The Week That Was

Hello, my blogees. Boy, it's been a while, ain't it?

I've been limping along lately, working at work, working at home, and trying to keep things in Betland together. (No rusted rides, no poisonous concessions, etc.)

But you know, my birthday was Sunday. That would be your Sunday, Feb 26th. I was ready to celebrate and forget about things in "real life" for a while. Hell, if I have to become a bitter old crone, why not celebrate it?

It started on Friday, February 24th. Friday, yes! The weekend was coming, and I had weekend plans! And they started with leaving work Friday, picking up Paw, and heading to Lowe's to pick out my birthday present, the one I specifically asked for from Paw and Granny.

A new storm door.

Yes, how romantic, and what a fun gift. But it's exactly what I wanted, and, well, needed. I have a new storm door at the front of the Pod, but the one at the dennette door, the one I use 99% of the time, is just about shot. And realize, I have a Milo in my life, so a working storm door with a good latch and a good lock is a must.

We went and picked out my door, set it all up for installation, and I was feeling pretty good. I could hang with Stennie that night doing the podcast, then I was to head to Mr M's the next day for dinner and movie. I was happy.

I got up early Saturday morning to take Milo out, and there was a small dusting of snow on the grass. "A mere trifle," I said, and brought Milo back in and lazed around in the Comfy Chair.

A couple of hours later, the phone rang. It was Paw. "Have you not left?" he asked. I said, well, no, and he asked me to look out the window. It was snowing like a mother.

"Oh, shit! Why does God hate me so?" I exclaimed, and of course my dad chastised me for that, but I got him off the phone and started running around, pulling on clothes and stuffing things in the overnight bag, without benefit of shower or anything else except a toothbrushing.

I hit the road, and the bad snow ended pretty quickly, though it did snow on me almost the whole way to B'burg. The wind, though. My Lord, the wind was blowing me this way and that, and I was fighting to keep the car on the road.

But I made it there, and then things were OK. (Well, except for a couple of skirmishes between Mr M and me.) We had a great dinner out with The DeepFatFriar, then went to see our movie. The next morning, I got to laze around and Mr M made me pecan waffles. I so didn't want to go home.

But home it was, because it was a Paw Duty weekend. And you know, it was OK. Me and Paw giggled and joked our way through the whole grocery, then I got home to prepare for the "fun stuff."

See, the Oscars were on Sunday, my birthday (thank you Oscar People), and we have a little TheCompanyIWorkFor codicil that says we get our birthdays off. Since mine was on a Sunday, I announced I wouldn't be at work Monday.

So I was excited to watch the Oscars, stay up late, play Stennie's Oscar Drinking Game, and not have to worry about going to work the next day.

So I got everything in place, hit the internet, watched the Oscars by myself on TV, and with my friends online, and had a blast. When it was done, I went to bed and prepared to snooze while my TV was on, tuned to all the after-parties.

That didn't go so well.

I climbed into bed and turned on the TeeVee, and it was all funny. The picture had lines, and buzzes and pops through the speakers, and I couldn't tell who anyone was. I muttered, "Stupid cable," turned over and fell asleep.

I slept in Monday. Yes, I slept in an astounding 15 minutes. Then Milo barked and I got up and leashed him and went out. When we did, there was a line of traffic in front of my house. Because the trash truck was running, at the building one house south of me.

I had missed Trash Duty Monday by one house.

I called Paw and told him I was bringing a bag of trash to his house. And here, folks, is how old people are. He hemmed and hawed, and basically said he didn't want it. Apparently he has three trash cans, and one more bag of trash there would totally set the earth off its axis, because it might not fit in the cans. I told him I was bringing it anyway, and I did.

Also on Monday, the guy from Lowe's called me and said he'd be there Tuesday to install my new door. Wooooo!

However, Monday contained something else. While the cable in my bedroom was still lining and popping and cracking, I found out the two other TVs in my house got cable just fine. Oh, crap. Not the cable. My 9-year old TV in the bedroom had gone, I said to myself, and schlepped out to the Wally World (Wal-Mart) to get a new one. (I can't be without TV in the bedroom.)

$278 and a lot of lifting later, the nice new TV was in my house. Then my cousin Jacob came down, loved on Milo, we hung out, then went out to dinner. It was great.

