Category Archives: Fun & Humor

Bronchospasms, tiny pills, and the 65-hour work week

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It’s a skill to open a box and bottle of baby aspirin in Rite Aid while you’re having a panic attack,  can’t breathe, are bloated from eating 11 plates, or over 22 pieces, of $2 sushi for dinner followed by Baskin-Robbins Watermelon sorbet on a sugar cone, sport an irregular heartbeat, have a blood pressure reading of 150/99 measured on Rite Aid’s free blood-pressure measurement device, and have the strong feeling you’re going to fall into the pharmacy shelves dead, shitting your pants right next to the boxed enemas.

Ironic, it’s the best way to die.

I chewed one pill, then another, and one more for good measure, making sure I didn’t take too many and cause other problems, like coughing up blood, or a another nosebleed from hell.

I walked in measured steps to the Rite Aid cashier and presented her with a mangled box of generic baby aspirin. She didn’t skip a beat scanning the bar code, and I wondered if I was the only one to ever hand her medicine that looked like a bear had opened it.

“Would you like your receipt?”

“Sure. Thanks,” I said, suppressing the urge to ask, in my calmest and most relaxed, “hey, life is grand, and sorry to bother you with this,” voice, “but can you tell me where the nearest hospital is?”

I left with aspirin and receipt in hand and climbed the sloped parking lot, careful not to raise my heart rate and feel more out of breath. At the car, I opened the cap of my personal pill bottle and removed an anti-anxiety pill, Ativan, which is the smallest pill I’ve ever seen, and exactly the opposite size you want to be finger-wrestling with when your hands are shaking. Could the makers add some bulk to it, please? Handlebars? Make it stick to the skin? Something to reduce the stress of thinking you’re going to drop it and watch it roll down the slope of the Rite Aid parking lot, under a car, and into a tar pit of oil slime.

And what choice would there be but to go face-down on the black top, stretch for it, and flick it out, hoping the owner of the car didn’t show up and run you over, or wasn’t a card-carrying member of the Rancho Cucamonga mafia with a fear of people planting a bomb under his car.

But that didn’t happen.

I held onto the pill and swallowed it with a bottle of water that had been rolling around my car for a couple of months, as I forgot to buy one in Rite Aid and didn’t want to walk back. And who knows what I put in my body from drinking hot water filled with leaching plastic chemicals. I’m thinking it will be years before it catches up with me, and odds are that something else will take me out sooner anyway.

While waiting for the tiny pill of happiness and good times to kick in, and hoping my heartbeat didn’t go into A Fib, which I hate, I had the usual internal debate that comes with my panic attacks: To E.R. it or not?

That is always the question, and the answer is always a trip to the E.R., where I calm down and leave with instructions to follow up with my personal physician. But this episode was different, as the CF team had prescribed two weeks of my arch nemesis: Prednisone.

No drug hurts me like this tiny little fucker. It’s the wicked witch to the anxiety med’s tinier good witch. It raises my blood pressure, makes me nervous, delivers hallucinations, and, during tapering, makes me angry like the Hulk, but red, not green.

I waited in the car, then out of the car, then in the car, out, in, out, for the anxiety med to switch on.

Should I try to drive the 70+ miles home? What if I am having a heart attack? Would I die driving?

I practiced my relaxation exercise of taking a deep breath in through my nose while pushing out my already bloated-stomach filled with $2 fish and rice, lots of $2 fish and rice, and blowing out slowly by pulling my stomach in, not the most comfortable process.

And I repeated my usual mantra: I am such an idiot. I hate cystic fibrosis. Breathe. I am such an idiot. I hate cystic fibrosis. Breathe.

And I waited.

*****

My work week started at 7:00 a.m. Monday morning and didn’t end until late Friday night, which I don’t think gives away the ending that I lived. At most I found time to eat and sleep during the week, but the rest was work or thinking about the time-sensitive, large-budget “so everyone has an opinion” project at work. And the pace was intense and filled with barbed wire to climb over.

