Photo of the Day: Dad, here’s me and here’s you, right before we’re 62

This is me (on the left) at the start of this summer, and Dad (with his granddaughter Drew) on the right, from 24 years ago.  Both of us are just a few months shy of our 62nd birthdays here.  Dad’s was July 1999, mine is next month.

Dad’s face is a bit more worn than my own, probably from his tobacco and beer; but he was married over 40 years, and raised 6 kids.  I’m sure that will age anyone.

I can remember not too long after this photo of Dad was taken, my sister Shawn called me at the office and told me Dad had been diagnosed with terminal cancer.  I can still recall looking down at my shirt, feeling silly for wearing something with so many stripes and not even aware I was crying, until my coworker Lisa came over to my desk to ask what was wrong. 

Dad would be gone February 2001, 6 months after he turned 63.  

I guess I’ve just been thinking about it a bit lately, turning 62 and wondering what’s in store.  I hope it’s not cancer.  I’ve never been fond of the quote “like father like son”, now more than ever.  I feel like my life is just getting started… I wonder how my dad felt when he was my age? 

Anyway, that’s all I have to share today, I just wanted to put something new out there.  I’m heading to the senior center with my tablet (e-reader) after I post this, we’re dealing with a real heat wave and the Tiffany’s cooling system can’t handle temps 88F and higher.

I hope things are cool in your corner of the world, and thanks for stopping by.

 

Warden, for my last meal this Democrat would like…

This was today’s Early Bird dinner in the teepee.  A hamburger with Boar’s Head Creamy Horseradish Cheese, dill pickle slices & ketchup, Utz Hawaiian Chips and sliced cucumbers in a homemade dill dressing. 

I also made lemonade and very soon I’ll be having warm apple pie and a scoop of vanilla bean ice cream for dessert.

I’m no great cook, and most would say this isn’t cooking anyway—but right now this is my favorite meal.  I’m like Wimpy in those old Popeye cartoons when it comes to hamburgers.  I can’t get enough of them. 

(Psst--my second favorite burger comes with swiss cheese, sauteed green peppers & mushrooms and lots of A1 Steak Sauce.  Third favorite is no cheese, a buttered bun, Heinz yellow mustard and a big slice of white onion.  Now that’s Hamburger Heaven!)

It got me to thinking, if I lost control and killed someone, and wound up on Death Row and the warden was asking what I’d like for my last meal, it’d be hamburgers without question.  I know, why am I thinking about wardens & death rows? 

Because earlier today I was downstairs in my building’s lobby, patiently waiting for a pricey delivery from Amazon.com, while having to listen to Rover Joe sing the praises of Donald Trump to a couple of glum looking senior ladies.  And me.  It was torture.

Rover Joe, a grizzled senior in his mid eighties, has only talked to me one time.  We were alone downstairs a couple years ago, he was eyeing me up & down.  He finally said “When I was your age I was hopping trains, out there living.”  I replied “But I’m 60.”

Anyway, as he was sitting here blaming the Democrats for all of Trump’s “fake problems” I imagined holding a throw pillow over his nose & mouth.  I know that sounds a bit drastic, but I just heard this same stuff a couple weeks ago from my brother Steve and I swore never again. 

We were at our niece Sophia’s graduation party, and Steve (who was sitting across me) was laughing about the Liberals latest attempt to take down Trump, and how the Donald was smarter then all of them.  Steve could hardly wait until Trump was in the White House again.

I calmly replied it was beyond my mental scope how anyone in their right mind could or even want to defend such a corrupt narcissist so intent on destroying our democracy. 

If it hadn’t been our niece’s graduation party, and that had been someone other than my brother, and my 87 year old Aunt Dena wasn’t sitting beside me… I can’t help thinking we’d be better off with one less Trumper.  It’s not like they can be deprogrammed.

Oh well, I hope Rover Joe’s around long enough to see Donald go to the big house—and I don’t mean the white one.  I hope I live long enough to see it too!

Sliced cucumbers (and onions) in a creamy dill dressing

Blend 3/4 cup Duke’s Mayonnaise, 2 tablespoons white vinegar, 1 tablespoon granulated sugar, 1 teaspoon black pepper, 1 teaspoon garlic powder, 1 teaspoon Dried Dill Weed.

(Don’t use sour cream, it will turn watery overnight—and yogurt is for sissies.  Use Duke’s Mayo, it’s tasty and will stay creamy for a week.)

Pour over 2 sliced cucumbers (or one torpedo like this one) in an airtight container and chill for at least one hour.  Sliced onions are a plus. 

Well, I’m going to wrap this nonsense up, get some dessert and see how much I can watch of Avatar: The Way of Water before I doze off.  (The movie is over 3 hours long!)

Apple pie from Lincoln Bakery… now that’s worth staying out of jail for.  

 

 

In search of good air, the things (and people) we take for granted

For the first time in 3 months, I am feeling comfortable in my apartment again—more than comfortable, some relief too.  It smells…cleaner, fresher.  It’s getting there.

It isn’t because of the device pictured here, but I do like this contraption I got a week ago.  It’s a helper.   

This is a PuroAir HEPA 14 (Hospital grade) Air Purifier.  Click on the name to see it on Amazon.  Last week, my friend Erin asked if I was still dealing with the bad smell in my apartment coming from my air ducts. 