When we got back from dinner, she was kind enough to come in and help me put the new TV up. It went fairly smoothly, and we got everything in place. We hooked it up and turned it on. It did the same damn thing the old one did. Pops and cracks and lines. "Hey, I spent $278 for nothing!" I exclaimed.

I knew a call to the Comcast Bastards was in my future.

However, the next day was Tuesday, Storm Door Day! I came home for lunch, and the Lowe's guy arrived shortly after. Milo was a nutcase and whined and ran around everywhere, and I apologized, but he said that was fine.

He took off the old door, I watched him through the side window of the Pod, then I heard, "Ms B? Ms B?" I walked to the opening of the dennette and leaned over the gate (which I couldn't open because Milo was Mr Batshit Crazy), and said, "Yes?"

Then Mr Installer informed me that I seem to have a "non-standard-sized' door. Width can vary, he said, but height is standard. 81 inches. My opening was 82 inches.

I shouldn't have been surprised. Not only was my house built in the 50's, and all fixtures I've had to replace don't match with ones made today, but the dennette was an addition to the house, and apparently whoever addended it didn't care about door size.

I had two choices, I was told. Get a special ordered door at 82 inches for $200 more than we'd already paid, or have Mr Installer work on the door facing and build it down and inch. Which sounded complicated, but I found out today that would cost about $70. Guess which one I chose.

Now, the cable box.

Since a new ($278) TeeVee didn't solve my problem on Monday, I decided while Mr Installer was there I'd take the bedroom cable box and schlep (I seem to be schlepping a lot) it to the living room to hook it up there. By the way, I hate this kind of stuff. I hate playing with hook-ups and wires and connections like the plague. But I did it.

I hooked that box into the living room TV, and it played just fine. And that lead me to what we call The Worst Case Scenario.

That the problem wasn't a TeeVee or cable box, but the cable coming into the bedroom. Which is, might I add, coming into the bedroom behind my (very) full and heavy chest of drawers. (Or Chester Drawers, if you live here.)

I took the box back and hooked it up in the bedroom, and well, it's been spotty. It was working for a while right after the TV started, then went wonky. Last night? It worked perfectly all night long.

The Comcast folk are coming tomorrow morning. I need to move approximately 15,000 things in my bedroom away from that chest to give the guy the best chance he has to get at the cable. AND - if the box is still working perfectly, what do I say?

"That box is a liar! It's bad!" Umm, because that's what Comcast taught it, right?

I don't know.

All I know is that tomorrow is Friday. I like Fridays.

Betland's Olympic Update:
- Never do these anymore, but yesterday we got the news that Davy Jones of the Monkees died. So sad. I feel like another huge chunk of my youth is gone.

(because of circumstances you might understand, I never wrote a blog about my friend Seth Williamson. I'm still not over it, I try, but I don't think any of us who loved him will be over it. I hope this does you some justice, my buddy.)


I'm Still Bereft

The first week of October, I lost a friend.

And the way I lost him, well, I just can't fathom.

I had to go pick Granny up from her eye appointment. It was a Friday, I didn't mind, I got a few minutes out of work, I'd pick Granny up, deposit her home, then head back to work with the weekend ahead of me.

I went out to the parking lot and got in my car. I revved it up. My radio, as always,
was tuned to the NPR station out of R'noke, the only one I listen to. It was pledge week. A downer to be sure, more talk and less music, but that was OK by me. My buddy Steve B from the Community Band (the afternoon guy) was talking away, trying to get people to give to the cause.

But as I was backing out of my parking spot, something happened. He said something I wasn't sure about.

"I know he would have wanted us to carry on and reach our goal."

My blood ran cold.

See, I knew, from Facebook that my SKB buddy and dear friend Seth - the normal 'morning guy' on the NPR station - was in the hospital. His daughter reported that he had to be taken to the local hospital to have gall bladder surgery. Gall bladder surgery? It's relatively simple. Hell, I had it some 18 years ago, and I came out just fine.

But something just didn't feel right.

I continued backing out of my spot and heading out to meet Granny. Then it came.

Steve Brown announced that Sethie had suddenly died the night before, after his surgery.

I can't explain it. Suddenly, in a way, my world ended that morning. Still trying to go through the parking lot to head out to meet Granny, tears making it nigh-on impossible to drive.

In my life I've lost a grandfather, two grandmothers I loved dearly, an uncle and an aunt. Thank God I still have both parents with me, and all my immediate family.

