So to prevent a condition known as “PTD” (Persistent Thought Delirium), I utilize this forum to express these private notations before they gather and fester, causing me to forget frequently called phone numbers of relatives. And away we go:
• 911 operators provide a valuable, sometimes life-saving service, but an incompetent one is akin to a bad cop, judge or roofer. I hear some of those emergency call recordings and wonder if the operator was picked up from Job Service earlier that day. I scream out in my irritation (spooking the neighbors again), “Come on lady; pay attention and can the stupid questions!”
Recently on my favorite daytime show, Crime Watch Daily, a domestic murder was documented. At the palatial home of a filthy rich couple, the handyman arrived one morning to find the bloody, dead wife, face-down in the pool. He calls 911 and frantically yells, “She, she … dead!” The lady replies: “Calm down, sir. Who’s dead?”
“Mrs. Sandoval. She face down at the bottom of the pool and I can tell she been there long time!” “Can you jump in and get her out?” was the calming comeback. He says, “No, she way dead. I don’t want move her so cops can get picture of body.”
What comes next, and I heard it with my own ears, would be humorous if not so maddening: “Sir, is she breathing?” WHAT? Is she BREATHING? Reminds me of when I lost my driver’s license in November, and days later my clueless neighbor asked, “Have you checked your wallet?” For God’s sake, get that 911 woman off the phone and institutionalized where she belongs!
• I absolutely love old music, and am loving my new (20 years old) truck and its great sound system, always tuned to Powell’s FM 104.1, “The Eagle.” Sadly, it took decades for me to appreciate sultry singer Joan Jett, and every time I hear one of her old songs, I’m tempted to pull over to concentrate. Sure, her lyrics and the beat are great, but it’s those raspy, guttural little growls during chorus’ like “Put another nickel in the jukebox, baby …” or “I hate myself for loving you,” that soothes my savage beast. It’s darn near a turn-on.
• I’m also in love with a beautiful woman named Marie who knows full well the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. At a popular Cody sports pub/eatery called “Brewgards” I frequent on my way home, (never over-imbibing like the old Doug), nightly sits a middle aged, bespectacled county employee named Bill.
Serving us are a bevy of comely barmaids, and in what I see as a pathetic attempt to curry attention — occasionally even hugs, which minimizes the attention I receive — Bill often brings them home-cooked food. Sure, he’s happily married and they’re only appreciative hugs, after all, but it’s still not fair. “When will I be hugged by gorgeous gals half my age and not remotely interested,” I ask myself as I sulk.
Then one day I heard Tara’s favorite food is lasagna. Now, I don’t know how to make lasagna, but my friend Marie Callender sure does. With no time to microwave it that next day, I did go the extra mile and slit the film cover, placed it in a Tupperware, and proudly handed it to tall temptress Tara. Not only did she and cute Wendy hug me, but the sultry newbie, Mary Beth followed suit. I insisted a patron snap photos, which I texted to Bill to rub in his face.
The girls later cooked and devoured my lasagna, and if I might directly quote Tara with words similar to her own, “That Marie Callender is the best lasagna I’ve ever had.” Shove that in your frosty mug and chug it, Bill!
• I’ve always loved watching my dogs paw at the grass after relieving themselves in the neighbor’s lawn. I’m down to one dog now, the lovely Ginger who I rescued from a bad marriage on New Year’s Day, and she takes it to a new level. Call it doggie OCD, but she always takes 10 full steps, stops and takes four backwards swipes per back paw. It’s cute enough to draw a raspy growl from Joan Jett.
• I truly believe the end is near. In fact, it’s here.