Pre-op

This week I had my "pre-op assessment." For the uninitiated, this is a three-to-four hour marathon that should take thirty minutes at the most. Mine took five.

First, I went to the wrong hospital. Doesn't it make sense that if they're doing surgery at a place that's where you'd go to get your paperwork done?

No.

Once I finished trolling the parking lot for a space (I found one approximately a half-mile away, one of the closest) I made my way to the main entrance. It looked like the front of a Hilton. I can't wait for the bill.

The lady at the reception desk gave me a pager, always a bad sign, and told me to wait in the atrium. The fact that she didn't call it a lobby made my bill go up exponentially.

So I sat, without any reading material, for my pager to buzz. Thankfully, my daughter sent me a text message I could respond to. Sending my reply took the better part of thirty minutes. Did you know that your cellphone is smart enough to figure out words just by you punching in the right number buttons? It's called "T9 Word" on my phone. I call it something else, not fit for print.

Emily wanted to know how it was going. Simple enough. I typed back in "unbelievable". It came out "unbeleeabee". I couldn't remember what button to push to get alternate words and by mistake pushed the "send" button. There it go.

Embarrassed at my lack of texting expertise, I tried again. I typed in "If I could only get into the office." All I got was "he". I hit a button to try and fix it. You guessed it. There it go. She texted me back, "I love you." Sweet girl, showing pity to her dad.

I heard someone calling "Berry...BERRY", at which point I realized the pager was only a paperweight, completely worthless for communicating. Just like my texting.

I walked through the expensive atrium back to the original lady I spoke with and told her my vibrator wasn't working, a joke which was obviously lost on her since she looked at me with disdain and informed me that I was at the wrong place. I needed to be at the "other" hospital. I didn't even ask what I was thinking. If they can't do my pre-op stuff here, how will they do my surgery? Something to think about.

I drove to the Northeast Georgia Medical Center, home of the Ronnie Green Heart Center, one of the best anywhere. The reason I know this is from the billboards I see everywhere up here. Billboards that I will soon be paying for. Just another thought.

Parking here was easier. I used the Fried Green Tomatoes method. When a lady in a Mercedes tried to beat me to a parking place, I cut her off, jerked into the space, and yelled, "I drive a Ford Explorer and I have no insurance!" Better than a diamond, that took her breath away.

I noticed that the hospital had recently completed new construction, more for me to pay for. I am not liking this upgrade at all.

When I found the "Pre-Surgical Waiting" room I was handed a clipboard to use while I filled out my medical history. I was now 45 minutes late and was treated accordingly.

They wanted to know everything about my medical past. I filled it out completely and handed it back to the lady, who escorted me to the cubicle where the nurse would complete my assessment. An older lady walked in who talked slow enough to put you to sleep in seconds. When she introduced herself I asked how her brother Forrest was. She didn't get it.

She asked the SAME questions I had just completed on the forms given to me, and then told me someone would be in to get a tube of blood.

I said goodbye to Ms. Gump and through the door came the sister of the banjo player from "Deliverance."

"I don't waste no time finding a vein. Whatever pops up, I just stick the needle in and get done with it." No problem, let's make it quick. She did. I was glad.

The last thing was an EKG. The little girl doing it asked what I was having done. I told her I had prostate cancer and she proceeded to tell me that her cousin who lived in Florida was the palest person she had ever seen but had skin cancer but her and her momma laid out all the time and ain't never had no problems. She looked like a grilled hot dog. She looked like she was twelve years old. My EKG was fine.

I went from there to my doctor's office to sign what they call a "release form". Apparently this means I hold the doctor absolutely harmless if, after my surgery, I can't pee, have sex, or walk without a limp. Right. I signed it.

With all that's happened so far, this should be an interesting experience. I haven't even gotten to the catheter part yet.

I can't wait.

Wire

Turn on the spotlight, strike up the band
Everyone's looking my way
They came to see the excitement firsthand
And hear all that I've got to say

Oh, it makes me wonder
What if I slip, will they catch me
Or watch me fall?

I am walking on a wire
Tiptoein' through the fire
Never looking down to see that
I am walking on a wire
The pressure's getting higher
But I don't look around

Everyone roots for the winner
The others--well, maybe next time
Your time at the top only lasts fifteen minutes
Then they just leave you behind

Oh, it makes me wonder
What if I slip, will they catch me
Or watch me fall?

I am walking on a wire
Tiptoein' through the fire
Never looking down to see that
I am walking on a wire
The pressure's getting higher
But I don't look around,
It's so far to the ground....

Will they catch me....?

If I fall...

Facelift Wrecks

I'm noticing an alarming trend, one that should--no, must--be addressed.

It's the number of people having facelifts. This is an all-encompassing term, meant to include Botox, eye-lifts, eye-brow lifts, nose jobs, tummy tucks and the like.

But for now, let's concentrate on the face.

I saw a recent picture of Dolly Parton today and noticed something was different about her face (yes, she does have a face). Now I grew up with Saturday afternoons and evenings consumed with Country Music stars of the day who had their own television shows. I'm not talking CMT or GAC here, I mean REAL Country Music--Ernest Tubb, the Wilburn Brothers, Bill Anderson...all pre-"Hee Haw" celebrities.

And then there was Porter Wagoner, the original rhinestone cowboy. And his Wagoneers. Also starring Speck Rhodes, comedian, he of the missing front teeth and corny jokes, even for a ten-year-old redneck-in-waiting.

And that new singer from Sevierville, Tennessee, Miss Dolly Parton.