I swear to God, nothing has hit me as hard as this.

Seth Williamson was my friend. But he was so much more.

I first knew him from Community Band, a euphonium player who seemed larger than life, with a big booming voice, always ready with a hilarious quip to throw out to the band. He did the narration for every July 4th concert the band played, and I swear, some of the rehearsals with his narration were so great (with outtakes and asides), I kind of fell in love with him.

Then about 8 years ago, I got my dream. To join the Sauerkraut Band. I'd wanted to for some 10 years, and (thanks, Mr M) I was asked to come along for the ride. Seth played euphonium in the Sauerkraut Band.

And that's when I realized that falling in love with Seth was, well, par for the course.

He was wonderful. So kind. So funny. So talented. The kind of person who made a girl coming into a new group feel welcome, like she was "one of the gang."

I sat right behind him all those years up the mountain at Oktoberfest. And I have to tell you, when things got rough, or boring, or beyond tolerating, he could always turn around and say something to me that would crack me up and keep me going.

Mr M and Sethie became great friends. They charged emails back and forth between them, arguing over politics and religion, the two things people should never talk about. But they were so close, they had to.

I can remember many a time when it came intermission at Oktoberfest, when Seth would go outside on the patio and grab a chair to sit. Mr M and I, and always other SKB members, would go over to where he was to talk and laugh.

Besides being a fine musician and singer, Seth was the king of the one-liners. He'd often shout something out during Ed's repeated schtick that would crack up the entire band, and half the audience.

In the early days of SKB, Seth always called me "Elizabetta," which I loved, and treasure to this day.

And so time passed, and we were all now ensconced as friends. But over the past two years, Sethie found Susan. A new SKB member. She's a lovely person, and they seemed to be a perfect match. They were so happy together.

So now - I didn't have to wait till Oktoberfest to see Seth (or Susan)! They came over to Mr M's for dinner, or movies, or just to hang out. It was fantastic, and oh, the stories I heard from Seth.

The summer before he died, they came over and we watched the movie "The Wild Wonderful Whites of West Virginia." Oh, my Lord, the comments that came from him. I'd seen the movie before, and had laughed, but he made me laugh even more.

Seth, from the beginning, accepted me so willingly, with whatever horrible character and physical flaws I have, or may have thought I had. He welcomed me into his fold and called me his friend.

He was larger than life to me. And that's (whether it's grammatically correct) literally and figuratively. He was a large man. Tall and big, with a huge booming voice (perfect for radio). He was just a large presence.

But he was also bigger than life because he was so knowledgeable. He knew every bird in the sky. He would hike up mountains to see hawks fly above the Virginia sky. He'd read thousands of books. He knew all music, from classical to lowly band music, to bluegrass, to old-time mountain music. Every time I went up the mountain to Oktoberfest I'd see him sitting on the back of his Forester, reading at least one book.

And he had stories. Like the time he used to sing jingles for money in Charlotte, NC. One of my favorites.

And another thing I'll always treasure. The time I brought Granny and Paw up to the mountain for Oktoberfest, Seth sat and talked to my dad forever about bluegrass music, and artists, and who was the best at this instrument or that. My dad remembers it to this day, and grieved over his passing, too.

So - here it is in the New Year, 2012.

When I went to Seth's memorial, it was beautiful, with lots of pictures of his life, but there were no pictures of birds.

That's how I think of Sethie now. As a hawk flying over the mountains, over us all, looking down on us and telling us to get on with our lives.

I'm trying, Seth. But I swear, I miss you.

DFF's Answers!

OK, so when last I left you, my buddy the DeepFat Friar had posted his Christmas Quiz. Only one brave soul chimed in with answers.

So now here are the answers, and I'm telling you right now, these are all the DFF's answers, so get ready.

1. The shepherds were watching their flocks in the hills. The sheep would not have been grazing in the hills in December in that part of the world.

2. The Saturnalia. (BTW, *I* knew this from "The Big Bang Theory.")

3. The holding of a census. There is nothing in any known Roman historical records about it.

4. The Little Drummer Boy, because of the chorus lines, "TAAAAAAAAAAAAAH rum ba bum bum, rum ba bum bum BUMMMM." (Hum the Dragnet them music to those lyrics.)

5. Caribou can't fly.

6. Rudolph. The song "Santa Claus is Coming", refers to "Rudy toot-toot." (This may be the fuel that powers his nose, as well.)