And then I took a crash course in Bronchospasms 101 and wished that I had purchased my new FEV1/FEV6 meter years ago. At least I had it now and was able to track the TOBI Podhaler shooting down my lung function and oxygen saturation days before a meeting in Rancho.

Ah, more CF cruelty: new med, lower lung function. Are you kidding me? Really? 

After numerous emails and conversations with the CF Team (a great group of caring people), I killed the Podhaler and replaced it with the drug created by the devil himself, Prednisone.

For the first time in seven or eight years, I dropped all antibiotics – nothing or nada in my mouth or veins with “mycin” in the name.

Cold turkey, baby. Where’s my one hour chip?

So, with my FEV1/FEV6 way down, I replaced antibiotics with steroids. Again, are you kidding me? Who thought up this cruel joke?

But once again life proves why a valid medical degree trumps an Internet research certificate: my doctor was right and my lung function started going up once I dropped the Podhaler and swallowed the steroid. But that didn’t keep me out of the Rite Aid Parking lot.

****

I took a risk sitting there in that parking lot and drove home with my pants unbuckled to make room for my whale belly and my “on the go” breathing exercises.  I didn’t care if I lived or died. I just didn’t want to go to ER again. Couldn’t do it. No way. I hate the process too much to endure it. The hours of waiting. The questions. The strange looks. The “you have CF?” comments, followed by something like, “but you look healthy.”

When I got home, I didn’t tell my wife what had happened. I stripped off my office work clothes and put on my work-from-home work clothes. I gathered my breathing treatments, stepped on my treadmill desk , fired it up, and went back to work.

And tomorrow came, again.

 

Just be yourself: My daughter and I attend Anime Expo 2013 (photos included)

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Thousands sandwiched together . . .  costumes everywhere  . . . unusual odors . . . loud, dull hum of crowd . . . more shuffling than walking . . . mooooooo, says the cow . . . paper mache swords, knives, guns, sticks, and axes . . . short skirts and garter belts – lots of garter belts . . . a baker’s dozen of Spiderman costumes . . . Zelda and lots of her friends with elf ears . . . characters in action poses having their pictures taken . . . I’m in germ hell . . . some wear surgical masks, smart, should have worn my construction mask . . . men without shirts, men in maid costumes, men in dresses . . . woman wearing Lulumon yoga pants who didn’t hear about the recall, or chose to ignore  it . . . the old X-Men posing together . . . “Must be 18 with ID to enter” sign . . .  the Village People wearing costumes? ironic? . . . lots of wigs, lace and leather . . . more Marvel superheroes (Are they at the right convention?) . . . food truck heaven outside, all with long lines . . . fast-food loving male and female superheroes with muffin tops who should have worn Spanx under their spandex . . . Tip: Never wear wings to a crowded event if you don’t want to walk sideways all day – bad costume choice . . . hundreds of cartoon characters I’ve never seen before . . . more soft core porn . . . drawings of females with large breasts, tiny waists and big eyes (Japanese Barbie dolls?) . . . more weapons with red plastic ties to prove they were inspected upon entry and cannot shoot real bullets, rays, sunbeams or potatoes . . . creepy guy not attending expo talking to two young girls at lunch, started coming toward my daughter and her friend until I caught his eyes and he turned around . . . piles and racks of anime stuffed animals . . . skinny man in Wonder Woman costume looks out-of-place – how is that possible here? . . . attractive woman dressed as Electra with two spandex femme fatales, heads down, race quickly through the crowd – to avoid men asking to take their picture? . . . a lot of superheroes need smartphones to communicate . . . I should have worn a paper bag on my head, or at the very least a surgical mask, which makes me tell my daughter that I’m going as a surgeon next year . . . if this is what the expo looks like at 3 in the afternoon, what will it look like later tonight?

Whew, that was a mindful. Faulkner is turning over in his grave right now.

Little did I know what was coming my way when my daughter asked me to take her to Anime Expo 2013 in downtown Los Angeles.

And though the experience may have started with a shock to the system, surrounded by a convention hall full of costumed characters, it bloomed into a cool, hip experience at the second happiest place on Earth. We soon discovered, after we got our credentials, that we were surrounded by people being themselves and having a great time. Not a bad place to be on a Friday afternoon in Los Angeles.

