The 10 things I've Learned as A Quadriplegic

Being a quadriplegic is a learning opportunity. I found my opportunity a few years ago when an odd confluence of events left me laying on the floor of my home office paralyzed from the neck down. Actually, I don't remember laying on the floor, I learned it later from my wife, and I didn't know I was paralyzed. The first thing I clearly remember is being transported by ambulance to a hospital about twenty miles from my home. I wasn't quite sure why I was in the ambulance, but I knew something very strange was happening.   At that point, I don't think I knew I was paralyzed, but I knew I was immobile. 

1. Paralyzed means: crap I can't move and I can't blame it on an indiscretion. That may be the first thing I learned; there is a big difference between the two. Immobile means I can't move right now because I'm drugged, strapped down or really sleepy, perhaps all three. But, paralyzes means so much more.
    
2. The love and support of a good women should never be discounted or abused. And, if you have done so, shame on you and clean up your act. The first thing I remember about the next day was my wife's swollen-eyed smile. The memory is vague, but I think real. She was holding my hand, which I could not feel, saying we've got your heart and your mind, that's all we need. To this day that's our motto.
    
3. People are at a loss when confronted by someone that has suffered a devastating injury. Friends visited in the first few days after my ICU incarceration. At that point, I could talk, smile and turn my head side to side. That was it. My friends were kind and sympathetic and certainly hoped I'd get better. Some offered to pray for me, while others made awkward attempts at humor. But, all of their eyes held a similar message: "Poor bastard!" And what else could they think. Lets face it, there just isn't a good way to deal with situations like mine.
    
4. People that have suffered a devastating injury are at a loss when confronted with well wishers. I did appreciate seeing friends, but in some ways I was troubled by it. I found myself wanting to make it easier for them because they were so uncomfortable. I had the sense that I had cracked their personal shell of invincibility. You know the shell. It allows you to drive on roads full of idiots, fly in 875,000 pound airliners, and eat at Taco Bell without being frozen by fear. My situation, and the unpredictability of it, scared the hell out of them. I knew it and didn't know what to say.
    
5. ICU nurses are angels.  The nurses in ICU were more than nurses, they didn't focus on my injury or paperwork to the exclusion of my person. They knew I was going through a difficult situation and did all they could to help. One of the wonderful things they did was scratch my nose without complaint. Prior to my spinal cord injury, I itched constantly. My shins were often covered with claw marks. And, some sun deprived parts of my body forcefully demanded the attention of my finger nails when no one was looking. After my injury, all the itchy demands of my epidermis, below the neck, moved to my nose. My itchy nose drove me nuts for a time and the nurses were there for me. I learned to live with the itch without asking for help; they had enough to do, without my nose being in the way. But, I am thankful they gave me the support to get myself to that point.
    
6. Rehabilitation is not what you think. Dictionary definition: to help somebody to return to good health or a normal life by providing training or therapy. The dictionary is what I had in mind when doctors started talking about sending me to a Rehab hospital. And when they compared the distant facility that specialized in spinal cord injuries to the closer generalized Rehab hospital, my wife and I chose the distant facility.  The distant facility was a 5 to 6 hour drive for my wife, assuming good traffic, verses a 90 minute drive. We made a bad decision based on bad information. We chose the distant facility. We also learned that a more accurate definition of rehabilitation was more like: to help somebody live with their infirmary and make their loved ones put up with it as quick as possible. Rehab was rarely about getting better, it was about getting by.
    
7. Embarrassment dies a quick death. I was taught to cover my private parts and not allow others to see them, unless those others answered to mom or wore a white coat. Of course this doctrine had to be modified during gym showers and on my wedding night, but still ,I was adverse to inappropriate displays of nakedness. My embarrassment lasted a few seconds: maybe. I figured I could live with it, after all, I needed the help, the nurses had seen it all before, and they didn't laugh at me. Well at least not in my presence.
    
