Grandma Robbed Royalty Ranch

My grandmother is the sweetest person in the world. She's adorable. I don't recall her ever not looking like a sweet TV grandmother (obviously, this doesn't apply to photos). Grandma's 85 now, and as such has begun to lose some height, but the tallest I ever recall her being is 5' even (that probably wasn't different even in old photos). I don't recall her ever having any color to her hair, just really pretty, silver hair, and always cut very, very short. She is by no means fat, but she's got a bit of a tummy. She just looks like a sweet, old grandma. My grandpa just looks like your stereotypical elderly Swedish man - tall, rail thin, ears that grow two inches a day :-) To further their adorableness, my grandparents frequently split items when they have meals. I've never seen either of them have a whole can of soda to themselves - they split their cans of soda evenly.

About ten years ago, my grandparents, then 75 and 79, went into a Royalty Ranch in the tiny town they live in. They ordered a Junior Whomp-Whomp meal. They took their food back to their table, started dividing their french fries, then realized they were going to need to cut the burger to split it. So, 75-year-old, five feet tall, slightly unstable on her feet Grandma got up and walked back up to the counter. The 6'2", fairly buff, 18-year-old Royalty Ranch employee walked over and asked from the other side of the counter. Grandma, in her tiny sweetness, asks "Can I have a knife?"

Royalty Ranch employee throws his hands up and takes a small step back from the counter. "Absolutely, ma'am. Anything you want."

It took Grandma a moment realize he had misheard her, at which point she gasped in horror and quickly explained the situation. "No! No, no, no! Honey, I'm asking for a plastic knife. To cut my burger with. I do not have a knife. I don't want to hurt you or take anything. I just want to cut my burger."

Royalty Ranch employee breathed a heavy sigh of relief and handed her a plastic knife. Grandma, trying hard not to laugh, returned to the table where Grandpa was waiting...with the local Sheriff, a friend who had sat down to chat with him while Grandma "tried to rob Royalty Ranch."

I'd like to mention, by the way, that as adorable and misguided as the employee's reaction was, good for him. I'm glad he wouldn't have thought "Oh, I can take her" and put everybody in the restaurant in possible jeopardy. Over reaction? Absolutely. But if he thought there was a legitimate threat, his reaction was completely correct.

My Dog Can't Read Your Stupid Sign, You Idiot

I spent the vast majority of my time in high school with my two best friends, Jocelyn and Karl. We had a great many stories, each more hilarious than the last. The following is one of my favorites.

The three of us were sitting in my car in Karl's parents' driveway. Jocelyn looked over and saw a sign, spray-painted on a piece of scrap wood. It's been about 12 years so I don't remember exactly what the sign said. But Jocelyn read it out loud and it was something in the vein of:

"Dear Idiots,
"My dog can't read your stupid sign, you morons. You're a waste of space and that's a waste of a sign. Screw you!"

Jocelyn looked confused, and asked, "My God. What does your sign say to illicit such an angry response?"

Karl sighed, rolled his eyes, and replied flatly "Keep off the grass."

Dry Socket To Me!

I had my wisdom teeth removed when I was 18 years old, as many people do. I have a fair amount of anxiety (okay, overwhelming), so the days leading up to the procedure were naturally much worse than the procedure itself. Here's how the time line kind of went:

Two Years Before: "What's this in the back of my mouth? Are these the crowns of new teeth? Blerg."

18 Months Before: "Hey, my wisdom teeth haven't come in any further. I wish they'd do something. My gums kind of hurt."

A Year Before: My friend's high school boyfriend, who I'll call Graeme, had his wisdom teeth taken out. The oral surgeon discovered after the surgery that Graeme had some nerves that had grown in oddly, and had wrapped around his teeth. He lost feeling in his face - to my knowledge, he never regained feeling. He was out of school for weeks because there was so much swelling that he couldn't speak, he couldn't brush his teeth, and he couldn't stop drooling. His twin sister was in my Spanish class, and she came to school making fun of him EVERY DAY that he was out. I proceeded to panic and vowed that I would never have my wisdom teeth taken out. I shouldn't need to. After all, they started breaking through a year ago and have made no progress yet.

Six Months Before: My friend's dad told me a story about having his wisdom teeth taken out. He insisted that he woke up mid-surgery with the oral surgeon's hands in his mouth and THE SURGEON'S FOOT ON HIS CHEST! True or not, screw that! Never doing it!

Three Months Before: Routine cleaning time! And the jerk dentist said those horrible words: "It's time to start thinking about getting your wisdom teeth out."

Three Months to One Month Before: AUGGGGGHHHHHHHH! NONONONONONONONONONO!

One Month Before: Scheduled Wisdom Teeth Extraction. I was reassured I would be put under general anesthetic. I began calming down.