Here are my three favorite moments from the day:

  1. When I had to use the bathroom upon arrival at the Expo, my daughter said: “You’re not going to leave me alone out here, are you?”
  2. Standing in the middle of the food court, my daughter sitting on the floor eating an ice cream cone, and surrounded by 100s of costumed individuals, my exact thought was this: it’s a great time for my daughter to grow up, as she can be anyone she wants to be. Anyone at all. This could not have happened when I was growing up.
  3. See the picture below of the characters posing on the stairs. I can’t explain it.

Here are some photos from our adventure (click to enlarge). We’re already planning our costumes for next year’s event. I may go as a surgeon or Plywood Man, with a costume made entirely from wood. It could happen.

Enjoy.

Cactus Man? Odd cucumber dude? Clearly, I'm not up to date on the latest characters.

Cactus Man? Odd cucumber dude? Clearly, I’m not up to date on the latest characters.

I'm thinking that after three or four Cokes and a large burrito from a food truck, this gentleman may rethink his costume choice for next year's event.

I’m thinking that after three or four Cokes and a large burrito from a food truck, this gentleman may regret his costume choice.

This was one of my favorite superheroes. He's spinning records - DJ Man? This could be the secret identity of my friend @onlyz.

This was one of my favorite superheroes. He’s spinning records – DJ Man? This could be the secret identity of my friend @onlyz.

So, I appreciated this one, but my daughter didn't. It shows what you can do with an old pair of shower shoes, some black stockings and a dress. However, as my wife pointed out, even Death needs a convention goodie bag.

So, I appreciated this one, but my daughter didn’t. It shows what you can do with an old pair of shower shoes, black stockings and a dress. However, as my wife pointed out, even Death needs a convention goodie bag.

"What a blockhead," I said as I spotted this guy before my daughter did. She just looked at me the way 11-year-olds do.

“What a blockhead,” I said as I spotted this guy before my daughter did. She just looked at me the way 11-year-olds do.

There's a pause in the action as Wreck It Ralph takes a phone call.

There was a pause in the action as Wreck It Ralph took a phone call.

There's something I really like about this photo. All of a sudden the sea of humanity parted and this couple was standing there. I can only guess what they were thinking and that's why I like it so much.

There’s something I really like about this photo. All of a sudden the sea of humanity parted and this couple was standing there. I can only guess what they were thinking and that’s why I like it so much.

This was my daughter's favorite photograph, which impressed me when she told me why: it looks like an every day photo of someone getting lunch in LA. Hard to argue with that.

This was my daughter’s favorite photograph, which impressed me when she told me why: it looks like an every-day photo of someone getting lunch in LA, but not. Hard to argue with that.

We think the guy on the left wormed his way into the photo. He seems out of place, if that's possible.

We think the guy on the left wormed his way into the photo. He seems out of place, if that’s possible.

Here's what an action pose looks like and the photographers taking pictures. If I had to bet one character winning this fight, I wouldn't bet on the woman in 14-inch plexiglass high heels.

Here’s what an action pose looks like with photographers taking pictures. If I had to bet on one character winning this fight, I wouldn’t bet on the woman in 14-inch plexiglass high heels.

I was tempted.

I was tempted.

Action pose by the X-Men. What you can't see here is that Wolverine is wearing a Wolverine back-pack.

Action pose by the X-Men. What you can’t see here is that Wolverine is wearing a Wolverine backpack.

Have wings and a wheelie travel bag and you're set for adventure.

Have wings and a wheelie travel bag and you’re set for adventure.

This was my favorite moment of the day. The characters below are photographing the characters on the stairs.

This was my favorite moment of the day. The characters below are photographing the characters on the stairs.

As we were leaving, we saw this beauty, which made me think that leaving before the sun went down was a good idea.

As we were leaving, we saw this beauty, which made me think that leaving before the sun went down was a good idea.

Father’s Day 2013 and other thoughts

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I’m grateful for my wife and daughter and two labs, though the black one is a pain in the ass sometimes, but in a good way, or not. I’m not sure.