8. There is a caste system in all social groups. I guess I didn't need to be a quad to learn this, but becoming one made it very obvious.  The caste system at Rehab was roughly based on the nature of an injury and the prospects for functional recovery. The top, and by far the smallest, caste were the Temps. These were the few who had suffered a severe spinal cord injury but were likely to have a full or almost full recovery. Then there were the paraplegics. They had lost the use of their legs, but had functioning hands and arms.  They might be able to get around, hold a job, scratch their nose and maybe drive a car. Then came the quads. They had lost the most function and often had the worst prognosis, so they sunk to the bottom.
   
   When I arrived at the Rahab center I was put in a room with three others. They were para's. At quiet times we would talk, at first about how we got there, and then about the inane things all of us discuss at a social gathering.  As we talked, I sensed a feeling of pity from the other guys. My roommates changed over the weeks. But, the feeling that they pitied me continued, it was like they were saying, "Poor bastard," at the end of each sentence. I understood that attitude from able-bodied well wishers, but not from these guys. Then a new roommate joined us. He had suffered an injury some twelve months earlier and had been recovering from various surgeries. He was really anxious to start Rehab as soon as a bed sore healed.  A few days later he was hauled off to a convalescences hospital because his bed sore wasn't healing fast enough. As I said good bye, I thought, "Poor bastard." And then I understood the whole caste system. I felt bad for his plight, and as a result, I felt better about my own plight.  I hope I ask a question the next time I look at someone with pity. Which one of us deserves it?
    
9. Insurance is not my friend but I do love it. Apparently, and not so many years ago, patients stayed in Rehab for months on end. I got the sense patients stayed until there was no reasonable expectation of further help from the hospital. In my experience the criteria seemed to be, you're out of here in five weeks unless you're about to demonstrate a miracle recovery that will make the hospital look good on performance reports. I definitely was ready to go home, but I honestly think I would have benefitted from another month at the facility.  At $7,000 a week, the insurance company didn't agree and I went home. On the other hand,  my wife and I would be bankrupt had we not had insurance. So if you want to complain about insurance, go for it, but pay your premiums.
    
10. I'd rather be happy. It's been over four years since my injury. I've recovered a lot of functions, bladder and bowel control being two of the best. With the help of my primary caregiver, see number 2 above, I've got a good life. During this journey people have told me I was an inspiration to them. I've said thank you, and to be honest I've been proud of their statements. But internally, I've shaken my head in confusion. I just don't get it. The only thing I could think of to cause their statements was that I've tried to be positive about the future and not focus on the negative.
    
    A few days ago, I was at physical therapy and encountered another patient that I had seen only once before. She said, "How are you?" I responded, I'm good, actually I'm great." She said, "Your so happy?" I said, "I'd rather be happy than not. There's no joy in the alterative." Then it dawned on me. It wasn't inspiration I was instilling, it was some kind of awe at being happy.
    
    So, I think the most important thing I've learned as a quadriplegic is: I'd rather be happy than not. Happiness is not given or withheld by others. Happiness is within you. If you expect others to read your mind and thereby create happiness for you, you will be disappointed. If you think gifts or winning a lottery will create happiness, you will be disappointed.  Happiness is within you. You won't find it anywhere else. 

 

Kale Chip Saga

My wife and I made Kale Chips yesterday and I thought I'd share my take on the experience. First, I should point out that what I know about Kale, especially before yesterday, could fit in a thimble and have ample room for what I know about collard greens and passion fruit. I heard that Kale chips offered a low calorie alternative to real food like potato and corn chips. I'm always on the quest for the holy grail, a snack that you can eat until you're sick and not gain weight. So, I went to my extensive  culinary library, also called the internet, to find a recipe. I looked at a lot of recipes, but focused on just six. Three things stood out immediately. Everyone lies about prep time, nobody agrees on oven temperature and cook times were nonsensical.

The prep time to wash, dry, de-stem, cut chip sized leaf pieces, gather cooking utensils, mix the marinade, coat the leaf pieces, line the pans with parchment paper and carefully arrange the coated leaf pieces on the lined baking sheets varied from 5 minutes to 15 minutes. I know I'm not the quickest bunny in the warren, but really, 5 minutes? It took five minutes to dust the baking sheets and get the dried batter off of the mixing bowls. Wait a second, if Wife reads this, her feelings might be hurt. She keeps a very clean house and I don't want to disparage her housekeeping in any way. So, I want to make it very clear, I tend to exaggerated for comic effect; there was no dust on the baking sheets. At any rate, prep time is certainly more than 15 minutes and I think 30 minutes might be conservative.

