A real horror

I wish I liked Halloween more.

I haven't been in a costume since seventh grade, I wore a swashbuckler outfit -- a blue shirt Mom got from a friend in Greece, a gold belt  and a machete with a carved handle. And I went alone, with Mom.

In retrospect, it was pretty horrifying. Everything. going alone, the costume, everything except the machete. That was awesome, but Gram gave it to one of my cousins.

Halloween is a chance to be someone you aren't, to hide your true self. But even if I buy an authentic Spider-Man costume, I'm still going to be the Spider-Man in a wheelchair. I can't hide that.

My ultimate Halloween costume would be someone, anyone who can walk. But, you know, I can't walk.

Am I a jinx?

My first physical therapy student was pretty good at first. He was from the area, so he rooted for the same hapless teams. He did the PT that was written down, adding one exercise he thought would be good.

But he became less reliable as time went on. He had very good reasons for canceling our sessions -- his mother getting fired, for instance -- but I saw him less and less.

One Wednesday, he canceled, saying he had to go to traffic court. And I never heard from him again. I don't know if he died, got tossed in the pokey, lost his license or just didn't want to come. He just stopped answering emails.

I traded up, though, with the next one. I liked her and she said she really liked working with me. But she quit earlier this week -- her dad has been in intensive care and she needs to be with him.

I am disappointed but totally understand. It is just I am a little worried I am like the guy in the Johnny Cash song Thirteen, who sings, "The list of lives I've broken reach from here to hell."

Very safe

My sister hit me last night. It was totally uncalled for.

I was taking off a sweatshirt before getting into bed, and she chastised me for doing it without my seatbelt on.

This completely ignores the fact that I couldn't take my sweatshirt off if I was buckled in. And I was holding onto the superpole to get it off.

I am usually not too dumb.

Love my co-workers

I am slightly annoyed with work these days. Nothing major at all. I am not unhappy, I like my agency, the people and my work, and I believe in the mission. Unless I am offered a high-paying job as a test dummy for a masseuse, I am not going anywhere.

It's possible that some co-workers heard that in my voice yesterday at a staff meeting but thought it was fear.

In their defense, I never talk during staff meetings, and my question/comment about what I'd do in an active shooter situation may have been more words strung together than some have ever heard out of me.

Basically, I was bemoaning the lack of a strategy for me if the unthinkable happened.

I came in today, and I got a strategy. I  was told where to go, and several people said they'd look out for me or that they had to protect me. Not hearing well, I couldn't tell if any of those promises contained sarcasm, like if my sister were making the statement. "Of course, we have to protect Matt."

I even was told "don't fret."

I was much less annoyed at work.

Just give me one

God-fucking-dammit, I thought as I was falling out of my shower chair.

I added the eff-ing because it was so eff-ing annoying.

I had slipped getting out of bed but somehow kept my footing and managed a dainty pirouette with my Superpole. The only problem was I wound up on the wrong side of the pole, so it went me, pole, wheelchair.

I considered just dropping and calling for help, but I didn't. Again, somehow I managed to keep my footing and get my legs moving where I wanted them to. Shocking, I know.

I fell into my chair, gathered myself together, went to the bathroom, transferred to my shower chair easily, turned on the shower, then bent over to get my boxers off my feet.

Experienced readers will notice I left something important out of that sequence, something like doing my seatbelt.

It is so damn annoying that forgetting one step screws you.

Anyway I fell. I scraped my back up getting to my phone. Then I called my sister who helped me up.

I say again, God-fucking-dammit.

Don't shoot

Our office went on an active shooter alert last week.

Someone in a building at the end of the office park got an email about an active shooter drill in November. Instead of reading the words "drill in November," he called 911 and reported a shooter.

I was teleworking, but apparently 30 police cars and a helicopter deployed, local schools locked down, and in our building people were alerted by announcement to lock the doors to their offices.

But, I don't have an office, just a cube. I'm not very fast or much of a hider, and the nearest office I could scurry into is not right next store.

It seems like a strategy that figures a) it'll never happen and b) even if it does, a shooter will have better targets is not a good strategy. But that is mine.

Damn elves!

I have been reading The Shepherd's Crown, Terry Prachett's last novel. It was great, as usual, though there were a lot of unanswered questions. I guess death will do that.

But I'd like to know about the future of the Wee Free Men and why You is so non-catlike.

Mostly, though, I'd like to know what's up with Mrs. Earwig and how she fends off the glamour. Glamour is the magic of the elves, and from what I've read, it leads you to believe all your darkest fears are true.

I am pretty sure I am beset by elves these days -- no other way to explain how I'm feeling.

I feel friendless. I know this isn't true.