7. Eight maids a milking seven swans (they don't give milk); six geese a laying five gold rings (as everyone knows, they lay golden eggs, not gold rings).

8. Contrary to popular opinion, it has nothing to do with the virgin birth. It is the doctrine that Mary was born without original sin.

9. The virginity of Mary. The text from Isaiah misquoted in the gospel refers to "a virgin shall be with child." The Hebrew word in Isaiah actually means "young woman". Hebrew had a different word to signify a virgin.

10. Unknown. Their names are not given.


Oooooh. How did you do?

Guest Christmas Blogger!

Ho, ho, ho, and Merry Christmas to all.

Our friend the DeepFatFriar has asked to be a guest blogger tonight. A sort of Santa for you all.

Because...

He has composed a Christmas Quiz!

Not sure how we're going to do this, I was just thinking we'd put up the questions tonight, and if you want to chime in with some answers via comments, be our guest. Then tomorrow I'll post the answers. And be warned - there's some tricky stuff in here!

So take it away, DeepFatFriar!

1. There is evidence in the gospels that Jesus was actually born in the summer. What is this evidence?

2. What major Roman feast is the date of Christmas close to?

3. What is the most significant "historical" event in the christmas gospel stories for which external evidence should certainly exist, but for which there is none in the historical record?

4. What is the favorite Christmas song of Jack Webb (of the old Dragnet tv show)?

5. What is the difference between caribou and reindeer?

6. Which of Santa's reindeer was famous for farting?

7. Name two physical impossibilities in the Twelve Days of Christmas song (there may be more).

8. What, exactly, is referred to by the phrase "Immaculate Conception"?

9. What christian doctrine is based the gospel mistranslating a Hebrew word in the Old Testament, and what was the word?

10. According to the gospels, what were the names of the so-called wise men?


So there you go. The night's winding down, so get wound back up and take the quiz!

Picture Sunday

Hello, blogees.

Well, after last week's blog, I felt like I owed it to my tens of readers to get my buns out and get some pictures of the big nativity scene in the town. And today I did just that.

Today was cold but sunny, and I got a few snaps.

Here's one of the whole shebang.

















Hey, have some hay there, Mr Donkey.

























(The picture doesn't do it much justice, but up close, that is one real-looking donkey. And he has one of those eyes that follow you while you walk around.)

Sadly, my sister isn't on his back, but here's the camel, flanked by a rather large sheep. Hell, they're all large.

























Here's the manger, and I'm telling you that wise man to the left is one tall fellow. Way over six feet.























And here, yes, here is our little buddy, right in the middle of it all.





















And pardon me for being so bold, but that is a d-o-g dog.

























And one intense little pooch, too. No one's escaping from this nativity scene anytime soon.

Oh. maybe that's it. He's a watchdog. No thefts, no vandalism at the manger this year!

Good boy.

A (Divine) Boy and His Dog

Hello, my friends. This is a Christmas blog, my first of the season. Maybe the last, maybe not. We shall not know.

It all started way too early, of course, the weekend before Thanksgiving. Because Christmas decorations are always put up too early nowadays. Poor Thanksgiving, the forgotten holiday. No one cares about it. They're too busy thinking of Christmas.

But it's been quite the talk of the town in our little burg here.

For years, we've had the same nativity scene in our town square. And yes, I know, but this is not what this blog is about. I'm from Mayberry, USA, remember - the fact that we put a nativity scene in the town square is a non-event. Even the non-religious among us don't care enough to cause a fuss, because we all like Christmas, and so no one's calling the ACLU anytime soon.

So let's not even go there, OK?

So, this is what the thing is. For all those years of having the same nativity scene in the town square, well, as you might imagine, it's gotten some wear and tear. Joseph's and Mary's noses have broken off, the sheep's a little wobbly because one of his hooves is too worn, and Joseph and Mary don't need to rock the cradle, because it only has three legs.

And so, this year, someone decided to spend some bucks.

Apparently, an anonymous benefactor has gifted the town with a brand new nativity scene to put in the town square.

And let me tell you, it's something else.

First of all, besides being new and shiny, it's life-sized. Humans, animals, everything. Life-sized.

My sister thinks this is the greatest thing ever. She's made me promise that before the holiday ends I'll go with her to the town square and take a picture of her with the giant camel. Maybe with her sitting on it.