Oven temperatures ranged, I kid you not, from 130 degrees to 400 degrees.   Okay, you might say, provided the cooking times followed suit. But, the times swung between 12 minutes and 4 hours. I have to admit the temperature and time relationship for the 130 degree recipe, the lowest temperature, was at least logical in that it was also the recipe with the longest time of 4 hours. That neat inverse relationship didn't work for the other five recipes.   One 30 minute recipe called for 400 degrees while a different 30 minute one called for 250 degrees. A 20 minute 375 degree recipe stood next to a 12 minute 350 degree one. Needless to say, as kale novitiates we were confused as to our proper course of action. So we picked the one in the middle that offered wiggle room.

The marinades also varied, but mainly by how they were seasoned. The simplest called for oil and a small amount of salt.  The most complicated one called for almonds, lemon juice, grated ginger, tamari (ninja soy sauce), honey and cayenne pureed into a thin sauce. We chose one consisting of toasted sesame oil and soy sauce. I voted for this one because: I love the smell of sesame oil, we had some that wasn't rancid, and it was simple to make.  

None of the recipes mention the type of kale to use. I first planned to do this dish last Wednesday and bought kale at that time. I knew it was kale because the tape that held the bunch of leafs together had bold print that spelled K-A-L-E. It had large, dark green, bumpy oval leafs.  I foolishly mentioned that I planned to make kale chips at my Rotary meeting on Thursday and promised to post on Facebook how it went. Then at therapy, on Friday, I also touted my proposed endeavor. My therapist, Bob, requested I bring some chips for him to sample at our next session on Tuesday. "You bet," I said, or something to that effect.   

For some reason, probably closely aligned with laziness, I didn't get around to actually launching the kale chip ship until therapy morning. Woe and behold, my six day old kale wasn't looking very perky when I pulled it out of the refrigerator. (Wife would be proud that I didn't compare the droopy kale to the anatomy of an aging female.) I pondered my alternatives. I figured if I passed on the chips my Rotarian friends wouldn't remember it long enough to cause me a problem.  But, I wondered what my punishment would be if I failed  my physical terrorist, or worse sickened him with bad kale chips.  Wife encourage me to take the high road and blow a few bucks on fresh kale.  

Fortunately, my longtime caregiver Christina was scheduled for that Tuesday. When she arrived, I  ask her to go to the store for a fresh bunch and showed her my wimpy produce to make sure she knew what kale looked like. She assured me she knew what kale was, with a bit of attitude I thought, and headed off. When she returned I looked askance at the greenery she had acquired. Thinking she had relied on the signs posted by the produce folks, you know, the ones that are several feet above the produce and notoriously misaligned horizontally, to identify the location of the kale, that she had, understandably, chosen the wrong item. I promptly announced that she had purchased collard greens or whatever, because her produce was a lighter green and crinkled. It didn't look anything like the wimpy stuff in the trash. Nervously, but with spine, she said, "No, it was kale," and she exposed the tape holding the bunch together that spelled K-A-L-E. Boy, I can be a pompous ass. 

It turns out there are several varieties of kale. Who knew? The most common grocery varieties are Lacinato (a.k.a. Dinosaur kale), the type I bought, and curly kale the type Christina bought. You can imagine my abashment for my reaction to Christina's valiant shopping effort. Obviously we used curly kale, but if I do it again, I will try the dinosaur kale. I mean, doesn't everyone want to eat dinosaur. Seriously, the curly kale doesn't lay flat and the curly parts cook quicker. As a result, you can have very crispy curly parts and undercooked flat areas that were originally near the stem.   

I kid you not.  As I was writing this, the phone rang. It scared the crap out of me, but I only spilled a little wine. The caller was Wife's cousin, Joni. Wife answered while I wiped up wine.  Wife listened, smiled and said to Joni, "Tell Dave." She put the phone to my ear and Joni sang "Happy Anniversary to you." Wife and I stared at each other and then at a nearby digital clock to confirm the date and laughed. We had both completely spaced; it was our 37th anniversary. Thankfully, I can claim that I made dinner. We had a robust beef stew that I made; it seemed perfect for a clear, but cold December night. I wish I hadn't made it a month ago and Wife didn't have to defrost it and heat it up for our anniversary. 