So, I received white boxers with blue whales on them, Godiva chocolate bars (because I’m eating a lot of it to keep me going during long workdays), and noise-reducing headphones to protect my Tobramycin-damaged hearing while I use power tools.

Best of all, my wife wrote a long note all about me and how great I am. I wrote back right away and asked who she was writing about and how I’d like to meet the guy who does all of this stuff.

I’m not going to post the entire letter here, as I don’t think I can live up to the high bar it sets, but here is one of my favorite quotes: “The father who quizzes us on how to spot potentially unsavory characters on the street and what we should do in any potentially risky situations.”

You bet I do, baby. And you better pass that quiz each time. Keep your eyes open for those “unsavory” types, though I’m not sure I’ve ever used the word “unsavory,” which makes me think of poorly cooked food, not scumbags.

This reminds me of one of the first dates I was on with my future wife. I had a black soft-top Jeep Wrangler and we were in West LA stop and go traffic and one of them thar’  (cowboy voice) “unsavory” types approached my honey bunny while we were waiting at a light. With no windows on the Jeep and no six-shooter at my hip, I had to use my highly advanced communication skills to defuse the situation.

“BACK OFF, dickweed,” I said.

What did he call me? © igor - Fotolia.com

What did he call me?
© igor – Fotolia.com

Being that my wife is a nice catholic girl and lived a sheltered life, her first question was, “What’s a dickweed?”

It was a really tough question. And I wasn’t sure how to answer it. But I guess my overpowering delivery won her heart and she stayed with me. I’ll never understand why, but then it’s never a good idea to question or analyze love.

It just is, and I’m lucky I have it.

Holland saves my blog

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I gave some deep thought to quitting this blog after my last post. Then the comments started rolling in – 4 of them.

I have four readers?

Holy cow. How did I get that many readers? That’s four times as many as I thought I had.

I can’t quit my blog. There are four people out there crazier than I am and depend on my mad rants to make their day. I can’t let them down.

Or can I? Four readers? I’m sure they could find another blog. But I like those Four readers. Hmm, what to do? Stay or run?

And then I read the fourth and final comment and this quote: “if it helps… your blog is WORLD FAMOUS! Seriously, in holland, basically every single person reads it.”

Every person in Holland reads my blog?

If only I could fly, I'd visit my pals in the summer. © Lsantilli - Fotolia.com

If only I could fly, I’d visit my pals in the summer. © Lsantilli – Fotolia.com

Well, that’s a lot more people than four. What’s the population of Holland? (Let’s see, I have to multiply the number of tulips by the number of wooden shoes, then add the number of bicycles and windmills and divide by 1,000, which equals a population of 6,065,459. Or around that. Math isn’t an exact science after all.)

How could I possibly let down over 6 million hard working people from Holland? What kind of person would I be if I did that?

After all, I’m the David Hasselhoff of Holland! But without the singing.

So, thanks to my four readers and the region of Holland, I will continue to blog. My friends for life: Larry, Karyn, Tara, Djun and the best and smartest people in all of the Netherlands – those pals of mine in wonderful Holland.

Party like it’s your last, and always take the time to smell the tulips.

I heart Holland.

My wife discovers my blog

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Everything is temporary. Especially secrets.

After 3 years, 4 months, 383 posts, 2,733 comments, and rarely publicizing my blog, my wife discovered it. The gig is up, done, over. Goodbye to my secret. It’s kaput. ARGGGHHHH!

So, how did this happen and who is to blame?

Congratulations to my wife for her discovery. Well done. (I love you a ton, honey. Now find the next one. :-) ) © iQoncept - Fotolia.com

Congratulations to my wife for her discovery. Well done. (I love you a ton, hot mama. Now find the next one. 🙂 )
© iQoncept – Fotolia.com

Google. Yes, Google.

Bang. Done. Over with.

But did the little detective tell me right away when she found it? No. She read a bunch of the posts first.

However, unlike me, she’s the worst when it comes to keeping secrets and couldn’t help but confess, though I give her style points for her method of choice: she wrote a comment for a post, used her silly Disney alias, Dakota, and sent it with an email address I’d recognize.

