Recently, my neighbor Ann had to go to the dentist to get a crown. She asked if I would hang out with James (age 4) while she did so.
I cherish any time I can spend with either or both of the Casey boys under any circumstances, so I readily agreed.
Most of the hour or so were spent with him demonstrating his many toys, making my knight battle his (I always lose), and with the eating of snacks. But we also steeped ourselves in philosophical discussion. To wit:
James: What comes before 4 and 102?
Kay: I don't think I understand your question.
James [said with greater emphasis]: What comes before 4 and 102?
Kay [not wanting to have to count from 1 to 101]: Well, every number before 102 is what comes before 1o2.
James: Yes, and 1, 2, 3 come before 4.
Kay [relieved]: Yes, that's exactly it.
James: 1 you wear diapers; 2 you wear diapers; 3 you wear underpants; 4 you wear underpants.
Kay: Yes. And what comes after 4? What do you wear then?
James: After 4, it's all underpants, all seasons.
And....scene.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #216: The part where I share important information
From Elizabeth's England: Everyday Life in Elizabethan London, by Liza Picard
"Farting, like pissing, should ideally be done when alone, if at all possible, but if it is not possible to withdraw, 'let a cough cover the sound', which is not the whole answer to the problem. In all this, one has to remember that there were few lavatories, public or private, to which one could withdraw. The unfortunate Earl of Oxford farted as he bowed before Queen Elizabeth one day. He was so mortified that he left the Court for seven years. On his return the Queen greeted him reassuringly. 'My Lord, I had forgotten the fart.'"
"Farting, like pissing, should ideally be done when alone, if at all possible, but if it is not possible to withdraw, 'let a cough cover the sound', which is not the whole answer to the problem. In all this, one has to remember that there were few lavatories, public or private, to which one could withdraw. The unfortunate Earl of Oxford farted as he bowed before Queen Elizabeth one day. He was so mortified that he left the Court for seven years. On his return the Queen greeted him reassuringly. 'My Lord, I had forgotten the fart.'"
Crazy Crap Item #215: The part where I am delighted by my homecoming surprise
OK, so I just returned from Banning, blah blah blah. Aside from being seated next to the WORLD'S ANGRIEST TODDLER for 3 hours of my trip, the trip was fairly uneventful.
Just prior to my return, Eamon posted a most enticing Facebook status update:
Eamon hopes Kay likes her surprise!
Well, I'm always someone who likes to come home, but this little missive really sealed the deal. But before I reveal said surprise, I must back up a bit.
I, dear friends, can charitably be called a "picky sleeper." I started developing insomnia in college, and committed myself fully to this endeavor by graduate school. My good friend, Mr. Czjaka, was always amused by my capacity to awake for no good reason at all, and stay awake for hours. "Are you like Jane Eyre," he'd ask. "Were you awakened by a shaft of moonlight breaking through your curtained window?"
This eventually led to a phenemenon I like to call "migratory sleeping." Fed up with my inability to sleep in one location, I'd move to another--a couch, the floor, whatever came to hand as a reasonable sleep surface.
My restlessness has also led to a phenomenon my brother has recently dubbed "pillow madness." It started as an attempt to pin myself down. I found that after tossing and turning for several hours, putting my pillow on top of my head would secure me in place and, sometimes, anyway, allow me to drift off.
Later, I discovered that a pillow laid along one side of me only helped matters. And then one on the other side.
It was only when I met Eamon that I was introduced to the greatest invention mankind has yet to create: the body pillow. For the unenlightened, this is an ENORMOUSLY long pillow that runs the full length of the body.
So, for those of you keeping up, at this point in our story, I am sleeping with:
-a pillow under my head
-a pillow over my head
-a body pillow on one side
-a pillow on the other side
As if this weren't insane enough, then came the physical woes. Chronic shoulder pain. Chronic hip pain. On opposite sides of the body. This means, of course, that I cannot sleep comfortably on either my left or my right side. (Later, I developed a carpal tunnel-esque condition that seemed to kick in when I lay on my back ... cruel irony ... but I've managed to get that under control).