Okay, back to the recipe. I'm really going to provide it. But first, the kale chips we made were a little odd to me. I don't think that I have knowingly eaten kale before, so my initial reaction might be based on the strangeness of new flavors. Also, when first cooked, the toasted sesame oil and soy mixture turned out to be a bit stronger and saltier than I expected.  We stored  the uneaten portion in two air-tight containers lined with a coffee filter to catch excess oil. I took one container to therapy. Bob sampled them and was very polite when he said he might prefer olive to sesame oil. I kept my mouth shut.  Today I tried them again, the chips were a bit less crispy, but the flavors were also milder. I liked them more. Still, if I do them again, I think I'll use olive oil seasoned with garlic and a little salt for the marinade.  

Here is what we did:

Pre-heat oven to 300 degrees

Place two oven racks in the center

Line 2 or 3 Rimmed 12 x 18 inch baking pans with parchment paper

Ingredients:

2 tablespoons toasted sesame oil

2 tablespoons low-sodium soy sauce

1 bunch kale, washed, dried, de-stemmed and cut or torn into chip size pieces (2" to 3")

Wisk the oil & soy in a large mixing bowl until emulsified

With tongs toss the kale pieces in the oil mixture until evenly coated (keep turning and tossing until you don't see dry leaf parts)

Spread the leaf pieces on the lined baking sheets evenly. If they over lap a little bit, don't worry because they will shrink as they cook.

Bake two pans for 6 minutes.

Rotate the pans and shift top pan to the bottom rack and bottom to the top rack and bake for 7 minutes.

Then use your own judgment to decide if the chips are done.

Good Luck.

If we do these again, Wife says our thirty-eighth anniversary will be iffy. 

But I Digress - Maine

 

 

Kennebunkport, Maine.  For some reason I like the name Kennebunkport. I’m not sure how, or when, I became aware of it. It might have been because of George Bush the First. I know I should say George H. Bush, but that doesn’t do justice to the amazing set of circumstances that led a father and son to be presidents of these often un-united states while both still live. As I recall, George the First’s family vacationed in Kennebunkport during his presidency. I have memories of the President, his gray hair blown back by a stiff sea breeze, while standing on a large, rough granite rock saying, “Read my lips. No new taxes.”

You know, as you age, memory has a way of becoming less reliable. In my youth, I could make statements with complete confidence that they were accurate. I could argue vehemently for my point and even site sources to support it. But now I find it difficult to be so sure of myself.  I probably should blame my self-doubt on my aging brain, but I’d rather not. I’d rather assume that my hesitancy to be self-assured is a sign of wisdom. After all, not only poor memory comes with age. Wisdom is supposed to come with age too. But, I digress.

***

I don’t know much about Maine. At one time I thought it was one of the original thirteen colonies. Maine tried to be a colony but never pulled it off.  I imagine the constant bickering between the French and English over borders didn’t foster a safe environment for family settlements.  
 

Maine, as we know it, didn’t exist until 1820 when statehood became official. Prior to statehood Maine was a province of the Massachusetts Bay Colony. The MBC, as I like to say; to be honest, I don’t say it, I type it, because typing Massachusetts Bay Colony with one finger is tedious. As I was saying, MBC was really a big deal in the Colonial days. It stretched from Martha’s Vineyard in the south to Nova Scotia in the north and included what is now Maine and Vermont. Apparently Martha’s Vineyard was popular even without the Kennedy’s. New Hampshire was not included. It’s rumored that MBC excluded New Hampshire from its administration, because its inhabitants were rotten hockey players. MBC even claimed authority as far west as the Pacific Ocean at one time. They didn’t mind stopping at Nova Scotia because it bordered on New Brunswick and nobody wants to go there. Notice, I haven’t used British to identify the colonies. I haven’t done so because people born before 1990 know that already. Also, I seriously doubt anyone is reading this, let alone someone born after 1990. The constant reporting by the media about poor performing American students, with extra emphasis if it involves a global competition, has led me to believe that people born after 1990 don’t know anything that doesn’t appear on Facebook or one of its clones. And, I’m sure there’s nothing about Britain on Facebook unless it involves music, clothing, or Kate & William plus baby George. On the other hand the media has led me to believe several questionable “facts.” Like the USA states are either red or blue. I’m not sure the media is reliable.  I can understand calling North Carolina a red state. While in North Carolina’s Fort Brag, I learned what red clay was. But, I’ve lived in California for sixty years and I’ve only seen blue soil at Disneyland. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t natural. But, I digress.