I said it wasn’t as pungent as it was in March when I first reported it to Steiner, my landlord.  But there was still an odor of sour, wet or burnt dirt in the air that annoyed the heck out of me.

She said “Have you thought of getting an air purifier?”   Nope—it never occurred to me.  So after our chat, I got online and looked at several models before deciding on this one.  I like it very much, it’s whisper quiet but effective.  It’s also great at collecting dust & pollen (I get a lot of both).  It’s 16” tall, 10” wide & deep, and has a small light-bar on top that goes from orange to green as the air becomes clean. 

The day Erin suggested I get one, I found and ordered this model for $151.00.  The NEXT DAY, Canadian wildfires were reported on the nightly news and the price for this same unit increased to $239.99 on Amazon. 

They’ve since gone down to $190, but that’s still 40.00 more than what I paid--talk about timing!

When the smell first started in March, I went and stayed at my sister’s for a week and hoped my landlord would find the issue and correct it.  I talked to them daily on the phone, they said they were running an “ionizer” in my apartment (which they did) and cleaning the air ducts (which they didn’t, that was a lie).

When I returned a week later, it had a VERY, VERY strong smell of “dusty hotel room” from the ionizer.  But I could see right away that the livingroom, dining & bedroom wall grates had never been taken off the walls.  They still had layers of paint on them.

After 2 weeks, the effects of the ionizing machine had worn off and that same smell was wafting from my air vents again.  I spent $85.00 on various duct cleaning sprays which masked the smell for a couple hours at best.

When I reported I was still having this issue to Nicole (the building’s off-site manager) she responded she was sorry but there was nothing more they could do.  If I’d like, I could move to another apartment the next time a one-bedroom unit was available in the building.

I was shocked.  First of all, they didn’t DO anything.  Second, I didn’t want to move.  Even if I could have any apartment in the building, there were only a couple besides mine I really liked (because of their location/flooring/kitchen/color palette). 

I’d also be forfeiting my current lease of $840 I’ve got locked in for the next two years.  One bedroom units in my building currently rent for $900.

Since the smell was worse from the bedroom’s air duct, I set about removing the grate from the wall.  I used a box cutter to cut around the grate and it took 2 hours to unsecure eight 60 year old bolts.

It’s a long but narrow tin duct.  I was unable to get my hand in there, when it hit me—my Swiffer mop!  I went thru 4 Swiffer pads, wiping out a lot of ancient dirt & even gravel.

I sent photos of what I’d done to Nicole, hoping she would take me more seriously now.  She told me she’d send a maintenance man to check it out.

Bob (who no one likes, me included) stopped in for exactly 10 seconds, scratched his head and said the air seemed fine to him.  The next morning, Nicole told me she understood what I was going through as she once lived in an apartment and experienced ‘phantom smells’ of smoke in her building.  I responded that MY ‘phantom smells’ were only in my apartment, not the hallway or lobby or anywhere else. 

She didn’t bother responding, of course.  I swear to God, if I could sue her I would.

At least the bedroom was better now, the odor from the vent was still noticeable but fainter.  I experimented with home & car air fresheners, and if I ever smell Fabreze again, I’m probably going to jump off the roof.   This went on a few more weeks, and then my friend Erin suggested an air purifier, and it DID help but didn’t address what was causing the smell.  And I sure wasn’t looking forward to taking down more grates.

So last Tuesday I began poking around in my bathroom’s drop ceiling.  And that’s when I discovered the ceiling panel directly above my toilet, when raised, had a strange ‘muddy’ smell high up inside.

I put on some rubbermaid dish gloves, and standing tippy-toe on the toilet, arm reached as high up as possible, began feeling around up there. 

Sure enough, I felt a squishy, wet mass.  I grabbed a handful and slowly lowered my arm, praying it wasn’t something dead (or raw sewage from the apartment above mine).

It was a handful of mud, plain & simple.  I reached up again and grabbed another handful, I did this 3-4 more times.

I’m wondering, where did it come from?  And I was reminded that the tenant’s bath tub above mine used to leak into my bathroom ceiling a couple years ago. 

And the day the smell in my apartment started—Saturday March 18—was the SAME day the tenant above me moved out of his apartment.  For all I know, he was dumping dirt from his houseplants into his tub’s drain, and the dirt wound up in my ac unit’s drip-pan which is only supposed to collect condensation.

So, for the last week I’ve been opening that bathroom ceiling panel, reaching up above my head with Clorox wipes to swab out as much muck as possible.  It’s difficult as I can’t see what I’m doing, and the pan doesn’t have a smooth surface—it’s lined with sharp ridges, like a cheese grater.  I go thru several wipes until my arm aches and my wrist gives out, then repeat the process the following day.

But after the second day, I realized the smell from my ducts was lessening.  After the fourth day, I detected virtually no smell at all.  I still rubbed at that dirty drip pan another couple days before deciding I was done.

My ac has a faint musty smell when it runs (and I admit it, I’m hypersensitive to ANY smells in here now).  But that sure as heck beats the oily, wet mud smell I’ve been living with.  I also admit the angry side of me wants to go over Nicole’s head, contact Steiner directly and tell them how unhelpful she’s been.

But I don’t want to win any wars or make any enemies.  I intend to live here a long time.  I’m just relieved I was able to fix this on my own. 

My Puro purrs in agreement.