I walked the 50 feet to her home office. And that was it. I got the low down on how she found it.

One of my blogging friends emailed me a CF question about marriage and I copied and pasted the text to my wife to get her opinion. She Googled my friend’s name and it came up attached to my blog, which she clicked on. It didn’t take her long to put 7 and 10 together (Denver Broncos, Fox, McGriddles) and realize it was me. (BTW, Josh, she really likes the header you created. Thank you.)

Somehow, my wife finding it feels like an ending. 

So, what do I do now? Do I continue to write this blog? Do I quit it and start another, bury it deeper in the internet?

Or, do I hand it over to her and let her write it for a while? (You found it, it’s your responsibility now, Honey.)

I don’t know. We’ll see. To be continued. Or not.

Man Musk

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“What’s that smell?” my wife asked, as I stood there, sweating, after working outside on a hot day.

Now this was a few years ago and I probably had my manly tool belt strapped on and was looking pretty studly, or as studly as I can possibly look without a bag on my head.

“It’s my Man Musk,” I said. “Would you like some?”

Hey, it's my Skuncle Joe.

Hey, it’s my Skuncle Joe.

“No, I don’t want some. You smell ripe.”

This confused me because don’t we eat fruit when it’s ripe? So, I smelled good enough to eat?

Nope, wrong, not good enough to eat, as I chased her around the kitchen trying to hug her and cover her face with my armpit. But she’s quick like a rabbit, and I couldn’t catch my baby mama.

So, “man musk” is our term now for me working up a nice musky smell. And, after eight days in the hospital and my last shower the day of my jailing, I’ve brewed a nice healthy batch.

It may be my imagination, but while I was outside building a gate today I noticed a number of attractive female joggers running by my house – some more than once. I told my wife, who rolled her eyes, but reminded her that man musk is high in protein and pheromones. It makes me irresistible, romance-novel desirable.  And there was a breeze today, so it all makes sense.

Man musk has a quite a history, dating back 100s of years. Check out this lesser-known Robert Frost poem:

Oh, Man Musk, how I love ya,
My eyes burn, my nose runs,
Watch me work and saw,
And flex me mighty guns.

Ladies stop and stare,
Nose up in the wind,
Take a deep sniff if you dare,
Soon, you’ll say, “I sinned.”
Oh, the power of Man Musk,
Rhino horn mixed with beaver tusk.

Yeah, I’m ripe and tart,
Smelling worse than a fart.
I’m too stupid to know,
Not as smart as your average Joe.

Addendum to yesterday’s post

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If I could really shape shift, I would look like Don Draper, but a lot happier.

If I could really shape shift, I would look like Don Draper, but a lot happier.

INT. Today’s CF Clinic appointment – morning

Nurse: Hi.

Unknown (wearing a yellow hospital mask): Hello.

Nurse: You’re looking good. So tan.

Unknown: Thank you.

Nurse: You’re not feeling well, huh?

Unknown: Nope.

Nurse pauses, looks at Unknown again.

Nurse: You look good. Your hair looks different, short. It’s nice.

Unknown: Thanks.

Nurse: I must have caught you after a haircut, huh?

Unknown: Yep

Nurses takes another look at Unknown.

Nurse: Are those new glasses?

Unknown: Yep.

Nurse: They look good. Very stylish.

Unknown: Thank you.

Yes, after writing yesterday’s post, this happened. A gift from the blogging gods!

I’m not sure I nailed the exact quotes, but I’m close. The nurse is super nice. And everything she said was complimentary. I could, however, detect that there was something about my appearance she couldn’t put her finger on. She just kept looking at me over and over. Kind of like I was . . . wait for it . . . a person she didn’t recognize. I am, after all, a master shape shifter.

And then I blew the lowest PFT I’ve ever blown in my life. HUGE FAIL. Tomorrow I go to jail for a dose of IV antibiotics and the most hated drug I’ve ever taken – oral steroids. Hello, hallucinations. Soon, I’ll really believe I can shape shift.