So, anyway, to properly bolster all my body parts, I found I needed:
- aforementioned pillows over and under head
- body pillow with additional pillow on it when lying on side opposite my sore shoulder (so as to prop it up)
- two pillows laid end to end on the other side, so as to bolster my sore hip when lying on that opposite side
I call it the Kay Daly Sleep System (tm). Patent pending.
Clearly, I'm now taking up enough bed space for three stout souls. Eamon and I can no longer fit in our queen-size bed. Add in my migratory sleep patterns, and I'm soon permabulating from one guest bedroom to the other. In the wake of my recent nervous breakdown, I finally settled into our haunted guestroom. It's dark and soothing, quiet as a tomb, and has a mattress I quite like.
But I miss, you know, my actual bedroom, and the guy I share it with, so this makes me a bit sad.
Which brings us to my SURPRISE.
Upon arriving home from Banning, I'm escorted to the bedroom where Eamon has contrived THE BIGGEST BED THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN. It's bigger than a King-size bed. It's bigger than a California King.
He has moved out our previous bed, a queen-size Comfort-aire, which had always made me feel like I was sleeping in a hammock, no matter how much I filled my side with air. It now lives in the haunted guestroom.
He has moved the double bed that I like from the haunted guestroom into our bedroom.
He has moved an old twin bed from our basement up two flights of stairs to our bedroom.
He has cunningly pushed these two beds together to form one TITANIC SUPER-BED.
He has purchased new, high-quality sheets for each of the components of this new bed (unlike the nasty, low-thread-count affairs I usually cheap-out with).
He has purchased coverlets and decorative pillows to match the brown pillowcase I had chosen for my body pillow.
And thus it is, we now own the largest bed in the western hemisphere, and I am the happiest of girls.
P.S. I'm also a sheet stealer. But we found a solution for that as well.
Just prior to my return, Eamon posted a most enticing Facebook status update:
Eamon hopes Kay likes her surprise!
Well, I'm always someone who likes to come home, but this little missive really sealed the deal. But before I reveal said surprise, I must back up a bit.
I, dear friends, can charitably be called a "picky sleeper." I started developing insomnia in college, and committed myself fully to this endeavor by graduate school. My good friend, Mr. Czjaka, was always amused by my capacity to awake for no good reason at all, and stay awake for hours. "Are you like Jane Eyre," he'd ask. "Were you awakened by a shaft of moonlight breaking through your curtained window?"
This eventually led to a phenemenon I like to call "migratory sleeping." Fed up with my inability to sleep in one location, I'd move to another--a couch, the floor, whatever came to hand as a reasonable sleep surface.
My restlessness has also led to a phenomenon my brother has recently dubbed "pillow madness." It started as an attempt to pin myself down. I found that after tossing and turning for several hours, putting my pillow on top of my head would secure me in place and, sometimes, anyway, allow me to drift off.
Later, I discovered that a pillow laid along one side of me only helped matters. And then one on the other side.
It was only when I met Eamon that I was introduced to the greatest invention mankind has yet to create: the body pillow. For the unenlightened, this is an ENORMOUSLY long pillow that runs the full length of the body.
So, for those of you keeping up, at this point in our story, I am sleeping with:
-a pillow under my head
-a pillow over my head
-a body pillow on one side
-a pillow on the other side
As if this weren't insane enough, then came the physical woes. Chronic shoulder pain. Chronic hip pain. On opposite sides of the body. This means, of course, that I cannot sleep comfortably on either my left or my right side. (Later, I developed a carpal tunnel-esque condition that seemed to kick in when I lay on my back ... cruel irony ... but I've managed to get that under control).
So, anyway, to properly bolster all my body parts, I found I needed:
- aforementioned pillows over and under head
- body pillow with additional pillow on it when lying on side opposite my sore shoulder (so as to prop it up)
- two pillows laid end to end on the other side, so as to bolster my sore hip when lying on that opposite side
I call it the Kay Daly Sleep System (tm). Patent pending.
Clearly, I'm now taking up enough bed space for three stout souls. Eamon and I can no longer fit in our queen-size bed. Add in my migratory sleep patterns, and I'm soon permabulating from one guest bedroom to the other. In the wake of my recent nervous breakdown, I finally settled into our haunted guestroom. It's dark and soothing, quiet as a tomb, and has a mattress I quite like.