 

Sophia’s graduation night: oh what a night

This past Friday night was my niece Sophia’s graduation from West Greene High School, the class of ‘23.  It was a long but special affair held in the school’s gymnasium, and I was impressed just seeing Sophia and her classmate London (the top two students of their class) sitting apart from their classmates, on the raised platform with the school’s principal and superintendent, among other esteemed faculty.

But when Sophia went to the podium to give her salutatory…. I was blown away.  She was kind, eloquent, decisive… she sounded like a real leader.

Here’s a couple photos of Sophia delivering said speech, and with her mom and dad, my sister Shawn and her husband Jim.

As impressed and proud I was to see her on that stage, I wasn’t surprised.  I’ve never known someone her age (in her era or mine) work and volunteer and study like Sophia did.  She earned that spot at the top, and then some.

Can I share one more thing here before I wrap this up?  Way back in August 2011, Shawn & Jim had taken 6 year old Sophia out for a day in the park, the day before her first day of school in the first grade. 

I called Sophia to ask if she was excited to start school the next day; she said she was but lamented that summer was over, there were still things she wanted to do. 

It tickled me so much I wrote a blog about it, and her mother & mine’s own first days of school, which you can see here:   My love-hate relationship with the first day of school 

I wrote that I hoped she enjoyed those school days because they’d be over before she knew it, even if she did have 12 years worth to look forward to.  How did they fly by so fast?  Maybe not for Soph or her mom, but I remember writing that like it was only a couple years ago.

Congratulations Sophia,  I can’t wait to see what you do next!

Single men do what? A look inside a single guy’s bedroom thru the years

Perhaps you heard this recently.  A couple weeks ago on Good Morning America, they laughingly reported that 45% of single men only change their sheets 3 times a year (once every 4 months).  

First of all, who would admit to that?  Second—how could anyone sleep comfortably while stewing in their own slough for weeks on end?  One can only imagine the hordes of microscopic vermin in those bedsheets after 4 months.

I change my pillowcases weekly, and my bedsheets every other Sunday.  (As an incentive & reward, I bake Pillsbury Cinnamon rolls on Sheet Change Sunday.)  How often do you change yours? 

Anyway, it got me to thinking about the various bedrooms I’ve had over the years.  Not the ones I shared with my brothers growing up, but after I left my hometown and moved to the city.

So, here we go…

1.  Shaler Highland Apartments, 1987 – This was my first place in Pittsburgh, and the only apartment I shared with a roommate for 2 years, Bill B (below).  We were both 26, both back in school (me for computer science and Bill for cooking & restaurant mgmt) and known as the Odd Couple by our friends, and even a couple neighbors. 

One of us was Felix (a neatnik) and the other a real Oscar Madison.

           

I’ll let you figure out who was who.  My bedroom is on the left, Bill’s on the right.  I gotta say, I liked Bill very much—we’d go grocery shopping, he’d come up to me with a box of Spic n’ Span.  “Doug, this is what we use right?”

Bill didn’t clean, but he always chipped in.   

We lost contact 35 years ago and I don’t know what became of him.  After Bill married his Asian girlfriend Shelly and moved out, we never saw each other again.

2.  Sharpsburg, 1990 – nothing much to see here.  I left Shaler Apts a year after Bill did, and moved into a nicer apartment 1-2 miles away—but you wouldn’t know it by this photo.  

That first year, my bedroom had no furniture aside from a bed on the floor and cardboard nightstand.  (The place I shared with Bill was furnished.)  It looks bleak, but I can’t tell you how excited I was to finally have my own place again (and my first IT job in the city).

3.  Bellevue, 1994 – Eventually I moved to Bellevue (north of the city and only 10 minutes from downtown Pittsburgh).  Remember those “Bed in a Bag” kits?  This was a Southwestern one, dark green & red. 

When my mom and sister Shawn came to visit, Shawn said “Doug, can’t you take down ONE of the Star Trek posters?”  and Mom said “Shawn, here’s $5.00.  I want you to run up the street and buy some tissue paper so I can pouf Doug’s valance.”

(The valance got poufed, but the Trek posters stayed.)

4.  Still Bellevue, 2014 – 20 years later, and it’s the same apartment, same bedroom, same bedroom furniture.  Only the bedding, artwork & exercise bike changed.

5.  The Tiffany Apts in Avalon, 2018 – A couple years after retiring and moving to a new apartment in the city, my sister Shawn convinced me to ditch my old bedroom suite (that was 30 years old) and showed me a red shaker-style dresser at IKEA I fell in love with, along with this funky gray metal bed.

You can’t see the entire room here, but this is my favorite bedroom in my adult life, favorite furniture too.  When I moved in here, my brother-in-law Jim worried to my sister that the bedframe didn’t come apart, was heavy and I’d have a tough time moving it out of here someday. 

Shawn said “Relax Jim, Doug’s not going anywhere for at least 10 years!”

I hope she’s right, I can’t believe it’s been 5 years already. 

Breakfast in 2023: It’s not gourmet dining yet, but we’re getting there

Three days a week—typically Monday, Wednesday & Saturday—this is what I have for breakfast.  Tropicana Homestyle orange juice with pulp, toast from Mancini’s Bakery (pricey but the best bread I’ve eaten since my grandma’s), one strip of Kuhn’s Own Applewood bacon chopped in half, and a handful of grape tomatoes sauteed with the bacon.