And yes, it's a very nice nativity scene, built to scale, and no broken noses or wobbly hooves.

However.

Well, wait. First of all, an aside. (You all know how I love a good aside.)

My dear old dad came into the office the other day, he rode the bus into town to get a haircut, and he was telling me that the new scene was all the talk at the barber shop.

One of the barbers announced, and I can't denounce it, because Lord knows I don't know my Biblical scripture, and Dad couldn't either - but this barber said the wise men were placed wrong at that scene, way too close in, because apparently they didn't reach, and meet, well, Himself, until he was about two years old.

And I was so happy to make my dad laugh when I said to him, "Well, if that's true, they need to place the wise men round about my house (about 1/2 mile away)."

Har de har.

But that's not where we're going here in the blog about the big fancy nativity scene.

Everyone in our office has driven by this scene, there in the town square, a few times a day, since before Thanksgiving. And it didn't take long for us to start discussing it.

OK.

So you have the life-sized figures, the life-sized Joseph and Mary and Baby Gee, and the camel and sheep and lamb and ox and ass.

And there, sitting, drawing a bead on the Baby Gee, is ... a dog.

Well, it has to be a dog. I looked really closely. I wondered if it was a wolf, or a jackal. It's not. It's a dog.

He's in the basic "sitting dog" position, with his head pitched forward. He's about 6 feet away from Baby Gee, looking right at him, as if to say, "Hello!"

None of us has ever heard of a dog at the nativity. I've researched it. I mean, it might make sense, if there were sheep there, there might have been a sheepdog there.

But this dog isn't made like a sheepdog. It's just a smooth-coated black dog.

We have, there in the office, discussed this to no end. Way more than why a town can put up a nativity scene and no one cares.

So, was there a dog at the nativity?

I'd sure like to think so. I mean, dog is man's best friend, right? And every boy (or should I say, Boy) needs a dog in his (or His) life.

You know, years ago, I read a little blurb that said "Dog is God spelled backwards." And I believe it.

So welcome to the nativity, Mr Arf-Arf. I like you there. (And so does Milo.)

Ow! My Back (pt 2)

So, my lovely blogees. When I last left you I'd been kicked out of our city's armpit ER with a pain pill to tide me over.

Yeah.

So I went into work Monday (because, yes, that's how I roll) in much pain, screaming out in horror when I had to take a shower, go to the bathroom, and pull my pants up and such.

So finally I decided to call in sick Tuesday (do you know what a massive thing that is for me?), and see Smokin' Dr Javier to see if, in fact, I needed that MRI I didn't want to have because it was not paid for my by insurance, the "Never Pay Policy."

Smokin' Dr Javier hit my knees with the little hammer, and then made me stand up. He ran his hands along my back, said, and I quote, "Ahhh," then stuck his thumb in a place in my buttocks that almost took me to the ground, and I was holding on to his 95-lb ass, so he almost went down with me.

I told him this was most precarious, as we didn't want to be found in the floor together all tangled up like that, as tongues would wag, and he laughed, then helped me to a chair and started writing.

His writing contained a refill of those pain-killing drugs I got in the ER, but not an appointment for an MRI. Instead he told me, "You need physical therapy and you need it immediately. Even one session could help." He told me to go home and wait, and he'd have me an appointment with someone he highly recommended. With a physical therapist.

And so at noon Tuesday, I met my new hero, Dr Everton.

I walked into his office and he started asking me questions about my situation. I found immediately he was British, which of course endeared me to him. He had a very droll sense of humor during all of the investigory questions.

He made me move this way and that, then told me that although I was in great pain, he thought my situation was not so dire. I had twisted and inflamed ligaments rubbing against my sciatic nerve. He also used the word "sacroyilliac" many times, which as a podcaster of the Hucklebug, I found comforting.

During our introduction and his making me go through some basic back and leg movements, we (somehow, I honestly can't remember) got to mentioning English football. That's when he told me he was an Everton fan. (Sorry, Stennie.) Then he asked me to put slip off my "jumper"(it was just a shirt) and put on the hospital gown he'd given me. I started doing that immediately, and he said, "Oh, no, let me at least leave the room first, love."

OK, this was my guy.

After I'd put on my hospital shirt and he made his way back in, Dr Everton asked me if I thought I could lie on my stomach on his bed. I did my best, and then - then! - he began to tell me how he was a "hands on" therapist.