But I miss, you know, my actual bedroom, and the guy I share it with, so this makes me a bit sad.
Which brings us to my SURPRISE.
Upon arriving home from Banning, I'm escorted to the bedroom where Eamon has contrived THE BIGGEST BED THE WORLD HAS EVER KNOWN. It's bigger than a King-size bed. It's bigger than a California King.
He has moved out our previous bed, a queen-size Comfort-aire, which had always made me feel like I was sleeping in a hammock, no matter how much I filled my side with air. It now lives in the haunted guestroom.
He has moved the double bed that I like from the haunted guestroom into our bedroom.
He has moved an old twin bed from our basement up two flights of stairs to our bedroom.
He has cunningly pushed these two beds together to form one TITANIC SUPER-BED.
He has purchased new, high-quality sheets for each of the components of this new bed (unlike the nasty, low-thread-count affairs I usually cheap-out with).
He has purchased coverlets and decorative pillows to match the brown pillowcase I had chosen for my body pillow.
And thus it is, we now own the largest bed in the western hemisphere, and I am the happiest of girls.
P.S. I'm also a sheet stealer. But we found a solution for that as well.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #214: The part where I rechristen the cat
Well, not to beat a dead horse, but I'm currently in beautiful Banning, Ca., home of my parents, assisting as my father recovers from a broken arm.
Local lore says my dad was felled by a small tabby kitten. Aforementioned feline had been purchased in the hopes that she would provide some nice distraction and amusement for my parents, whose range of activities have become a bit more constricted of late.
We, you see, are cat people. Worry not: I shall not digress into some cliche about "dog people" versus "cat people." Instead, I will note that throughout the years of my growing up, we owned somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 cats. Not at once, mind you. The most at one blow was five, and that was because of the birth of kittens, which were quickly dispersed to good homes.
And let me say, in our defense, we actually sought out only very few of these cats. Rosie, our first cat, was picked up, I believe, from a "free kitten" box at the local Gemco. She was promised to my sister Liz--her sole pet. Liz soon proved too young to take on such a responsibility, and was manipulated into making Rosie the "family cat" in exchange for what was termed a "knickknack doll." I'm not sure what a "knickknack doll" actually is, but it is family lore, and must be reported accurately.
Of our other cats, I recall selecting a feisty white kitten with orange tail, dubbed Boris, from a local pet shop, in later years. I believe our two Petunias, Petunia 1 and Petunia 2, were also deliberately acquired.
But more typically, our cats found us. There was Blue Eyes (named for her blue eyes), who I believe was found on the shoulder of the freeway and taken home. Also, there was Bones (a quite skinny cat, you see), who, emaciated and weak, wandered out in front of my mother's car as she drove down the street. My sister leapt out to put him back on the curb, only to have him wander suicidally back into the road. Into the car he went.
Then there was my personal favorite, "Little Kitty" (by this time, we'd given up trying to come up with names). She simply wandered up on our front porch and peered in the front window (a large, plate glass affair). My dad opened the front door, and inquired, "What do you want?" She skipped merrily in, and we had ourselves a cat.
Sparky, a feisty, fire-engine red kitten who later grew to a lazy, grumpy, strawberry blond, similarly wandered into our yard, and lodged himself under our house. Several claw swipes and one big bite to the thumb (my brother's), and he was ours.
I'll omit the rest, except a brief mention of Roger (who turned out to be a girl) and Jubilations, a wild tom cat who never really "belonged" to us, but rather lived off the bounty of our offerings of backyard snacks.
In fact, I've always rather suspected that we operated something like the underground railroad for cats. I've imagined whispered mews in back alleys, consisting of, "If you're ever in trouble, hit up the Petersons." Perhaps they even had a code of hobo symbols that had been scratched into the olive tree in our front yard. "Endless kibble, guaranteed home, moderate teasing."
But I digress. Back to the main topic, the borderline-insane kitten who currently makes her home in Banning. Like Roger, she looks like a boy to us all, but she is in fact a girl. Due to her boundless energy and penchant for flying around the house as if the very devil were on her tail, she has been named "Zipper."