I feel that even if people do like me, I am rarely asked to do anything with them. Again, this isn't true.

I guess I just feel sad.

We don't need no three rolls of TP

In my last job, it was all about the newspapers. They were always hanging on the grab-bars in the wheelchair stall. But I was working for a newspaper -- it sort of made sense.

Judging by what's left on the grab-bars in my current job, I apparently work for a toilet-paper conglomerate.

It's great, I guess, that the maintenance man likes to leave extra rolls of toilet paper in the stalls, although it's a third roll and if anyone needs three rolls, yuck. And the maintenance man is awesome.

But I cannot tell you how many rolls I have knocked onto the ground grabbing a bar. I am just waiting for the day I knock a roll into the toilet.

Maybe when he has to clean that up, he'll get the idea.

In this scenario, I am like Otto the bus driver

As I have said my niece and nephew have discovered The Simpsons. This is all kinds of awesome. They come into my room, turn on The Simpsons, and we just laugh and laugh. Recently, we watched Lemon of Troy followed by Bart on the Road, two favorites.

Also, as I haven't said but is pretty obvious, I have the emotional maturity of a fifth-grade boy.

And therein lies the problem.

The Simpsons occasionally have an entendre or an adult-ish joke. I don't know whether my niece and nephew get these jokes or just get that the jokes are jokes they don't get. But they look at me. And of course, I am cracking up.

For instance, a recent episode saw the Simpsons in Washington DC. Marge is looking at the Washington Monument, starts giggling, whispers something to Homer, who replies, Grow  up, Marge.

I don't know if my niece understood why Marge was laughing. But she turns to me and says, Oh grow up, Marge. I laughed.

I suspect I am a bad influence.

My sister is so smart

This morning I coughed a bit during my morning Metamucil drink. This actually is a bit of a surprise.

The day after the towel day debacle, my sister asked me if a straw would help me drink the Metamucil. I said it would because I could keep my head bowed when drinking, which minimizes the chance of liquid going down the air pipe.

I started using a straw and viola! No coughing (To explain today, I was trying to read).

This wonderful solution has one takeaway: When it is brought up that I am not coughing, my sister goes into her touchdown dance and a little song that depending on whether her children are present goes "Ooo, ooo, I'm/Mommy's so smart. Ooo, ooo ..."

Probably, this is the wrong time to mock my sister. Just yesterday I was showering and lost my balance and fell over in my shower chair at the waist. I was using both hands to keep the chair from tipping over, so I wasn't sure how I'd get up. But then she was there to help me recover. Of course, she also called me a pain in the ass for picking up my washcloth and not letting her get it.

Put off

Unbidden, an idea burrowed its way into my head the other day: What if my doctor cancels my colonoscopy-endoscopy scheduled for Wednesday?

My oldest sister already had her plane ticket to come down and help me. That would be wasted.  Not to mention the major amount of thinking/worrying I'd been doing, mainly along the lines of: How the hell will I survive this?

My little sister, in a comment that perhaps indicates the seriousness of the situation, acknowledged that  I am "pretty tough" and said we can survive anything for  day.

She's right, but just surviving is no fun, says the guy who just survives too much.

Plus, it took forever to find this doctor, then get an appointment, then schedule the tests. Another delay would be failure.

So I banished the thought to the backwoods of my brain.

Until Mom called me at work yesterday.

Mom never calls, so I knew it would be bad news.

My doctor had been called away on a family emergency.

I asked her to call back and see it there were any options -- another doctor perhaps? That would be less than perfect as I had chosen my doctor for a reason. But anything would be better than waiting.

Yes! Another doctor would do the tests, the office said. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

Until the office called this morning. The other doctor was not comfortable doing the tests. We have to wait for my doctor. What is in my file that scared off the backup doctor?

My doctor is no FA expert. We met once for maybe 20 minutes. My colon and throat aren't really FA-touched.

I guess I'll wait till November to find out.

Isn't it all about me?

The first time my new physical therapist came over, my sister overheard the end of the session and decided the therapist and I were well-matched.

I was telling the PT that I didn't need my feet back on my chair because I was just going to take a nap. She replied that she was going to go home and take a nap.

She is quite good. I have a set of exercises, but she prefers to develop new exercises to do. It reminds me of the last time I went to my favorite PT for help. She always had me doing new things that worked the same muscles.

And she doesn't make fun of all my toys ... although she did tell me when I was doing an exercise that involved me kicking at her: Kick me like I stole one of your action figures.

But she may have unknowingly crossed a line yesterday.

I was doing this exercise, and I took a break with a heavy sigh because it was a hard exercise. She responded: Why don't you give me three more because it is all about me and what I want?

I could have sworn it was all about me.