***

A friend of mine went to Maine. I think he may be the only person I’ve met, in person, which can attest to Maine’s existence based on his own experience. He regaled me with stories of lighthouses; beaver’s carved out of logs with a chain saw and the many virtues of blue berries. Oddly, I don’t recall him mentioning lobsters. He even provided me with blue berry preserves to prove he went to Maine. I must say, blue berries were never in the top ten of my favorite fruits. To be honest, they weren’t even on the list. But, those clever Maineanites know something about blue berries. They make a mean preserve out of then. Wait, Maineanites doesn’t sound right, or does Maineians. Maineiacs isn’t it. How about Mainetarians, like Rotarians? What do you call someone from Maine? But, I digress.

***

Many people think that Maine is the most northerly state in the continental United States. Being born before 1990, I know that the modifier continental, when used as it is here, means to exclude Alaska and Hawaii from consideration. If born after 1990, the phrase “contiguous 48 states” would serve the same purpose. But, the out dated “lower 48 states” made sense for only 6 months and 18 days of 1959, because Alaska became a state on January 3 and Hawaii on August 21. Accordingly, the lower 48 states no longer included Minnesota because Hawaii is a much lower state. But, I digress.

***

Northwest Angle, Minnesota on the shores of the Lake of the Woods is the most northerly point in the continental USA. In 1818 Great Britain and the USA established the 49^th parallel as the border between their spheres of influence starting from the Lake of the Woods in the east to the Rocky Mountains in the west. Later, in 1846, a presidential campaign promise was broken (sadly not the first or the last) by James K. Polk. He had been elected in part because of his slogan “Fifty-four Forty or Fight,” which referred to the 54^th parallel as part of his desired boundary between Canada and the USA.  The slogan should have been “Fifty-four Forty, but not if they want to fight about it,” but that wouldn’t have been very catchy. In case you were wondering, the phrase, “Pig in a Polk” doesn’t apply, in spite of his broken promise, because that phrase should be “Pig in a poke”, an altogether different thing. But, I digress.

***

 At any rate, the 49^th parallel was set as the boundary. “But wait,” you might say. “How did Minnesota end up with the northerly honor?” you might add. Well it seems we have Benjamin Franklin to thank for it. He and his British counter-parts used an inaccurate map to establish the border between Canada and Britain’s former colonies in 1783.  The border ran from the headwaters of the Mississippi River to the Atlantic Ocean. The map incorrectly showed the headwaters starting at the Lake of the Woods. As a result, a small exclave of land that illogically is not part of Manitoba became part of Minnesota.

Isn’t exclave a cool word? It’s the mirror of enclave from a map maker’s perspective. Look it up.  I’m not positive, but I think old Ben may have known about the map error but didn’t say anything. It gave him a great trivia question to ask Tommy Jefferson at dinner parties.  But, I digress.

***

The boundary between Nova Scotia and the USA was not clearly settled in 1783. Nor, was it when a peace treaty was signed in 1818 to end the War of 1812. The War of 1812 was tough on The Providence of Maine. The bankers and merchants that ran Massachusetts had done well for themselves since the Revolution. They had developed lucrative trade with England and the British colonies in Canada and the Caribbean.  It’s hard to be sure, but some folks think the first off-shore tax shelters were setup by Boston bankers with the help of their Bermudian brothers around the turn of the 18^th century. Well, maybe not some folk, probably just this folk.  But, I digress.