It was during one of these wild sprints that she careened into my dad, knocking him off balance on a slippery kitchen floor. The result: one broken arm (not the cat's).
So, it was assumed, the cat was a very bad idea. A menace, one might say.
Subsequent to this, my dad had yet another fall, non-cat-related, and was taken to his doctor. In the waiting room, he fell again. Since there were now no cats to be implicated, it was decided that further investigation was required.
A trip to the emergency room later, a check-in to the hospital, and a very thorough exam by a wonderful intern named Dr. Haddad, and some interesting results developed. My dad, it seems, has sky-high sodium levels. He is chronically dehydrated. His kidneys are struggling. His blood pressure is a perilously low 60 over 40 (normal is 120 over 80).
Dr. Haddad looks at his entire medical record and concludes that the approximate 412 water pills they have him taking (an exagerration on my part) are EXCESSIVE IN THE EXTREME. His current doctors (seen for a variety of issues) have simply not gotten on the same page, and by not looking at the big picture, have created a whole parcel of new woes.
So, given my dad's extreme dehydration, weak kidneys and low blood pressure, it's no wonder a kitten could knock him over.
In fact, one could argue that if it hadn't been for our small spastic tabby friend, none of these issues would've been uncovered. The broken arm put my dad in a position to receive thorough and comprehensive treatment--something he apparently had not been receiving.
Given all this, I've decided Zipper needs a new name. I have thus dubbed her: "Lucky Break." "Lucky" for short.
Local lore says my dad was felled by a small tabby kitten. Aforementioned feline had been purchased in the hopes that she would provide some nice distraction and amusement for my parents, whose range of activities have become a bit more constricted of late.
We, you see, are cat people. Worry not: I shall not digress into some cliche about "dog people" versus "cat people." Instead, I will note that throughout the years of my growing up, we owned somewhere in the neighborhood of 20 cats. Not at once, mind you. The most at one blow was five, and that was because of the birth of kittens, which were quickly dispersed to good homes.
And let me say, in our defense, we actually sought out only very few of these cats. Rosie, our first cat, was picked up, I believe, from a "free kitten" box at the local Gemco. She was promised to my sister Liz--her sole pet. Liz soon proved too young to take on such a responsibility, and was manipulated into making Rosie the "family cat" in exchange for what was termed a "knickknack doll." I'm not sure what a "knickknack doll" actually is, but it is family lore, and must be reported accurately.
Of our other cats, I recall selecting a feisty white kitten with orange tail, dubbed Boris, from a local pet shop, in later years. I believe our two Petunias, Petunia 1 and Petunia 2, were also deliberately acquired.
But more typically, our cats found us. There was Blue Eyes (named for her blue eyes), who I believe was found on the shoulder of the freeway and taken home. Also, there was Bones (a quite skinny cat, you see), who, emaciated and weak, wandered out in front of my mother's car as she drove down the street. My sister leapt out to put him back on the curb, only to have him wander suicidally back into the road. Into the car he went.
Then there was my personal favorite, "Little Kitty" (by this time, we'd given up trying to come up with names). She simply wandered up on our front porch and peered in the front window (a large, plate glass affair). My dad opened the front door, and inquired, "What do you want?" She skipped merrily in, and we had ourselves a cat.
Sparky, a feisty, fire-engine red kitten who later grew to a lazy, grumpy, strawberry blond, similarly wandered into our yard, and lodged himself under our house. Several claw swipes and one big bite to the thumb (my brother's), and he was ours.
I'll omit the rest, except a brief mention of Roger (who turned out to be a girl) and Jubilations, a wild tom cat who never really "belonged" to us, but rather lived off the bounty of our offerings of backyard snacks.
In fact, I've always rather suspected that we operated something like the underground railroad for cats. I've imagined whispered mews in back alleys, consisting of, "If you're ever in trouble, hit up the Petersons." Perhaps they even had a code of hobo symbols that had been scratched into the olive tree in our front yard. "Endless kibble, guaranteed home, moderate teasing."
But I digress. Back to the main topic, the borderline-insane kitten who currently makes her home in Banning. Like Roger, she looks like a boy to us all, but she is in fact a girl. Due to her boundless energy and penchant for flying around the house as if the very devil were on her tail, she has been named "Zipper."