Happy, happy, joy, joy, it’s off to jail I go, where I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow . . . nothing down.

I’m a shape shifter (be thankful you’re not)

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Ah, my favorite self-portait photograph. I look the same each time you see me.

Ah, my favorite self-portait photograph. I look the same each time you see me.

If there is anything I don’t understand about human nature, it’s the propensity or desire to comment on a person’s looks when you greet them. I’m not talking about a “hey, you look great,” or other generic comment. I’m talking about something more specific – a detailed analysis or critical review of the way the person looks.

It’s happened to me most of my life.

I would understand if I gained 500 pounds thanks to a bacon-chocolate and Cheetos addiction, and it came as a surprise to the other person. Yes, I get it. Comment on how I look. I understand. I’m giant now, a man-sized Oreo. I have a problem. I’m quite different from the last time you saw me. Critique away. You have my blessing.

Or, what if I shaved my head and had a bright red target tattooed on my noggin? I might receive, and deserve, a comment or two. I get it.

But what I don’t understand are the people who comment on subtle differences in one’s looks – the proofreaders of human appearance.

“You look fantastic,” my business colleague said to me after an extended break from bumping into each other.

Now I’ve established that that’s a nice way to greet someone. Nothing wrong with it. Nice, perfectly delightful.

But he didn’t stop there, adding the tagline: “Yeah, the last time I saw you, you didn’t look so hot.”

Okay, rule number one after saying, “you look fantastic”: stop there. That’s a winning line. Nothing more need be said. You can only get in trouble if you add anything (especially if you’re a man speaking to a woman at work, which can only lead to a possible dismissal based on sexual harassment charges).  Again, you can only screw it up after the first compliment.

And this was dude to dude. Do we guys ever comment on each other’s looks when we meet – other than maybe a, “looking good, man.” “Yeah, thanks, man. Been hitting the weights hard, eating lean.”

The most recent comment: “You don’t look like the same person,” the carpenter helping me build my picket fence said to me after not seeing each other for 5 months, and for only the second time ever!

How is that possible? Not the same person? I guess it’s the 10K I spent in Argentina on a face transplant. And to think I thought no one would notice. 

Now, most normal people might ask for more detail: “Hey, what do you mean by that? Is that good or bad?” Not me.I don’t want to know because I either look bad now or at some point in the past. So, I don’t want to spend the day fretting about how I’m deteriorated since you saw me last, or how I looked like crap the last time.

I guess it’s just part of my life and the sign on my forehead that reads: Tell me how I look. Win a pony.

Frozen Shoulder on a Stick

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No frozen shoulder here.

Not just a shoulder, the “amazing” shoulder. Do you have amazing shoulders? How about lungs? I’d rather have amazing lungs than amazing shoulders. Just would, that’s all.

What’s the lifetime world record for number of doctor’s visits and medical tests?

I must be getting close to it. At least it feels like I am.

Last two weeks: CF clinic, ENT doctor, dentist, lung scan, ortho specialist. And the sleep study and O2D2 at night before that.

Results: I have hearing loss thanks to the endless doses of IV Tobramycin I’ve sucked down, and, as a bonus, a frozen shoulder thanks to who knows what.

I didn’t need a test to tell me I can’t hear certain high sounds anymore. And my shoulder still moves and isn’t technically “frozen,” but it sparks a ton if I move it the wrong way.

But I did not like the lung scan, Sam I am.
I did not like it at all with green eggs and ham. 

“Lie down, please. Take the paper bag off your head.” Those words sound much better when they come from my wife.

The super-efficient nurse placed a mask on my face, told me to hold it tight and not let air escape, then injected something into the mask and told me to take a deep breath and hold it for 10 seconds. This process reminded me of a scene in a movie with two drug addicts getting high. Could I have the colitas spray next time, please, nurse?

I didn’t ask what she made me inhale. I didn’t want to know, as my new “living day to day” attitude gives me “who gives a shit” powers. But I did panic because I couldn’t breathe normally, and I allowed a little air to slip out of the mask.

Why is everyone running away? Damn, Nurse, you weren’t joking about holding the mask tight.