***

The Massachusetts bankers considered war with their best customer to be a very stupid policy decision by the numbskulls in Washington D.C.  Therefore, they did their best to keep a low profile in the hope the Brits would forget where Massachusetts was or at least in the hope that they were still using Franklin’s map and wouldn’t be able to find them. When I say low, I mean low in the worst possible sense. I’m thinking lower than political radio hosts, or Jerry Springer in the day. The bankers actually made loans to Britain to help them with their war effort. Secretary of War, James Monroe, yes the one with a doctrine, sent an envoy to negotiate loans and request troops in support of the United States’ war effort. The envoy left empty handed when, amazing, the bankers refused to make loans to the Government of the United States of America. I could understand their refusal today; after all would the Government of the USA lend money to banks, just because they made stupid policy decisions? Oh wait, it would. Damn, it even did. But, I digress.  

***

Massachusetts’ attempt to hide might have worked if it wasn’t for that darn Province of Maine being part of Massachusetts. Almost everyone born before 1990 knows that Britain was a major sea power at this time. It had a massive fleet of war ships that relied on solid, straight white pine for their masts and spars. Maine had a lot of it. In addition as far back as 1779, Britain had toyed with creating New Ireland by annexing Maine as part of Nova Scotia. The current war gave them the perfect opportunity to give it another go.  So, after Britain defeated the mighty Napoleon in 1814, they felt confident enough to invade Maine. It turns out lobster traps are a poor defense against war ships. So Maine lived with British occupation for several years and put up with Nova Scotia and the infantile province of New Brunswick yucking it up while Maine was told that they are now part of New Ireland and must drink Guinness. They could put up with Moosehead, but not the stuff from the far side of the pond. But, I digress.
 

***

Well you can imagine how the people of Maine felt when the government (i.e. bankers) of Massachusetts wouldn’t send troops to help them. When the war was over, and Britain returned New Ireland, our Mainetarians made a big stink about separating from good old reliable Massachusetts. And they would have, sooner rather than later, but for the desire of Congress to maintain competitive parity between the NNC and SSC. There were 11 teams in each conference in 1819. The Northern Non-slave Conference was very concerned that the Southern Slave Conference would be able to elect a league commissioner (i.e. President) of their own choosing if a SSC team were admitted without an off-setting NNC team. Along comes a proposal to admit Maine to the NNC, supported by seven true sons of the prospective state. At virtually the same time, if you define virtually very broadly, Missouri petitions to become a state. The SSC agents in the Senate see an opportunity to use the Maine proposal for their own ends. So they refuse to agree with Maine’s statehood proposal.  The conferences were at an impasse and the expansion of the league was at risk. Even if people weren’t using the phrase at the time, most believed in manifest destiny. Everyone knew the league had a god given right to expand in the west, provided there was parity. So along comes a New Yorker that proposes a compromise. Basically he advocates that no new SSC teams can join the league if their geographical location is north of Parallel 39 degrees 30 minutes except for Missouri. Wait our seven true sons of Maine that had voting rights in Congress might have said, “That is the southern border of Missouri. So you are allowing an SSC team in what should be an NNC location.”  “Well duh,” the New Yorker said. “That’s why they call it a compromise.” Our seven Mainetarians didn’t see it that way. They very much wanted to be part of an independent state within the United States of America and given the suffering Maine went through they deserved it. But, the seven were so opposed to the concept of slavery that they refused to vote for the compromise. Congress accepted the compromise and Maine became the 23^rd state and Missouri the 24^th. That’s how it’s told on Maine History Online. I’m not cynical. Wait, I don’t know why I said that. I’m very cynical, but I don’t want to be. I don’t want to believe that our seven unselfish representatives of Maine’s true desires voted against the compromise to garner votes at home for the next election, knowing full well statehood was going to pass no matter what they did. I want to believe that our forefathers always looked out for the little guy and thought the common good was the only good. But, I digress.

***

 

To be continued. Maybe

 

 

An Infant's Journey

A friend of mine posted  a sign on Facebook that said, "Life isn't a race, find joy in the journey."  I've seen a lot of inspirational messages on Facebook and I've even posted some. But, for some reason, this one got me thinking  about where is the joy in an infant's journey. The following may not be accurate, but it's my take on an infant's journey.  