It was during one of these wild sprints that she careened into my dad, knocking him off balance on a slippery kitchen floor. The result: one broken arm (not the cat's).
So, it was assumed, the cat was a very bad idea. A menace, one might say.
Subsequent to this, my dad had yet another fall, non-cat-related, and was taken to his doctor. In the waiting room, he fell again. Since there were now no cats to be implicated, it was decided that further investigation was required.
A trip to the emergency room later, a check-in to the hospital, and a very thorough exam by a wonderful intern named Dr. Haddad, and some interesting results developed. My dad, it seems, has sky-high sodium levels. He is chronically dehydrated. His kidneys are struggling. His blood pressure is a perilously low 60 over 40 (normal is 120 over 80).
Dr. Haddad looks at his entire medical record and concludes that the approximate 412 water pills they have him taking (an exagerration on my part) are EXCESSIVE IN THE EXTREME. His current doctors (seen for a variety of issues) have simply not gotten on the same page, and by not looking at the big picture, have created a whole parcel of new woes.
So, given my dad's extreme dehydration, weak kidneys and low blood pressure, it's no wonder a kitten could knock him over.
In fact, one could argue that if it hadn't been for our small spastic tabby friend, none of these issues would've been uncovered. The broken arm put my dad in a position to receive thorough and comprehensive treatment--something he apparently had not been receiving.
Given all this, I've decided Zipper needs a new name. I have thus dubbed her: "Lucky Break." "Lucky" for short.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #213: The part where Mom hits the nail right on the head
Currently still with parents in Banning, Ca. A recent conversation:
Mom: So now, will your husband take you out to dinner tonight after you take me home?
Kay: No, mom. I'm staying with you tonight. I live in Chicago now.
Mom: Chicago! Why did you come all the way out here?
Kay: To help with dad's broken arm.
[pause]
Mom: Well, no offense, but I think we'll want to see a doctor for that.
Mom: So now, will your husband take you out to dinner tonight after you take me home?
Kay: No, mom. I'm staying with you tonight. I live in Chicago now.
Mom: Chicago! Why did you come all the way out here?
Kay: To help with dad's broken arm.
[pause]
Mom: Well, no offense, but I think we'll want to see a doctor for that.
Crazy Crap Item #212: The part where I make a totally predictable discovery
Still in lovely Banning, Ca., that bastion of the 55-and-older set, and enjoying the quirks of a community that has molded its offerings entirely around the needs of those in the autumn of their years.
At a recent trip to the grocery store, I thought to myself that since I'm here for the semi-long haul, I'll purchase some foods that suit my discriminating palate and fit well with my beleagured jaw. Hummus, I thought. That delicious puree of the chickpea, so favored by those of the Middle East. Surely, this most cosmopolitan of communities would offer such a delicacy.
No such luck. Ranch dressing they had. Salsa by the tub. Spinach dip. But hummus, no siree bob.
Not such a surprising revelation, but an unfortunate oversight. I think hummus and dentures would be a natural pairing.
At a recent trip to the grocery store, I thought to myself that since I'm here for the semi-long haul, I'll purchase some foods that suit my discriminating palate and fit well with my beleagured jaw. Hummus, I thought. That delicious puree of the chickpea, so favored by those of the Middle East. Surely, this most cosmopolitan of communities would offer such a delicacy.
No such luck. Ranch dressing they had. Salsa by the tub. Spinach dip. But hummus, no siree bob.
Not such a surprising revelation, but an unfortunate oversight. I think hummus and dentures would be a natural pairing.
Crazy Crap Item #211: The part where I benefit from being such a pill-pusher
So, as many know, I am currently in Banning, California, assisting my father, who broke his arm while doing mighty battle with a small tabby kitten.
While packing for this trip, I was a little alarmed to realize that I had packed far more in the way of pharmaceuticals, home remedies, over-the-counter tonics, and physical therapy equipment than I had clothes. Healthy I will be. Healthy and naked.
Once here, my hypochondria had an unexpected benefit. My dad was released from the hospital one day after surgery, and I whisked him homeward. My greatest concern was to get his prescription for pain pills filled, so that he'd have relief on hand ASAP.