He lowered my pants and undies, brought out some oils and an ultrasound machine, and began to rub.

And God, how he rubbed.

He massaged my hips and nether regions like you wouldn't believe. All the while, he told me his story (he was from Liverpool and began life as a printmaker, then followed his now-wife to Amsterdam where he studied physical therapy). He did a perfect Beatles Liverpool accent and a good Newcastle Geordie accent. We talked back and forth about England. It was bliss.

After the massage, I got off the table, and still had that screaming (remember?) sensation, but I felt better. I could almost stand upright. He scheduled me for another appointment on Friday. To be honest, I couldn't wait.

He gave some exercises to do in my chair at home and at work that would help loosen up the muscles. Push the back in, feel the strain, then relax the back, feel it let loose. He said to do it all day, every fifteen minutes, no matter what (even on the toilet), then I needed to move.

He was worried my insurance wouldn't pay for his sessions. (What are you talking about? I knew it wouldn't, but I was prepared to pay it myself, whatever the cost.) After I got home that Tuesday, he called me at home to ask how I was doing, and to say that the insurance wouldn't pay, and he was so sorry (Mr Socialized Medicine), but he'd try to get the "Blue Cross" rate for it for me. Didn't matter to me. That ass massage was golden. (And let's be honest, his working the system, less than half the price of an appointment with Smokin' Dr Javier. And still, he apologized. What a guy!)

So I came home and did my exercises. Push, push, feel the strain, then relax. Then move. Get up and lumber around the house or office. Where the first step made me realize how much pain I was still in. Well... hoo de hoo.

I saw him again Friday, and told him I wasn't so much feeling it (I was near tears when I entered his office), because all of the things I do in a morning's time (showering, taking Milo out, going to the bathroom, getting dressed) were the things that made me scream out in pain.

He wasn't the least bit worried. He told me that the push and strain exercises would help, but the key was to move. All the exercises led to movement. But - before my next ass massage - which, let me tell you was wonderful and I swear I could have one every single day - he stressed "movement" wasn't lumbering around a house or office, it was moving my sore leg and hip.

And so I got my ass massage (which, let me tell you, etc), and after I got back to work after that, I stood up every half-hour and moved my leg. This way and that. Leaned to the right and left. Put my leg forward and back.

And I'm not kidding - by about 2pm, I was really starting to feel a difference. I could move! I could stand up and walk without crying. I went to the bathroom and didn't once scream while pulling up my pants!

That Dr Everton knows his stuff!

And so Friday and most of Saturday was a revelation. I could do my normal daily tasks without screaming and crying. (Remember screaming and crying?)

Saturday was not so good, and all my fault. I drove the drive to B'burg, then watched a movie with my buddies, and didn't do the whole "strain-push-get up and move."

And how I paid. Saturday overnight was torture, I got almost no sleep.

BUT!

I got up Sunday morning and started the whole thing again. Push, strain, move. Move, move, move. It helped, almost immediately.

I see Dr Everton again tomorrow. I can't wait to tell him I've had some progress, but more than that, I can't wait for my ass massage.

Insurance or no, "Blue Cross" rates or no, I want that ass massage. Forever. From tomorrow till the end of time.

With the rates he got me from his apologies that we in the US have no socialized medicine, I'd be happy with two ass massages every week the rest of my life!

But I'm progressing, blogees.

Slowly. Did I mention I can't wait for my ass massage tomorrow?

Ow! My Back! (pt. 1)

Hello, my long-lost blogees.

Yes, I know, I've been away a long time. I'd like to say that's because I've been off doing really exciting things, but, well, you know me. That's not the case. I've just been living my normal life.

And speaking of my normal life - hey! How about my back?

I've often talked about my back being "out," throwing out my back when lifting and slinging and doing hard tasks around the Poderosa, the things one has to do because only one lives at the Poderosa.

But then.... There's that other thing I've mentioned.

I don't know if you yourself have heard me mention it, but I have, many times. Between work and doing Paw Duty and working every day and living a life at a house where's there's only one gal to do all the stuff. "I'm just a mule, and one day this mule's back is gonna break."

And well, it did.

Over a week ago I found myself down in my back. And I'll be honest right here in the old blog, I have NO IDEA how it happened. I got up on a Tuesday. I got ready for work and got ready to leave, and I took Milo out for his pee and poo and got dressed and everything was as usual.