After living in a comfortable cozy home with all of my needs met, I was evicted and thrown into a cruel cold world, just because I hadn't paid rent for nine months. I had no clothes and was forced to live in rags and paper-lined plastic bags that seemed to be wet all of the time.  For months I was fed a thick, fatty, cream colored gruel that was lukewarm. Yuck. But, I have to say, the gruel delivery device was not unpleasant and I grew quickly, so the stuff probably had an honored spot on the food pyramid. 

And, the giants.  Scary creatures with massive heads and big white Chiclets in their noise holes. Those holes made strange dove like sounds sometimes and odd blah-blah sounds most of the time. But, every once and awhile they would produce the most comforting melodic sounds. Those sounds rarely failed to knock me out.

The giants swung me around like a bag of garbage. Up and down, all day long. When my stomach couldn't take it anymore and ejected some of the, now curdled, gruel, the giants got all excited and scrubbed me with a course wet cloth. Like that wasn't punishment enough , I was put into a cage and abandoned in a dark room - solitary confinement.  I still don't know what felony occurred to justified solitary.  

Ouch. Now some dull screwdriver like thing is trying to push its way through my gums, and it doesn't feel good at all! Although, when one of the giants dipped its finger in an amber colored liquid and rubbed my gums the pain did subside. After the second dip, you might say I felt no pain and I was out, like a flea invested dog sharing a sleeping bag with Larry the Cable Guy on his honeymoon.   

And, my poor knees. The giants keep putting me on a floor covered with burlap like material cleverly dyed to look chic.  They entice me with their noise holes, by making pleasant sounds, to catch them while they back  away on their elongated lower limbs. They must have a different model of lower limbs, mine don't expand like theirs. Or, maybe there was a flaw in the manufacturing process and mine will be recalled. At any rate, my knees are paying a price and it's more than I care to pay.  

Fortunately, I've  learned how to control the giants. When I've had enough of their wet plastic bags, their knee rash game, or any one of their many irritations, I turn on my warning system. It starts at Defcon 5 the lowest level; consisting of a soft mew and whine. Defcon 4 is first noticeable by moisture welling in the eyes followed by a louder mew and whine. Defcon 3 builds on 4 by adding soft cries and more tears. Defcon 2 is getting serious, pets are aware there is a problem and siblings are glad they have their own room. Defcon 1 is close to Armageddon, noise levels approach 747 levels, all neighbors are awake and sobs are sucking the air out of the house like a leak on the space lab.  At Defcon 5, I always get their attention. While I'm happy to have some control over my incarceration, I long for finding the joy in this journey soon .

WHICH CITY SHOULD BE MOST EMBARRESSED: New York, San Diego or Toronto ?

Anthony Weiner makes a strong argument for New York after resigning from a New York congressional district in disgrace for exposing himself on the internet and then gathering enough support to make a run for mayor. His ability to ignore the obvious, made Miss Piggy sound absolutely truthful when she defended herself with the now famous phrase;  "Moi?"

San Diego has an excellent claim also. After electing Bob Filner as mayor, despite his history of harassing women, including a Navy Admiral, while  a congressman for the San Diego area.  Bob's denials were as realistic as a sheepish third grader blaming her dog for her undone homework. Of course his plea of guilty to a felony and two misdemeanors after resigning also supports San Diego's claim to the title.

Honestly, I don't know much about Toronto. The press tells us it's the forth largest city in North America.  I presume that's based on population numbers, but I'm not sure. It might be based on the gall of its mayor, Rob Ford. 

It's my understanding, Mr. Ford had a well know history of drinking and debauchery and was elected possibly because of this history rather than in spite of  it. Apparently, the fine folks of Toronto were sick and tired of the elitists conservatives and wanted  a man of the people. To be fair to Toronto, I don't believe they equated debauchery with smoking crack.  I suspect they just had a healthy respect for anyone that could drink Canadian beer and smile afterwards.