I didn't, however, want to leave him and my mom alone with him fresh from the hospital, and while my sister Liz was hot-footing it out to join us, she was still about an hour out. What to do?
So I asked, "What is this painkiller you need?" The prescription listed a mouthful of chemical gobbledy gook which meant nothing to me, and on a whim, I double checked the doctor's original order. The alphabet soup name turned out to be the generic. The brand name: Vicodin.
As luck would have it, as I packed my many, many remedies, I had tossed in a bottle Vicodin I had left over from my recent jaw procedure. I don't take them, but as I packed, I thought, "Why not?"
So all was solved: Dad had his Vicodin -- or at least an interim bandaid -- until I could get out to fill his official prescription.
Hypochondria: we salute you!
While packing for this trip, I was a little alarmed to realize that I had packed far more in the way of pharmaceuticals, home remedies, over-the-counter tonics, and physical therapy equipment than I had clothes. Healthy I will be. Healthy and naked.
Once here, my hypochondria had an unexpected benefit. My dad was released from the hospital one day after surgery, and I whisked him homeward. My greatest concern was to get his prescription for pain pills filled, so that he'd have relief on hand ASAP.
I didn't, however, want to leave him and my mom alone with him fresh from the hospital, and while my sister Liz was hot-footing it out to join us, she was still about an hour out. What to do?
So I asked, "What is this painkiller you need?" The prescription listed a mouthful of chemical gobbledy gook which meant nothing to me, and on a whim, I double checked the doctor's original order. The alphabet soup name turned out to be the generic. The brand name: Vicodin.
As luck would have it, as I packed my many, many remedies, I had tossed in a bottle Vicodin I had left over from my recent jaw procedure. I don't take them, but as I packed, I thought, "Why not?"
So all was solved: Dad had his Vicodin -- or at least an interim bandaid -- until I could get out to fill his official prescription.
Hypochondria: we salute you!
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Crazy Crap Item #210: The part where I share beard lore
Well, I'm about to head out to Southern California. Sailor Jack has fractured his arm -- and injury encountered in a violent brush with a kitten, or so I'm told. I think he just regularly breaks or replaces body parts to ensure I come out to visit.
Before I go, however, I must share two recent beard-related phenemona.
Phenomenon #1: Eamon's out of control facial hair
As many know, Eamon has ceased removing any hair from his head. No hair cuts, no beard trims, nothing. This has been going on since August.
Me, I'm cool with it. I've enjoyed tracking the various characters he takes on as the hair grows. These have included:
-- A young Santa Claus
-- A cast member of Cats
-- A Greek god
-- The Gorton's Fisherman (from Gorton's of Glouchester)
-- A Russian mobster
-- Rasputin
His two latest favorite phrases have been, "Go ahead! Tug on it! It's strong!" and "It's like wearing a mink on my face."
Recently, he decided to memorialize his growth in fantastic collage entitled "Things my beard can lift." The set of photos also include closeups of various components he is lifting.
Phenomenon #2: A wonderful new ode to the beard and what it goes with
We do not know the master songsmith who created this ditty, but we were directed to it by Mr. Chris Czajka.
Before I go, however, I must share two recent beard-related phenemona.
Phenomenon #1: Eamon's out of control facial hair
As many know, Eamon has ceased removing any hair from his head. No hair cuts, no beard trims, nothing. This has been going on since August.
Me, I'm cool with it. I've enjoyed tracking the various characters he takes on as the hair grows. These have included:
-- A young Santa Claus
-- A cast member of Cats
-- A Greek god
-- The Gorton's Fisherman (from Gorton's of Glouchester)
-- A Russian mobster
-- Rasputin
His two latest favorite phrases have been, "Go ahead! Tug on it! It's strong!" and "It's like wearing a mink on my face."
Recently, he decided to memorialize his growth in fantastic collage entitled "Things my beard can lift." The set of photos also include closeups of various components he is lifting.
Phenomenon #2: A wonderful new ode to the beard and what it goes with
We do not know the master songsmith who created this ditty, but we were directed to it by Mr. Chris Czajka.
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