Next came the IV and this nurse nailed it. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am – it is possible to start an IV without it feeling like someone hammered a nail into my arm.

She injected another substance I had no desire to know the name or chemical composition of. Then, unlike a CT scan where you’re inserted into the oven to be cooked, the oven came to me, surrounding with me with a metal plates to take pictures of my air bags, changing positions and moving around me several times.

This is the worst photo ever. It's the shot I took as the machine was passing over me. It was everything I could do to get my iPod out and snap the picture.

This is the worst photo ever. It’s the shot I took as the machine was passing over me. It was everything I could do to get my iPod out and snap the picture.

At the ENT, I got the bad news about my hearing. And the ringing in my ears? Here to stay thanks to my feeble brain’s interpretation of the damage.

There was a bright side to the visit. We spoke about our kids – he has two very young ones – and I mentioned how in a German hospital years ago I hoped I would live to see my daughter turn 5. That would be great, I thought. If I can just make it to see her turn five.

Where did the time go? I asked. It’s a blink. One day she rode on my shoulders, the next she was 11. Now I want to live to see her graduate high school, which is odd because it was my mother’s goal to see me live to graduate high school.

[The following sentence is meant to be read in a crusty old British accent]: Twist of fate? Perhaps. Perhaps not, my good man. Tea, anyone?

Then came a long, strange pause as I waited for the doctor to shove the scope in my nose. Pause. Wait for it. More of a pause. Pause. Wait for it. Is the machine not working? Okay, he’s moving. He’s awake.

“Sorry, I was getting teary-eyed,” the doctor said.

What? That’s strange. And he’s serious, not sarcastic. Hmm, that doesn’t happen every day. Very unusual.

Some doctors are human. At least the good ones are. And I found one.

It’s a good day when that happens. A good day, indeed.

Day of the Dolphins

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(Warning: No dolphins were harmed in the writing of this post. And, as it is with all human interactions in my life, everything is my fault)

Pop Quiz

1) The primary reason I, the Unknown Idiot, don’t go to children’s birthday parties is:

A. I hate birthday parties
B. All of the mothers stare at me and undress me with their eyes
C. I believe I will catch a cold and end up in the hospital
D. I break out in hives if I eat cake without first drinking a six-pack of Old Milwaukee

2) True or false: Raising an 11-year old daughter can, on certain days, make you want to ram your head into a brick wall.

A. True
B. False

********

I broke my rule of not going to birthday parties with my daughter. However, I had a good reason to jump aboard the most recent invite: whale watching.

Spending the afternoon on a boat on the Pacific Ocean looking for giant mammals? I was so there.

And there I was with my wife and daughter Sunday afternoon as we boarded a double-decker boat for a four-hour journey to the waters of two Channel Islands: Anacapa and Santa Cruz.

********

Anacapa in the distance. A perfect February day on the Cali coast. Life is good.

Anacapa in the distance. A perfect February day on the Cali coast. Life is good.

3) Approximately, how many Anacapa islands can you fit on Santa Cruz island?

A. 1
B. 10
C. 100
D. None unless you’re Godzilla and you like to tear up islands and move them other places

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According to the tour guide, you can fit about 100 of the tiny Anacapa on Santa Cruz, the largest of the Channel Islands. Good to know.

So, the boat ride was a blast, as the wind created exciting swells. I stayed on the covered upper level by myself, away from the lower deck, the elements, and the party with its toilets filled with vomiting parents, and had my own zen moments staring at the water and watching people flinch every time they thought a whale popped its head out of the water. None did.

I made trips outside to the exposed deck and cold wind – it was ball-freezing cold – and enjoyed the sun and heaving. I wore my hunting cap, not that I hunt, but it covers my ears better than the paper bag I usually wear over my head.

The offending pants. The front isn't looking so hot either. Retire or wear?

The offending pants. The front isn’t looking so hot either. Retire or wear?

The rest of my stylish ensemble included a windproof, lined jacket, turtleneck, two t-shirts and my special “hot pants.” Not the “hot pants” that models wear, though I am a male underwear model in my spare time and could totally get away with wearing the short type of hot pants.

