Poop in the street

Even in the early stages of our team-up, Claren was always a big fan of toileting. If she had any waste in her body and she was given a chance to "hurry," she did.

Fame seems to dig privacy, familiarity and a full bladder or colon. If she doesn't really have to go, it is tough to entice her. And if she is in view/hearing/smelling of something more interesting -- meaning anything -- forget it.

I could get her to pee during training, but to get her to poop I had to walk her around to the front of the building away from the other dogs, the other people, everything. This became our thing (or Mom's) and fed into her appreciation of familiarity to do anything. She will now, after a month and a half, pee on  walks, but she still won't poop. Usually.

Once or twice, though, she had to go. She still doesn't do it in the grass where I take her. She poops in the street.

Which is what happened tonight. What happened after really has me torn. Mom, of course, wasnt with me to pick up the poop, so  I got a bag and started picking it up, when a couple walked past without a word. No offer to help, nothing.

On the one hand, fine. I can pick up poop, although it is easier if it is in a pile rather than four separate spots on the street. On the other, who walks past someone in a wheelchair picking up poop in the middle of  the street?

Empty promises

At Easter mass, we affirm our baptismal vows, so this morning I rejected Satan and his empty promises and believed in God the father, son and Holy Spirit. Nothing too controversial there ... at least not until I thought about it. Then  I opened up a whole can of worms.

How is "Ask and it shall be given" not an empty promise?

I mean I have been asking for ages, and not for toys but for something significant: a cure. And not just for me. My cure would benefit Mom, my sister's family, and yes, me.

But I struggle out of bed these days not just slightly dizzy from my concussion but also with all the bad things FA brings.

Tough enough?

My head is improving, but it is not all better yet: I can tell you how frustrating it is.  I mean it has  been six and a half weeks.

Mostly what I think of is football players. No one misses six weeks with a concussion. Am I not as tough as an NFLer?

Oh no, Robert Parker

As my concussion lingers, I am listening to books on tape, and it is having a bad effect: I am losing a little respect for Spenser author Robert Parker. Just a little, I mean he still created one of the most awesome characters around.

But his dialogue, while great, follows one pattern. In a conversation, sentences alternate between two endings -- "I said" and "[Susan/Hawk/Someone] said."

Even Joe Mantegna's dulcet narration can't fix it; it is jarring and laughable.

I recognized it when reading, but it's easy to gloss over the saids.

No glossing from Joe. And as a result, Robert Parker falls a notch or two. Luckily, I still have Ace Atkins, who took over the series after Parker's death.

Damaged goods

I am a wise, and wise-cracking, pterodactyl, in a dinosaur-themed Easter story my niece wrote, but I'm not feeling so awesome.

I went to my actual doctor this past week because my head issues remain. She said I could work but recommended telework for a month.

Telework is more relaxing, to be sure, I can wear sweats and shorts, and get up later. But no one is here  to keep me from thinking bad thoughts. Plus, the longer I am gone the easier it is for guys to use the wheelchair stall with impunity. Not that my presence stops them.

So I am alive, just damaged. I'd rather be cracking wise.

Defeat

I had an appointment today, but I canceled.

It was at a place I'd never been, and I was so unnerved by yesterday.

Canceling reliefed me, sure, but rarely have I felt so defeated. I didn't go somewhere I wanted solely because of my body's limitations. Pathetic.

And I am inclined to telework more because I can't count on a usable bathroom, but not being there makes it more likely that thoughtless people will use the wheelchair stall more frequently. I'll b out of sight; it won't take much to push me out of mind.

Defeated.

Trouble intervenes

I wanted to write tonight and was trying to figure out about what. I had sort of decided on Fame, how I am a little surprised how much I love her already. I expected a transition/mourning period when I realized she wasn't Claren and processed that. But that hasn't happened. I just love her tons.

INSTEAD:

I sat in urine-soaked pants for most of the afternoon, not for any physical failing of my own.

I mean there were physical failings, but I had anticipated those and gone to the restroom early enough to   deal with them.

No, the failing was the guy who decided to use the wheelchair stall even though he is not in a wheelchair.

The added problem is I see no solution other than humiliating myself by going into my boss's office, saying I peed in my pants because the stall was being used and what's the solution.

How rotten is rotten

On Tuesday, my first day back in the office since January, Mom picked me up and asked how my day was.

Not great, I told her. Fame was cool, and everyone was glad to meet her and see me. But the day started with me throwing up a little in my mouth.

Sort of.

I was bending over, and some stomach juice came up. I am not close to a bathroom so I found a bag to spit into, then went to the bathroom to rinse my mouth out. Not real easy from a chair.

I never felt 100%, and I had an issue that meant I needed to change. Plus, while Fame was cool, she did drop my lunchbag multiple times on the way out.

Mom listen to it all and then said, that's not so bad.

The sad thing is she's right. By my pathetic standards, it was a normal day. How I long fora the day when a semi-rotten day really sucks.