Then when it was time to go to work, my windshield was frozen over from the cold, and I had to scrape it, but then, I've scraped windshields for over 10 years, right?

I came into work, sat down, took a phone call, then went to the bathroom. And when I came back to start the rest of the day, my back was out. It hurt. I had no idea why. I was OK during the ice scraping, during the bathroom break - it was a mystery. But my back hurt, and that was it.

I endured it that entire week, babied it and tried to get it better, but to no avail. Then came the weekend. The weekend I had Paw Duty.

That was the Saturday after the initial Tuesday of my back going out. I didn't particularly want to do Paw Duty, but it was my weekend, so that was that.

There was a point, right there in the grocery with Paw, where I started to cry from the pain. I put my shirt up to my eyes to catch the tears. It was not a pretty sight. But still, there were cans and bottles to be lifted into the cart, and I did that, because I'm a dutiful daughter (mule), and that's what one does.

When we got the groceries back to Paw's house, he saw my shape and said, as he has in the past, to be honest, "Now, I'm carrying these bags into the house, you don't lift anything." And for the first time ever, I took him up on his offer.

I let him carry the bags into his house, then I went home. And I hurt. I kept thinking, "If there's just one place I could find a little peace...." and so I made that Fatal Mistake.

I went to bed.

I slept in my bed for over two hours. Which was nice, to be sure, but then I woke up and had to get out of bed.

And I couldn't.

My back had completely seized up. The muscles were gone, and all I could do, once I finally lifted myself from the bed, was to lumber around my house, screaming and crying.

Yeah. Screaming and crying. Remember that.

During all that screaming and crying, I wasn't sure what to do. I kept thinking of dialing 911, but you know, I have Milo, and I couldn't leave him in an empty house while I went off to the hospital.

So I called the parents.

I told them that if i could get in my car and drive the 2 miles to their house, I was coming, so at least Milo would have a place to stay if I had to confine myself. I threw Milo into the car, and screamed my way to their house.

And still....

It's hard to explain. In my town, the local hospital is an armpit. No one wants to go there, including myself. I tried to come up with any way possible not to end up in their ER.

I walked, I sat, I bended this way and that. I did everything I could think of doing. Three hours later, I finally decided that if I felt this way now, tomorrow and the next day couldn't be much better. I finally gave my dad the go-ahead to call 911.

And so they came.

Yep. So I screamed my way in an ambulance to the local ER, every bump and curve being a new reason for me to scream my lungs out.

I arrived at the ER and got evaluated. Yeah. I was a bit worried that I was one of the Saturday Night Crowd who wanted drugs (that's a natural around here), but they still went and looked me over, and did an X-Ray, and blood and urine tests.

Turns out I had no infections, and my X-Rays of the bones showed nothing amiss. They told me to follow up with my regular Dr, Dr Smokin' Javier, and that maybe an MRI was in order.

Yeah, OK. Total ER visit not paid by insurance, and now an MRI? I knew this routine.

They said they'd give me a shot to help the pain, one that would last for about two days. It didn't even last two hours. I was able to ambulate for a moment, then when they pronounced me ready to go, I was still unable to walk, screaming and crying (remember?) and leaning over various pieces of furniture to exist.

My dad (who had ridden in the ambulance with me) and I were kicked out of the ER. We had way no home, no one to call to get us home, but it didn't matter. We were duly released, and so we had to leave. It was 4:15 am.

The only person we knew to call was the bro-in-law's dad. He's a wonderful man who has spent his retirement taking care of lost souls. Oh, Lord, were we lost souls. He came and got us, and I professed such embarrassment that it it was, well, embarrassing.

I got two prescriptions to take home with me. One was a muscle relaxer, one was a pain pill. They gave me an extra pain pill there at the ER, and I took when I got home around 5 am. I slept a little bit, which was blissful, but let's be honest, I was wrecked and that was only a spot-relief.

But any relief was welcome as I slept a bit on Sunday, and went to work on Monday, cause that's how I roll, of course, but I was in just as much in pain.

I needed help!

So I followed up with Smokin' Dr Javier on Tuesday to see if that (non-paid, remember my health insurance) MRI was needed.

Stay tuned - what happened? Did I get better? Did I have to pay for an MRI I can't afford?

It's worth another check back, I promise!