When you're on the water looking for whales, look for birds. That's what they told us. We found the birds, but we didn't find the whales. But we found something better.

When you’re on the water looking for whales, look for birds. That’s what they told us. We found the birds, but we didn’t find the whales. But we found something better.

My hot pants, made by Abercrombie, are literally “hot” because they’re lined with flannel, keeping my rock-hard buns and jewels nice and warm on cold days. Unfortunately, after 15 plus years of wearing them, they’ve seen better days. One might say that I look homeless wearing them.

Oh, and they upset my daughter now that she’s a self-conscious 11-year old (more on this later).

Though no whales made an appearance during our trip, we did see something very special: hundreds of common dolphins racing to a feeding area occupied by hundreds of gulls.

Think: dolphin party.

They swam next to the boat, under the boat, around the boat, in the distance, and up and out of the water. Hundreds of them.

All I can add is that it’s a good thing the fuckers can’t fly because we would have shot them out of the sky and feasted on dolphin stew. Kidding, this isn’t “the cove” where killing dolphins is allowed.

No, this is California and we don’t eat our dolphins here. We love our dolphins. We shoot them with iPhones and digital cameras and post their pictures to our blogs with cute captions, like “Hey, it’s Flipper, my little dolphin buddy.”

Back to the day trip.

It's very hard to photograph dolphins, as they don't listen to direction and surface in a coordinated fashion. The white splashes, well, I just missed them.

It’s very hard to photograph dolphins, as they don’t listen to direction or surface in a coordinated fashion. The white splashes, well, I just missed them.

Whales: zero, dolphins: a ton.

Back to shore we headed. Shortly after 5 we were off to downtown Ventura for some Thai food, where we joined a good friend and her daughter.

Now my daughter, who was tired and hungry from being in the cold and running around the boat with her friends, sat there on the vinyl bench-seat one wrong comment away from Tasmanian Devil mode.

And sure enough the spark arrived when her friend said to me: “Hey, you have holes in your pants.”

I find that lying in these situations is best.

“No, I don’t. You’re imagining things.”

But she stuck to her guns and disagree with my attempt to deflect by telling a blatant lie.

Hey, it's Flipper, my little dolphin buddy.

Hey, it’s Flipper, my little dolphin buddy.

My daughter’s eyes focused on me. Arms crossed. She shook her head in disgust.

“What?” I said to her in a light and fun tone, hoping to make her smile.

“You embarrassed me, daddy.” Repeat that sentence two more times.

Scene: Angry daughter, all conversation at the table halted.

Disappointed my usual charm didn’t work, I let it go and focused on my Tom Kha soup. I decided to discuss it at home and not get into a fight that would have led to the burning down of one of my favorite Thai food restaurants, then going to jail for it, with my daughter telling me, as they took me away in handcuffs, I shouldn’t have worn those pants,.

“But I didn’t even get to taste the pumpkin curry with chicken,” I would have said, adding to my wife, “Honey, get it to go. I’ll be out in five years. Wait for me.”

Well that didn’t happen. Fortunately.

But we did talk about it later, which was like me talking to a dolphin about not worrying about what other dolphins think of her daddy dolphin.

“What?” the daughter dolphin said. “No comprende human language.”

Then my daughter gave my wife some attitude and that was all she wrote. My wife delivered the hurt and guilt. Tears, crying, and an apology for moi. Nice job, Hon. Hey, that worked out. Boy, this parenting stuff is a boatload of fun. A boatload.

All I can think these days, and that night, as I tried to go to sleep and the bed rose and fell, “God, don’t let me mess her up for life.”

It was so easy when my daughter was 4 or 5 or 7. Now she’s a genius whirlwind of love and emotions, and dynamite.

Look at her the wrong way, wear the wrong pants, discount how she’s feeling about a situation (Mommy understands, you don’t), and “bang,” here’s a boat oar to the head.

But still, even with a cracked skull, it’s impossible not to love this little dophin girl more than life itself.

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4) True or False: The loser known as Unknown is always one step away from a major disaster of some sort or another. 
A. True
B. True