Do you feel lucky, Matt? Hell no!

When I was younger, I used to read Gram's copy of the Smithsonian Book of Comic-Book Comics. It was full of awesome early comics. I am not sure where it is now – it was not in her house when she died -- but I was thinking about it today.

One of the stories teamed up Plastic Man with Woozy Winks, who I remember as the luckiest man alive. I have just learned, however, that was temporary. He was usually a bumbling oaf providing comic relief, to which I say: “Plastic Man needs comic relief? He is a jokey character.”

I was thinking of Woozy and wondering what it is like to be lucky.

Today, I went to LensCrafters to pick up some sunglasses that I had ordered weeks ago. I was a little nervous because I was planning to ask for a discount because the glasses were late.

We went even though my lower back felt ready to explode because I sneezed oddly or strained it in any of a half-dozen ways.

The best handicapped parking spots were taken by wussy sedans. Grrr. But I was on Cloud 9 in the store because I asked for a discount and he gave me one. It was pretty modest, but I did it. Yeah, me.

Then I went out to the car with Mom and showed her my glasses ... or tried to. A lens popped out right there.

I was running late to work so Mom said she'd drop me off, then go back. Of course, the check-engine light in the van came on.

It turned out OK. Mom defied the check-engine light, went back and eventually got the lens fixed. And before anyone says anything, I know I am lucky to have Mom.

But I just wonder what it would feel like to be Woozy and not have these kind of things happen.

I guess Woozy wouldn't need glasses, though.

I am going to drown, no way around it

In swimming yesterday, I was trying to go from standing at the wall to a back-float and then from a float to the wall.

It was ridiculously easy to go the float because I had on my swimmie, the fat suit. But when I tried to go back to the wall I had some issues.

If I bend my legs at the knees, I tend to go into a standing position, and the first time it worked perfectly. The second time I sort of rolled a bit. I should have gone under, but because of the float suit, I just rolled a bit back and forth and then reached the wall.

At this point, my teacher, who was watching, said: Yeah, when you are worried you might be going under you should close your mouth. I laughed because I had realized my mouth was wide open, too. Not just open, though.

Apparently when I think I am going under I try to take a last breath for good luck. Of course, I am not fast enough so I just inhale water.

No joke: Auto-flush toilet overflows on me

I am uncertain I agree with those who say that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. For instance, I was sitting on an auto-flush toilet today when it overflowed. My butt, pants, shoes, chair, service dog, everything got wet, coated with who knows what. And for the life of me I do not feel stronger.

I wrote about auto-flush toilets being a bad idea a while ago, but I honestly never thought an overflow would happen, not with me sitting.

There I was, though.

It didn't flush automatically for a time, but then I sat down rather quickly and that caught its eye. I didn't even notice the water touching my butt. I heard it hit the floor and looked at Claren to see what she did. Instead, I saw the water trickling toward her. I yelled at her to move, but we were in a bathroom stall with the door shut. She had nowhere to go. Finally, I managed to stand up, open the door and motion her out.

That was about when the toilet overflowed again. Lovely. I pulled up my pants and sat down on my chair and got the heck out of the stall and water. I did not even button my pants as I fled down the elevator to where Mom was waiting to take me to give blood for some potential Friedreich's ataxia treatment in the test stages. Needless to say, we did not make it there. I did, of course, tell security to call maintenance.

I got home and showered. Mom, Dad and my little sister washed Claren, my chair, etc., and here I am, still alive but not stronger.

Damn it all.

Why would I want to look like a tool?

It was Take Our Daughters and Sons to Work Day today, which was cool: I got no beef with the kids.

As I was leaving work, I saw a boy with his dad wandering around the lobby. The kid was walking around with his hands in his pants' pockets. He looked a little silly, but then it hit me: I can't walk around with my hands in my pants' pockets.

It is really stupid to be bothered by this because I don't want to walk around with my hands in my pockets, and I obviously have bigger things to worry about.

But I am still a little frustrated: stupid kid.

I am not Claren

Claren the wonder dog had some modest gastrointestinal distress this afternoon. She is fine, but all afternoon, instead of little doggy snores drifting up from under my desk, the silent but deadly oder of doggy farts wafted up toward me.

I wasn't really worried, but Claren's tummy was on my mind. The problem is I kept thinking it was me having the gastrointestinal distress.

This comes a few days after a friend retired her service dog. It is a wrenching decision, and again I hope Claren and I get hit by a bus. But the big take-away is that although I like to pretend I am a bitter, jinxed misanthrope, but I know I am so lucky.

Mom and Dad will adopt Claren when she retires. She will be right around for me even when she is too old to actively help me. So thanks.