And one egg—one very expensive “Jumbo” egg.  A dozen of which cost $4.85 from my local market yesterday.  (A year ago they were $1.79.)  Anyway, I know they cost even more elsewhere, they’ll set you back $9.95 in Hawaii—which doesn’t make sense to me, as chickens roam wild in the streets there. 

Anyway, I’d have this breakfast everyday if I could.  But orange juice really isn’t that good for you, let alone bacon.

I cook the egg last, just the way I saw Gordon Ramsay do it a couple years ago.  Break the egg into a bowl, slide the egg into a heated saute pan with a dob of butter.  Sprinkle a little salt & pepper on top, and a few good shakes of red pepper flakes. 

Boy do those flakes look mean on that egg—but they add a sweet heat that makes all the difference!  I used to scramble or poach on occasion, but no more.  Gordon’s way is now my only way.

Last, drizzle one teaspoon of water around the egg—you’ll see the egg’s white hop n’ flop, and you won’t have to flip it over and risk breaking or overcooking the yolk.  It will also slide right out of the pan.

I carry my tray into the livingroom, find something newsworthy on tv, enjoy my food and count my blessings.  I mean it, I try not take too much for granted and am thankful I have the time and resources to enjoy a hot breakfast.  

When I was working, I lived on Nutri-Grain bars or Lilttle Debbie oatmeal pies during the work-week, then cold cereal on the weekends.

Eggs were so much cheaper then…  I should’ve eaten more eggs. 

 

 

When it comes to my former classmate Diana, no news is good news

Diana is in the center row, the only woman on the far right

These are my former classmates at my last high school reunion in August 2014, for the Jefferson-Morgan HS Class of 1979.  I didn’t go, at the time I was still working and up to my ears in a new product installation for the Pricing Group at UPMC Health Plan. 

(And truth be told, I had no one to go with and didn’t want to attend by myself.)  But from the very small turnout, I was far from alone in my choice.

They were going to do a “60th birthday party” reunion in 2021, when most of us turned 60, but then covid came along in 2020 and pretty much nipped that in the bud.

Anyway, for the last 10 years or so I’ve been in occasional touch with one of these former classmates, Diana (in the center row).  She would reach out just to say hi in email, and when I developed a serious TMJ disorder a few years back, Diana would write with suggestions on natural treatments and the like.

The irony of it was, as small a graduating class as we had (around 100 students total), Diana & I were not friends back then.  We ran in different circles.  But we attended one class together.

The class was On Your Own (which wasn’t really on your own, we learned how to co-habitate, budget & navigate the rocky terrain of marriage).  Here’s a photo of our very first class, “Wedding Day”.  That’s myself & my friend/wife Karen dead center, and Diana and her ‘husband’ Ron third from the right.

But this is my only memory of Diana, that class.  I remember she spoke very softly and had a nice laugh.  But in the 50 years I’ve known her, we’ve never once talked in person or on the phone, until the other night.

One day last week I was cleaning out my email folder on my laptop, and saw an old message from Diana where she’d included a phone number if I ever wanted to chat.  I wrote and asked if that was still her phone number and would she like to talk sometime.  She said yes, how about tonight.  She’d be working late but to give her a call at 8:30pm.  We could talk until 10pm, when she went to bed.

I did call her that night promptly at 8:30, and we talked 4 1/2 hours, until 1:00am.  Whoops!  She was just that easy & comfortable to talk with.  The entire time of our conversation, I thought “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

In a nutshell, Diana married 1-2 years after we graduated.  She had 2 kids, a boy and a girl by the time she was 20 (and they are both in their forties today, which is strange.  I have a sister in her mid-40s).  Several years ago her daughter moved west to Salt Lake City, and then her son followed his sister to Utah to find his fortune.  

Diana’s first husband died young from cancer, and sadly her second husband died from covid last June.  She said “Doug I’m not as lucky as you, I still have to work.  I do like my job... I just didn’t expect to be alone at this stage in my life.”   

We did our share of reminiscing, and (for not knowing Diana that well) I was surprised at the same memories we shared.  I have friends I enjoy talking to as young as 45 and old as 80-something, but there’s something “kindred” when talking with someone your own age.

For example, I was sharing a memory from our senior prom, when the lead singer of the band said “Who’s ready to boogie?” and got silence and a few groans in return.  Another band member nudged him and said something, the guy at the mike said “Who’s ready to get down tonight!”  and the students cheered.  Diana laughed at that, she got it.

Diana did tell me something interesting which has been giving me a new perspective on things.  She doesn’t follow the news.  Local, national, celebrities, political—none of it.  She’s aware of the really big stuff, like Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, but that’s the extent of things and she wants to keep it that way.

She said it began years back when the lead story on the news one night was about Lindsay Lohan, and she simply had enough.  I have to admit, I’ve been finding myself turning off the news more & more this past week after hearing that.

Do I really need to know Prince Harry & Meghan Markle have a new docuseries on Netflix, or the latest going-ons at Twitter?  What a waste of time.  I’m happy that Brittney Griner is out of Russia and home with her family, but I only had to hear it once—not 30 times over in 3-4 days. 

And what about NASA and the success of their Artemis 1 moon rocket?  Okay, I did want to know that!  But I still think Diana’s on to something.