One Week Before: I went to the Oral Surgeon for my pre-operative appointment. We discussed the procedure I would undergo. I tried to bolt; my mother caught me. Then, in what the surgeon claimed was a guarantee that I would make an informed decision, but was clearly an act of psychological torture, I was shown a video detailing the more common risks and dangers of the surgery. I left sobbing.

Six Days Before Through the Day Of: "I'm not doing it. Absolutely not. No. Mom, why haven't you cancelled that appointment yet? I'm not doing it."

Two Hours Before Surgery: "Nope. I'm not getting in the car because I'M NOT DOING IT!!!"

One Hour Before Surgery: Further histrionics in the car.

Ten Minutes Before: "VALIUM!!!!!!!!!!!"

Nine Minutes Before: "Oooh, that helped."

During Surgery, as I woke up with the oral surgeon's hands in my mouth: "NO! STOP! MOTHER FUCKER! I'M AWAKE! I'M AWAKE! GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OUT OF MY MOUTH, I'M AWAKE! STOP STOP STOP!"

"Honey, it's over. That's not the doctor's hands. That's gauze. You're fine."

"Oh. Can I go home now?"

Twenty Minutes After: My mom took me to 7-Eleven for a banana Slurpee. Yay, Mom!

The rest of the day: A lot of eating KFC whipped potatoes.

The following day: My best friend, who I'll call Karl, and I decided we needed to drive two hours to go see another high school's production of "Footloose." We stopped and picked up Karl's friend, who I'll call Dave, who I was meeting for the first time. I was still a little loopy from the painkillers and sitting in the backseat, eating mini-marshmallows, chewing them with my front teeth. We then drove the remaining hour to the high school, only to find out the show was sold out. Well, blerg. So, we drove back to Dave's, hung out there for a bit, then went to Denny's, where I couldn't resist cheese fries. After watching me eat a plate of cheese fries while only chewing with my front teeth, I have no idea why Dave ever spent any time with me again, but he did and I've come to cherish him as a friend.

So, pretty traumatic for me. Here's how much time, attention, and stress went into my ex's wisdom teeth extraction when we were 24.

Day Before: "Oh, hey, I'm getting my wisdom teeth out tomorrow."

Two Hours Before: "K, I'm off to the dentist."
"Okay, good luck! I love you! Let me know when you're home! I'll come over and take care of you."
"Yeah, whatever."

Immediately after surgery: "Oh, cool, am I done? Hey, Dad, can we stop at KFC?"
"Sure. Do you just want some mashed potatoes?"
"No. I want a Famous Bowl!"

And he ate it. Fried battered chicken, corn nibblets, and all.

Seven Years Later, Still Grateful

When I was a child, I had a cat who I love very much. Note I did not make that past-tense. I still love this cat. Always will. My childhood was not in any means the best of childhoods. There was a lot of loneliness and a lot of feeling shunned. But I had Goose. The day I broke my ankle for the first time, Goose stayed next to me all day. When I was three and had a stomach virus and threw up on Goose, he just cat-shuddered and started to clean himself off (he was very grateful when my mother cleaned him with a wet washcloth). Sometimes my older sister was mean, because that's what older sisters do. Goose would respond by randomly chasing her through the house. I could go on and on and on about this, but I think you guys get the point.

When I was 21 and Goose was 18, he got sick because he was pretty old for a cat. Our vet, who is a tremendous person, didn't even suggest that unthinkable option, and just told me to take Goose home and take care of him. We had a few good last days together, even though he obviously wasn't feeling well. When he started struggling to breathe, I knew it was almost time. I picked him and took him to bed. I lay down with him, cuddling him, holding him to the very end. I told him it was okay, that I would love him forever, that I knew he was tired and had to go. He died peacefully in my arms. I then sobbed hysterically for two hours, and continued to cry for several days after. It's been seven years, and I'm still tearing up writing this. I love him and I miss him to this day.

I had ankle surgery yesterday and am in a lot of pain today. I'm really missing Goose right now. I know if he were here, he would have been by side since the moment I got home. He would have been purring, transmitting the healing sound waves to my body, and just keeping me company.

I walked past his grave tonight with Le Boyfriend, and told him about the most amazing thing another person has done for me.

When Goose died, a good friend of mine was living about 5 hours away and was very pregnant and unable to come be with me. However, she called me and asked what she could do. She asked if she could have her brother come help me bury him. I said yes, because I didn't think it was something I could do.

So, my friend's brother, who I'll call Howie, came over after working a long shift at his retail job. It was raining when he arrived, but without hesitation, he grabbed a shovel and began digging in the spot where I asked him to, rather near the house. Howie dug and dug and dug, and about a foot short of being able to set Goose's casket into the grave, Howie hit the foundation of the house. It was still raining as Howie filled that mostly dug grave back in, and it continued to rain when we went to the second best spot I could think of. Howie dug a second grave. My mom had found a perfect casket for Goose, and I had wrapped him in his favorite fleece throw blanket before placing him in it. Howie gently put that casket in the second grave, rain still pouring down on us, then waited while I placed a dozen roses in the grave and said a tearful good-bye, waited while I tossed in the first handful of dirt, then filled the grave in. He then held me and let sob on him for a good ten minutes.

