her little hand and she looked up at me with big, scared, blue eyes. If I couldn't comprehend this, there was no way in hell she was going to be able to. If I was scared, I can't imagine what she was feeling.

Shortly after I was holding her little hand and telling her everything was okay and to hang in there, a shortish, round nurse put her arm around my waist and told me, "You see that, DAD? Next time you see a child breathing like that you bring her in here IMMEDIATELY." God help me I was too worried about my daughter. I felt like shit when that cunt brazenly insinuated I was some fucking white trash okie drinking forties in the trailer park while my little girl was dying. Those may not have been her words. I can't guess her intentions. But I'm certain there's a special place in hell for people like her. Sometime after that, we were told she needed to be flown to a children's hospital up North. I was able to hold it together and be strong for her until I had to tell family she was being flown North. Meanwhile they were able to stabilize my girl and the missus and I were allowed to hold her and try to comfort her. I didn't see her or the missus on to the plane. I had to run home, pack and catch a plane at three to get North.

Whatever happened on the flight - whether it was the oxygen, the rest or the steroids kicking in, when I got to the children's hospital my girl looked good. Not good, but better than when I last saw her. She wanted chocolate milk. She didn't want much to do with me but was wanting her Gramma and her Auntie. Our little girl was feeling better. And over the next couple of days she'd get better. She's home now.

Even now, I can't get the image of her little body in that bed and the tears on the missus' face. I can't get rid of the feeling of helplessness. And I can't get the horrible feeling of what could have happened - it probably wouldn't have - but to come home and see our living room littered with her toys from the morning that our world stopped, I don't know. I don't know if I could go on or would want to go on. And I feel the missus is the same way. That little girl has taken over our lives and our hearts. We're thankful she was at that hospital for something as seemingly minor as croup, especially when you think about the kids there that have much worse going on. We're also thankful we get to be her parents.

Next On the Menu - Calf Nuts!

I finally did it. Just like the commercials said to, just like Randy "Macho Man" Savage recommended, I snapped into a Slim Jim for the first time in my entire life.

And I'm pretty sure it'll be the last time.

A pepperoni stick sounded so good. I saw the Slim Jim, an extra large one (hey, I had an extra large hunger) flavored with Tabasco. "Interesting," I thought to myself. "Why the hell not?"

Why the hell not? Because these things are terrible. Yeah, it was spicy, that goes without saying. But edible is a stretch. In the packaging this thing was soft and greasy, and as I held it in my hands and ran it across the scanner I could hear that little voice in the back of my head saying, "That thing looks fucking nasty. It better taste good because it's gonna' knock at least three months off your fat ass life."

But it didn't. And it wasn't just the flavor. It had the texture of a fucking rubber glove. I thought it was just the casing, so when I got to the last bite of this damn thing (don't ask me why I didn't just throw it out the window - I guess I'm just an optimist and that it would taste better with the next bite) I gently tore off the casing with my teeth and ate it. I was wrong. The casing was actually soft. There was something chewy and rubbery in this son of a bitch that was supposed to be meat. There was something chewy and rubbery in the goddammed Slim Jim. So help me, there was something unidentifiable and chewy in that damned mystery meat.

Have I learned anything from this experience? Yes. First, the Slim Jim is not for human consumption and in reality it's a cruel dog chew toy. Second, if it tastes like shit the first bite, you don't have to eat the whole damn thing to figure out you're eating a turd. And third, Randy "Macho Man" Savage is either one sick motherfucker or a lying bastard or both.

Remember This -

what might be trivial to you might matter to someone else.

Also -

Is Andy Borowitz funny? Really? I thought I understood satire, and I also thought it was supposed to be somewhat serious. I think Newsweek got screwed on this deal.

Happiness Is A New Notebook

August came and went like a damn car wreck, rolling straight into September and threatening October. My months are already planned out. Freedom? Fuck it. I got a job.

I have my nice, new notebook with over a hundred blank pages in it. There's dividers in it, five of them, and it's college ruled. I love these notebooks. I wish I was going to scribble moronic short stories or dopey song lyrics into it - and perhaps I will - but for the most work it's going to represent my work life.

I started the Olds the other day. Damn it was old. History and burnt oil and gasoline and a touch of forgotteness filled its cabin. I love that car. There's nothing right about it. Nothing. I drove it less than a quarter of a mile and it is one of the few things I've done for myself lately that made me incredibly happy. For those few moments I forgot about looking down the barrel of the various guns bearing down on me and worried more about keeping it between the lines. The power windows and seats are fucked; the interior has been the victim of wet weather and rodents; the paint has been abused by the sun and the rain. But despite all of its shortcomings, in spite of the mold and the mildew, this damn thing makes me happy. It reminds me I have much more to happy about.

Now just to remember that.