Finally, I was surprised when she asked if I’d like to make our chat a more regular thing, like once a month.  I figured she’d had enough of me for a lifetime.  But I said yes, for sure.  We’ve got over 4 decades of catching up to do.

Just the facts ma’am… just the facts

Pennsylvania has approximately 9 1/2 million registered voters. 

Of those voters, approximately 4 million are registered Democrats.  3,450,000 are registered Republican and the remaining voters are Liberterian, Green… hippies.

In Allegheny County where I live, there are currently 525,505 Democrats and 261,784 Republicans. 

In Greene County where I was born & raised, there are 10,000 Republicans to 9,000 Democrats.  (It wasn’t always this way… my dad would be rolling in his grave to know he was now in the minority.)

And finally, 1.4 million voters in Pennsylvania requested a mail-in ballot for the upcoming race, and according to Harrisburg & ABC News, a little over 1 million have been returned so far.

I am one of those voters, received my ballot the first week of October.  I mailed it back one week later, and thanks to the bean counters at PA.GOV, my vote was officially recorded on October 14.

I didn’t want to display my filled-out ballot at the top, I read recently that images of completed ballots posted on social media sites can be used to nullify that person’s vote. 

SUFFICE IT TO SAY I VOTED DEMOCRAT ALL THE WAY. 

I’ve been wanting to get on here and talk about this for weeks, but I get fired up too easily and I’m trying to watch my high blood pressure.  I would like to say that the thought of Mehmet Oz being our senator sickens me greatly, he’s a flim-flam man and suckered me (and lots of others) before.  I wrote about it years ago, here.

So all I can do is cast my vote and hope for the best.

And in the event Doctor Oz wins that Senate seat, I’ve found a seller on Etsy (with 5 star reviews) who makes customized voodoo dolls.  I will be getting my needles ready.

I don’t know what I did, but I’ve made it on someone’s ship-list

Can I share something quick here?  We’ve all gotten our share of catalogs in the mail—rather, we used to.  (Do you still get many?  It just occurred to me I haven’t seen one in ages.) 

But there was a time when I used to keep a wicker basket in my place just to store catalogs to look at later.  “Hmm… this Harry & David catalog sure is making me hungry for pears…”

In fact, I still have a pair of tan & red suede pot-holders (that I never used but paid a small fortune for, twenty years ago) from Robert Redford’s Sundance catalog.  Damn you, Redford!

Anyway, the reason I bring it up is because this past Thursday I got a rather ominous looking catalog in the mail. 

It was a black book that came sealed on 3 sides.  Rock River Arms.  They are situated in Illinois, and I’ve never heard of them.  Have you?

It didn’t look like the type of catalog one would just get randomly.  Rock River sells firearms, including all makes & models of pistols.  But their specialty is built-to-order, customized AR-15s.

Someone must’ve given them my name and address.  These books are too specialized to be sent out to just anyone, and this didn’t come with a bulk shipping rate.  It cost them $2.64 to send this obscenity to me via First Class mail. 

My big question is… why?   Is someone trying to put the fear of guns in me?  Trust me, it’s already there!  Or maybe someone’s trying to convert me from my liberal mindset?   “These guns…. they’re badass!  Screw this liberal crap, I want an AR-15 of my own!”

Can I be super-honest here?  I claim to be a liberal, but I’m far from a saint.  Do you remember a couple weeks ago, when that young thug broke into a convenience store (wielding an AR-15 of all things) and the shopkeeper hauled out a rifle and shot him?  

The punk ran out of there hollering “Uggh!!  He shot my arm off!!”  before jumping into a pretty nice looking SUV, where he & his two cohorts sped off.

I sat here thinking “I hope he did, you piece of slime.  I hope that older man DID shoot your arm off, you’re lucky it wasn’t your head.”

Is that how liberals are supposed to think? 

I also felt that store owner was justified owning a firearm, I’m sure he’s been robbed before.  But a built-to-order customized AR-15 from this catalog?  No!  No one else should, either!

Ah, I’m back to feeling like a liberal again.  Even if it does make me sound un-American.

Rock River, I’m sorry you wasted your $2.64 on me.  Along with expensive pears, suede potholders & other useless, pricey doodads, custom AR-15s have been added to my DO NOT BUY list.  

 

Coming soon, to a government office near you

Miss Thornberry, have a seat.  Alright, according to our records you are 32 years and 1 month old as of today. 

Your medical records indicate you have never given birth or even attempted to have a baby.

I’m sure you’re aware that all women are required to have been pregnant at least once by age 32.  Can you provide any proof our information about you is incorrect? 

We have a physician on site who can perform an examination right now in the adjoining room, if you deny these findings.

That won’t be necessary.  I’ve never had a child or been pregnant. 

But in my defense, I have a defective heart valve that more than doubles the risk of mortality for someone like myself carrying a baby to term.  My personal physician will attest to this.

Miss Thornberry, we--

It’s not Miss Thornberry.  It’s Dr. Thornberry.  I too am a medical physician.

Fine then.  Doctor Thornberry, we’re fully aware of your defective heart valve.  But your mortality isn’t what is at stake here.  Your future baby’s mortality is.

This is preposterous.  Not that it should matter, but I am an integral part of a government think tank devoted to the research and eradication of women’s cancers.  Even if I met someone suitable, and was healthy enough to become pregnant, a baby couldn’t possibly fit into the equation. 