It's been seven years since the worst 24 hours in my life. And I just want Howie to know I've never forgotten what he did for me that night; what he seemed to not even realize was a big deal and a tremendous thing to do. I deeply appreciate my friend's response of expressing how much she wished it was possible to be with me and for doing the most helpful thing anybody could do for me in that moment. And I will never cease to appreciate that Howie dug the grave at all, but all of the inconvenience he went through. He dug Goose's grave for me. In the rain. TWICE.

Thank you, Howie, for your compassion that night.

Easter Bastards

A few years ago, around Easter time, my sister put a small package together for our Aunt. I don't recall exactly what this box contained, but it had some form of Easter candy in it. My sister may have even put some Easter grass in the box. She put our Aunt's address on the box, our address for the return address, and then wrote a note on the back of the package:

Hi! I'm an Easter Bastard!

Our mother noticed this note before taking it to the post office and was not amused, until learning my sister had genuinely written the wrong word. Of course, she intended to write "Hi! I'm an Easter Basket!" Then, in attempt to fix the note, it turned into:

Hi! I'm an Easter Bastard!ket!

Since, this has become a joke in my family, because we're slightly horrible people (hopefully in an amusing way, though). This leads to statements like:

"Hey, Honey? Are we making your mom an Easter Bastard this year?"

"Hey, look what I got Kate's Easter Bastard!"

The store at which I work my day job, like many stores, has a suggestive sell initiative. We're supposed to sell x number Chocolate Yum-Yum Bars per shift. I think tomorrow, I'm going to ask customers if they'd like to purchase Chocolate Yum-Yum Bars to include in their families' Easter Bastards.

Push the Button, Honey

About 6 years ago, I had a major abdominal surgery. This surgery had me out of work for about 8 weeks and had me in excruciating pain for...well, I'll let you guys know when the pain is completely done. One of the incisions for this surgery was inside my belly button. That incision was hurting pretty badly last night, so I grabbed a cotton swab and some antibiotic cream and applied it to that incision. When I removed the cotton swab from my navel, I saw it was covered in blood. So, yeah. 6 years and that sumbitch is still bleeding. And people wonder why I'm so very terrified of having another surgery in less than a week.

All of the conversations about my concerns about having this surgery (to repair a torn tendon in my ankle) have had me remembering the major abdominal surgery from 6 years ago. In particular, one story stands out as being quite amusing.

I was 22 years old and working overnights at a convenience store. My boyfriend at the time, Nerfherder, was still in university and living almost an hour away from me. I call him Nerfherder because even though he could be quite shitty to me, he was mostly pretty good and a part of me will always love him. So he gets a nickname that is simultaneously endearing and insulting. There have been a lot of negative stories about him shared in this blog, but tonight's story is a positive story. Now, back to that story!

My mother took me to the hospital at five a.m. for preparation for surgery. Around 6 a.m., as they were putting my IV in to sedate me, I started panicking and grabbing my mom's hand and crying and begging for Nerfherder. I then lost consciousness and was wheeled into surgery. My mom, being the most fantastic person in the world and always willing to do anything for me, went back to the waiting room and called Nerfherder. When I came to following surgery, Nerfherder and my mom were both sitting next to me. That made me happy, and I fell right back to sleep. The doctor came to talk to my visitors. He told them that I was hooked up to a morphine pump, and that I could push the button for a dose every ten minutes. My mom went to the hospital cafeteria, since she had not eaten since about 4 a.m. and it was probably noon at this point. So it was just me, heavily medicated, and Nerfherder, well-meaning but apparently having had misunderstood the doctor's instructions.

Ten minutes passed, and Nerfherder shook me awake. "Honey," he said softly. "Honey, you need to push that button."

I trusted Nerfherder implicitly and was too heavily medicated to think for myself, so sure. I'll push any button you tell me to, Babe.

I fell back to sleep right away. Another ten minutes passed, and Nerfherder gently shook me awake again. "Honey, you need to push the button."

Press. Sleep. Ten minutes later: "Honey? Honey? Roz? You need to push the button."

This continued on and on. My mom returned after about an hour, surprised by how soundly I was still sleeping. Then, Nerfherder told her, "I've been waking her up to push the button every ten minutes. She's really out. I had to help her push the button a couple of times. Last time, I just pushed it for her."

My mother, a nurse, panicked. "NERFHERDER! No!"

"What?!" Nerfherder replied, matching her level of panic. "The doctor said she needed to push the button every ten minutes!"

"Oh, Nerfherder. He said she could have it every ten minutes. Not that she had to have it that often."

I don't think I felt anything that entire day.

I'm thinking about calling Nerfherder to control my pain medication following this surgery...