Still, Toronto earns consideration in our little analysis just for electing Rob.  But, Mr. Ford is not going down without a fight, he adamantly denied everything until his police department released evidence of his crack dalliance. Then it was, "Well yes, I tried it, but how many of you stinking journalist have smoked pot." He didn't actually say stinking journalist, as far as I know, but the look was on his face made it clear he was thinking it. Now he is threatening to sue his staff for discussing his clearly private activities with constituents that happen to be representatives of the repressed sex industry. 

I don't want to be unfair to Canada, or Toronto. I've always had a great respect for the country and the city, but when CBS news showed a film of Mayor Ford selling bobble-heads of himself and signing autographs at the same time, while in the lobby of the Toronto city hall, I have to believe that New York and San Diego are safe from being the most embarrassed city.

 As a long time un-aligned voter, this little dialog was not intended to be political in nature. But, as I wrote it, I realized that there were certain similarities between our star players.  Weiner and Filner were, unfortunately for the party, Democrats. While I can't say that Rob Ford was, or is, or ever will be, a member of the Democrat party, I can say Democrats often claim to be the anti-elitists, anti-conservative party, which was Ford's claim to fame.

So, it made me think, should my Republican, conservative, friends feel superior and self-righteous because none of their brethren were highlighted in my diatribe.  I don't think so!  Just think of Todd Akin, Republican from Missouri, that argued "legitimate rape" would not result in a  pregnancy, while he tried to back-peddle, the stupidity was out there. Or, some of the absolutely bazar things Michele Bachmann has said.  

Both sides have extreme people and extreme ideas. Extreme people have no real value, with the possible exception of raising money. Extreme ideas can lead to a better future, but only if reasonable people, from all sides, LISTEN to each other and make a good faith effort to find common ground and search for the common good.  

Why is it so hard?

Chicken Parmesan Saga

For those that don't know, I am a recovering quadriplegic, as a result I use a wheelchair and have restricted use of my arms. However, my physical limitations never come to mind when I decide to fix dinner.

 

Today I planned to make dinner to give my wife a break. I checked out our supplies and read numerous recipes. I decided to make Chicken parmesan with smoked mozzarella and a chunky marinara sauce over my wife's homemade pasta. Ooh, sounds good.

 

I chopped onions, mushrooms and garlic and sautéed them. I managed to opened the diced tomatoes and barely spilled any, as I added them to the pot. I found a 1/4 cup of sliced black olives and their juice in the refrigerator. Being daring, I put them in the sauce. Wife says, "Can I help?" "Oh no," I say. I'm thinking - doing good.

Time to get the cheese ready. Recipe says to layer slices of smoked mozzarella, about 4 oz. for 2 breast. I get the hand held cheese slicer out. You know the kind, it has a tear shaped, shiny metal top mounted on a handle. The shiny metal tear has a mouth like opening with one sharp lip. Usually you see these in food magazines lying next to a picture of a cheese that you've never heard of and will never eat. At any rate, I start slicing and manage to produce slices that are more sheer than saran wrap. At this rate we'll be having breakfast not dinner, so I grab a BIG knife and bend the cheese to my will. Wife says, "Can I help?" "Oh no," I say, "I'm good."

Ok, now its time to get the chicken breast ready. Fortunately, they had been defrosted already. But, I didn't remember how slimy a boneless, skinless breast can be. And I kept thinking salmonella as I handled them. I dried them off, using an unreasonable number of paper towels, seasoned them and got them on a plate. Immediately I used a hand sanitizer, because, you know, salmonella is everywhere.

I had this plan to sauté and bake the chicken in one pan. Because, you know, good cooks minimize the number of dishes they use. So I pour some olive oil in a pan and heat it up. I'd like to point out that "some" and "heat" are poorly defined terms. Wife says you might want to brown one breast at a time. Ha, I say to my self, I can save time by doing both at once. Do you know how much oil splatters when you put two cold chicken breasts in "some" hot oil? And, when you turn them over its worse.

Wife says, "Can I help?" "Yes please," I weep. So she gets the chicken in the oven and it bakes for 10 minutes while she boils the noodles. She plates the meal, kindly tells me how good it looks, and it really was tasty. This all started about 3:30 pm. It's now 7:42 pm and Wife is almost done with the dishes. The next time I want to give her a break from cooking, I'm ordering pizza.