Dr. Thornberry, surely you’re aware of President Mastriano’s “NO EXCEPTION” Federal abortion ban of 2027, even in cases of rape & incest.  This law mandating all women become impregnated by 32 also comes with no exceptions.  Frankly I don’t care if you’re the blessed Melania Superior.  You ARE going to become pregnant.

And YOU can talk to my attorney.  What the—I’m unable to lift my arms off this chair—I can’t move my feet!

Your chair and the floor below it are wired with sensors and magnetic alloys that can detect when a woman is ovulating.  I suggest you stop trying to free yourself, a woman broke her wrist there recently.

I demand you let me go!

Here’s what’s going to happen.  You’ll be taken to a private room on this floor where your legs will be put into stirrups.  From there, you’ll be given two options:  insemination via a sterile medical apparatus resembling a turkey baster, containing a purely randomized sperm sample from one of thousands of male donors.  Doctors, serial killers, pacifists, hunchbacks—it could be any one of them, as this is America, equal rights for all.

I refuse!

Then your other option is to select one of our on-site male volunteers who can inseminate you first-hand, as God intended.  Your choices here are limited, but you’ll be allowed to choose from a line-up of men in another room.

Either way, it’s your choice.

(Psst—I’m not trying to be funny here.  When we FORCE pregnancies on women it’s only a matter of time before we begin using them for breeding—like cattle.  And we WILL get there, as long as we allow fascists—I mean, Conservatives—to remain in control.)

Painted rocks, orphans & more orphans: let’s have more of one, less of the other

Friday morning I was downstairs in the lobby of my apartment building, feeling a little frustrated as one of the other tenants was trying to engage me in what I considered a silly argument.  I just wanted to add some money to my laundry card.

(We have a laundry vending machine in the package delivery room off the lobby, where you can add money to your National Laundry card.) 

Anyway, Joel is a single man on my floor, he works from home.  (He likes to remind you of that every chance he gets too.)  He’s 53, never married.  He was waiting for a courier, and said my friend Lida was down there earlier, waiting for her mom to pick her up.  Joel said he wished he had a mom.  When I asked him what he meant by that, he said “I’m an orphan.” 

When I expressed sorrow and asked if he grew up in a children’s home, or with relatives or in a foster home, he said “It wasn’t like that at all.  I was raised by both my parents, but my dad died in 1995 and my mother died 7 years ago.  I’m an orphan now.”

I said “Um… I thought to be an orphan you had to lose both parents before the age of 18?”  He said “Untrue, and if I had my phone I’d prove it.  When you go back upstairs, google it.”  I said “I believe you, but I lost my own dad in 2001 and my mom in 2004.  I don’t consider myself an orphan.”  Joel said “I was an only child.  Were you?”   You got me there, Joel. 

(Strangely, the topic of orphans would come up again later.) 

Just then, my friend Lida breezed into the lobby.  I said “Hi Lida, I thought you left with your mom?”  Lida said “Doug, Doug!  I had to go back upstairs I forgot something!  Guess where I’m going today!”  I shrugged my shoulders.  She said “To the park, to plant some rocks!”  I made a confused face and she burst out laughing and grabbed my forearm with both her hands.  She said “Don’t worry I’ll explain!”

I’ve written about Lida before, I met her the first week I was here and we quickly became friends.  She’s 41 years old and cute as a button.  She has amblyopia (what some people refer to as lazy eye, her left one) and the mind of a second grader.  But she has a studio on the floor above mine, lives alone and takes care of herself nicely. 

She has to follow certain rules though, like not leaving the premises on her own or turning on her stove.  She has a microwave, electric kettle and George Foreman grill to do her cooking.  She works 4 days a week at Giant Eagle supermarket as a bagger. 

Lida went on to tell me that her & her mom were going to North Park to put painted rocks under various bushes and around the roots of trees. People who found them were free to admire them or take them home or plant them somewhere else.  Lida fished out a freezer bag of red stones from her Wizard of Oz tote and handed it to me.  She said “Can you guess what these are?”  I said “Um… strawberries?” 

She burst out laughing and said “No, try again!  They’re ladybugs!”  My heart wilted.

Later when I was talking to my friend Danielle, I shared the Lida story and added “I couldn’t help but notice Lida’s pants.  She was wearing those yoga pants that are like a second skin, with little white Snoopys all over them.  She has a really cute figure.  What if some shady character spotted her in the park and sexually assaulted her and got her pregnant?  I just saw Mastriano on the news this morning.”

If you don’t live in the state of Pennsylvania, Doug Mastriano recently won the GOP candidates seat for the race for governor this November.  He’s a formidable character, the very definition of frightening right wing extremism.

The faces of good vs awful:  Josh Shapiro, our Democratic nominee on the left & Doug Mastriano on the right. 

Mastriano promises to ban ALL abortions in Pennsylvania if elected, even in cases of rape or incest.  “No exceptions!”

Getting back to my question, Danielle said “She’d be forced to have the baby.” I said “What if you were assaulted?  You mean to tell me Josh is going to sit there and watch his wife’s belly grow with her attacker’s baby for nine months?” 

Danielle said “I have the resources to go to Canada and get an abortion.  Lida will be expected to hand hers over to some nice Christian couple.” 

I said “And what if the baby has a lazy eye and is born a special needs baby like Lida?”  Danielle said “It would probably wind up in an orphanage.  We’ll probably see more of those springing up in the next 20 years.”

My friend is probably right.  And the Democrats will wind up fighting to get funding for them, while the Republcans tell us to take a hike.

 

It’s a News Zoo Revue… coming right at you

Yesterday (Thursday) morning, I awoke feeling a lot more refreshed than usual.  I rolled over on my right and looked at my alarm clock.  Wow!  It was still early, 6:15am and I was fully awake.  It occurred to me I hadn’t woken up even once to go to the bathroom during the night.  When has that happened last?  I honestly can’t remember.

Feeling revved up, I thought “You know what I’m going to do?  I’m going to put on my baggy Champion shorts and dead man’s walking shoes.  I’ll take a brisk, one mile walk then come home and watch the next episode of Westworld on HBO Max while eating my Wheaties with a sliced banana.” 

After I brushed my teeth and put my shorts on, I brought my shoes into the livingroom to lace up while watching the local news.  After turning on my tv, I heard this.

Yesterday afternoon, 52 year old Bryce Tacy of Washington County walked outside and shot his neighbor in the back of the head, 44 year old Jerry Anderson who was mowing his lawn on his riding lawnmower.  Tacy then went back into his house and refused to come out when the police showed up.  A SWAT team was called, and talked Mr. Tacy outside after 30 minutes. 

Do you know what Tacy did next?  He begged the police not to take him to jail, because he was too small to go to prison.  Shouldn’t you have thought of that before gunning down your neighbor in cold blood, Mr. Tacy?  Where do you expect them to take you, Candyland?

Jerry Anderson leaves behind a wife and 2 teenaged twin boys.  As for Bryce Tacy, he has a 28 year old son who doesn’t live at home anymore—but a wife who will probably have to sell their nice home to pay for a defense attorney.  His life, for the most part is over.

Just another day in gun-happy USA. 

I wish there was something happier to watch in the morning, before guns took over.  Back in my grade school days, I was always the first one out of bed on school mornings.  Dad was usually gone at the crack of dawn (coal mining construction) and us kids let Mom sleep, as she often worked nights at Fisher’s Big Wheel (a local department store).  I would come downstairs, turn on the tv and while the Farm Report droned on I’d take my navy shower and get dressed for school.

My youngest sister Courtney wasn’t born yet, and the next-to-youngest sibs Steve & Donda were too young to go to school, but I’d wake up my older brother Duke next and sister Shawn.  Then, bowl of Post Toasties in hand, I’d sit down in front of the TV to watch New Zoo Revue.

I loved New Zoo Revue—actually, I loved Emmy Jo, in her smart miniskirts and white go-go boots.  And of course, Doug because he could play the guitar (and his name was Doug).  Here’s the show’s opener, it’s goofy as hell and still great. 

That’s it, I’m done.  Happy Memorial Day, everyone.

I don’t hate Republicans, but when it comes to my health, some do terrify me

Here’s my health insurance bill for the month of April 2022.  My monthly premium is $185.65, with a rate increase of $34.00 in 2022.  You’ll get no complaint from me. 

I’m a 60 year old man, nonsmoker.  A middle-of-the-road Silver insurance plan costs $790.00 a month for someone my age in Allegheny County, without an ACA subsidy.  I could never swing that on my budget.  And if you want the truth, there isn’t a month that goes by that I don’t silently thank President Obama for my reduced premium.

I bring this up because earlier today, I had to sit through the umpteenth airing of two political commercials for the two Republicans running for the one Senate seat in Pennsylvania.  Doctor Oz & The Deer Hunter.

This is Doctor Oz’s platform: 

“The establishment is afraid of me because I’m anti-establishment!  Furthermore, I think kids shouldn’t be forced to wear masks and Dr. Fauci should be fired!”  In other words, he’ll be another Marjorie Taylor Greene. 

But somehow, his Republican challenger is even worse.  He airs commercials with a chorus of voices yelling “Let’s go Brandon!” (a lame-ass Biden slur) or “Oz is a RINO and he supported Obamacare!” 

THAT is what this thug is selling?  Vote for me, I won’t support the Affordable Care Act?  He thinks if you’re a Republican, that’s good enough for you!

Two weeks ago, I was downstairs in my apt building’s fitness room on the treadmill, watching the CBS News stream on the wall tv.  Senator Ron Johnson of Wisconsin was telling a group of reporters (more like promising them) that as soon as the GOP regained control of Congress, they’d finally dismantle Obamacare for good.

(Apparently, he’d been promising this so much lately that the Biden Administration and other Republicans began coming after him.  He soon shut up.)   I don’t know the man, but the term douchebag certainly comes to mind.   

I was instantly reminded of this scene from May 2017.  Remember this?

The Republican majority in the House of Representatives were so flushed with excitement after their vote to dismantle the Affordable Care Act, they walked to the White House, en masse, to kiss Donald Trump’s ass and maybe get a pat on the head.

At the time, I was undergoing some real health crises, with a torn jaw and a couple malfunctioning organs (kidneys & pancreas).  Between 2016 and 2018 I’d be in the hospital 16 times. 

Watching these Republicans do everything in their power to prevent me from having affordable medical care was jarring.  I laid in bed every night for months, terrified—I’m sure the 31 million others on Obamacare did too.

Why are Republican politicians so determined to repeal the Affordable Care Act?  Please don’t answer that question, it’s a rhetorical one. 

They went after Social Security in 1935 and Medicare in 1965, so their efforts with the ACA shouldn’t be a surprise.  It just means they’ve always been scary.  And no good for anyone but themselves.  

Just had to get that off my chest.  Wish I could say I feel better… but I don’t!

 

Now playing on a TV near you: The Monster from Russia

A few days ago my sister Shawn sent me an old photo and I thought “Boy do I have a story to go with this” and began typing up my next blog.  Then I looked up and saw the latest going-ons in Ukraine, and my heart sank.  I didn’t feel like writing anymore.

It happened again a couple days later, after I’d picked up some lunch I ordered (I’m getting my senses of smell & taste back) and while taking a couple foodie pictures for my blog, I saw “SPECIAL REPORT” scroll across the bottom of my television.  On the tv was a blue Ukranian church ablaze—no one inside thank goodness, just a cherished holy edifice for some—now gone.  And several minutes later, the explosion of a car parked on the road.  Unlike the church, several people were inside.  A Russian tank blew it to smithereens. 

Um… forget the food blog.

Finally yesterday, I ran into one of my neighbors while on my way downstairs to the exercise room, who shared a story about karma with me that I couldn’t wait to share here; but when I turned on the tv before getting on one of the treadmills, I saw the latest news segment where Russia had just bombed a maternity hospital.  Three women dead as new mothers and other pregnant women spilled out, screaming, crying.  Madness.

For some reason it reminded me of those old monster movies, with Godzilla, Mothra, Rodan.  The innocent people of Ukraine have their own monster, Putin.   He seems unstoppable.

What’s that old saying?  “All’s Fair in Love & War”.   Who came up with that saying?  Probably another monster.

I’m sorry for not having a new blog this week… my heart just isn’t in it right now. 

Life after Covid: yes it’s great to be alive, if you can call this living

This morning I got up, got my cup of water and bowl of oatmeal.  I could feel my stomach tighten, the last thing it wanted was another serving of this tasteless gruel.

WELL UNTIL I BECOME A REAL LIVE BOY AGAIN WITH REAL LIVE TASTEBUDS, YOU GET JACK SQUAT, CARDBOARD DOUG!  What good is feeding hot buttered toast, scrambled eggs and sizzling Canadian bacon to a Doug that can’t taste anything?

Today is Day 7 of losing my sense of smell & taste to covid, and it’s making me a little crazy.  I’m not just talking about food.  Toothpaste, soap, shampoo, lemon scented kitchen wipes, Fabreze spray, Bounce dryer sheets… their scents are all gone.

I’ve read that for 3 out of 4 Covid patients who experience this olfactory dysfunction, it lasts on average 21 days; but a full quarter of patients are still dealing with the loss 60 days later. 

I don’t think that will be me though, I’ve gotten a recent glimmer of hope.  Two things—a jar of Jif Peanut Butter and a bottle of yellow mustard.  The peanut butter is tasteless, but if I wave it back & forth under my nose for a minute or two.. I get the faintest whiff of peanuts.  The yellow mustard has no odor, but if I put a dollop on my tongue, I think I can taste something sour!  It only works once for both, I have to wait a couple hours to try either again, but all I can do is keep hoping the Blue Fairy comes around and turns me into a real boy.

What was I going to write next?  I lost my train of thought.  My tv is on right now while I’m typing this, and I just heard “In 2020, Americans aged 60 and over were scammed out of one billion dollars in savings.  In 2022, that amount is estimated to be three bllion dollars.”   I’m now an American aged 60 and over! 

I have noticed an abundance of scam emails this past year from reputable looking sources like “Amazon Security” and “Microsoft Accounts Team”, but I’ve grown tired of wondering and now just delete everything unsolicited.  Bastards.

 

Speaking of Amazon, I just received 3 packages from them and I’m excited.  I don’t want to share what’s in these just yet, let’s just say they are… precision instruments for something I’m planning on writing about in 2-3 more weeks.  Heh heh!

And speaking of distractions, someone just slid a piece of paper under my front door. 

I’ve been expecting this, a notice from Steiner Associates (who manage my apartment building) that my new lease is now online and awaiting my signature.  (If it doesn’t become effective until April 1, why am I obligated to sign it every year by February 15??) 

Anyway, I’ve been especially nervous this year, wondering what the rent increase will be.  Since moving here April 2017, my monthly rent has increased $20 for each year.  In April 2018 it went from 710 to 730, in 2019 to 750, in 2020 to 770, in 2021 to $790.00.  But there’s been talk from other tenants of rent increases being higher in 2022 then in previous years, what with inflation and everything going up in price.  I can’t take the suspense, I must go online and look.

Dear Douglas E. Morris ,
I/We, Douglas E. Morris, hereby agree to renew the present LEASE for the property located at 925 California Avenue, Apt 402, for the term of 1 year from 04/01/2022 and upon the same terms and conditions as set forth in said LEASE except; the new monthly rent shall be $810.00

Well, I can’t say I’m thrilled about my rent going up $20, but I really was expecting worse.  I suppose I’d better get off here and get busy, I’m hoping if I work up a real appetite today my dinner might become a little closer tasting to real food tonight.   Wish me luck!