When I first laid eyes on her, I thought I had died and gone to Hillbilly Heaven. She was all you could ever want, and more. Much more. She talked right, looked great, could sing and play guitar. She wrote a lot of great songs and went on after an acrimonious split from the old Wagonmaster to become famous in her own right.

Something happened in the intervening forty or so years. She bought the old Silver Dollar City in Pigeon Forge and renamed it Dollywood. She bought so much of Sevier County I'm surprised they didn't rename it for her, too. But I digress.

She now looks like the Joker from Batman. Along with almost everyone else famous who's had, let's say, facial "enhancements".

The first famous person I can remember having a facelift was Betty Ford. She looked like the Joker before Jack Nicholson did. I think they may have used her post-surgery face as the model.

Now I'm not trying to be ugly (no pun intended) but, really, these folks are like walking train wrecks. You don't want to look but you can't help yourself.

Face it (again, no pun intended), they must all use the same guy. Mickey Rourke, the Joker. Leona Helmsley, the Joker. Barry Manilow, the Joker. Kenny Rogers and Wayne Newton, the Joker. Julie Newmar, Catwoman (just checking to see if you're paying attention). These all make Nicholson look normal. Just look 'em up and see for yourself.

My prospects of getting better-looking as I age are not real good. But I refuse to get anything lifted, tucked, tightened, or stretched. I don't want to end up looking like an arch nemesis of all that is good and right.

Besides, I don't have to look like the Joker. I AM the Joker.

Prestige Letters

It hit me this morning that so, so many people are using letters after their names when they write letters or articles, on the signs outside their office or business.

To quote that great theologian Buckwheat, "What do it mean?"

Letters were rarer when I was younger. I remember Dr. Henry and Dr. Crawford, both M.D.s. I knew what the letters meant but I preferred to think they meant "My Doctor."

The church I attend has a pastor whose name appears on the weekly bulletin followed by "M. Div." I know what these letters mean: Master of Divinity. While the uninformed may think these letters have to do with a Southern candy delicacy, I know better. They show the person having them spent a lot of money, time, and effort in grad school only to end up with a few letters to show for it.

And then there's "D.D.S". Dentists have these letters. I don't like to go to the dentist. Years ago, a dentist pulling one of my wisdom teeth broke my jaw. First he put a steel piece in my mouth that he ratcheted open until I thought my lips were going to meet at the back of my head. Then he gave me several anesthesia shots in my jaw so I wouldn't feel anything. After that he took an air hammer and proceeded to extract the tooth in question. During this process he paused, leaned back and said, "I think I broke your jaw." I replied, "Whhaaant do nyeuw neene nyeuw nroke ny nyaw?" He didn't answer. I realized then these letters stood for "Damn, Dentists Suck."

I like what Lewis Grizzard said about his dentist. He said the dental hygienist was so beautiful that he'd eat an entire box of Oreos before he went in to get his teeth cleaned.

My urologist is an "M.D., F.A.C.S.". I have no idea. He'll be operating on me soon, so I'm sure it has something to do with inflicting great pain on a couple of body areas I don't want to have pain in, after which the operating room staff will survey his work and proclaim "Fine Ass-Cutting, Sir". I can't wait.

I've decided to get some letters of my own. I'll now display my name on anything followed by "SAWB, AMWL". Smart-Ass White Boy, A Man Without Letters.

I'm proud of that. I earned it.

I Believe...

A friend of mine sent this to me, and it's too good not to share:

I Believe...
That just because two people argue, it doesn't mean they don't love each other. And just because they don't argue, it doesn't mean they do love each other.

I Believe...
That we don't have to change friends if we understand that friends change.

I Believe...
That no matter how good a friend is, they're going to hurt you every once in a while, and you must forgive them for that.

I Believe...
That true friendship continues to grow, even over the longest distance. Same goes for true love.

I Believe...
That you can do something in an instant that will give you a heartache for life.

I Believe...
That it's taking me a long time to become the person I want to be.

I Believe...
That you should always leave loved ones with loving words. It may be the last time you see them.

I Believe...
That you can keep going long after you think you can't.

I Believe...
That we are responsible for what we do, no matter how we feel.

I Believe...
That either you control your attitude or it controls you.

I Believe...
That heroes are the people who do what has to be done when it needs to be done, regardless of the consequences.

I Believe...
That money is a lousy way of keeping score.

I Believe...
That my best friend and I, can do anything, or nothing, and have the best time.

I Believe...
That sometimes the people you expect to kick you when you're down, will be the ones to help you get back up.

I Believe...
That sometimes when I'm angry I have the right to be angry, but that doesn't give me the right to be cruel.

I Believe...
That maturity has more to do with what types of experiences you've had and what you've learned from them and less to do with how many birthdays you've celebrated.

I Believe...
That it isn't always enough, to be forgiven by others. Sometimes, you have to learn to forgive yourself.

I Believe...
That no matter how bad your heart is broken the world doesn't stop for your grief.

I Believe...
That our background and circumstances may have influenced who we are, but we are responsible for who we become.

I Believe...
That you shouldn't be so eager to find out a secret. It could change your life forever.

I Believe...
Two people can look at the exact same thing and see something totally different.

I Believe...
That your life can be changed in a matter of hours by people who don't even know you.

I Believe...
That even when you think you have no more to give, when a friend cries out to you -
you will find the strength to help.

I Believe...
That credentials on the wall do not make you a decent human being.

I Believe...
That the people you care about most in life are taken from you too soon.

Resume Idiocy

Actual information on resumes, from MadConomist.com, via Interesting Pile

1. Thank you for your consideration. Hope to hear from you shorty!
2. Enclosed is a ruff draft of my resume.
3. It’s best for employers that I not work with people.
4. Here are my qualifications for you to overlook.
5. If this resume doesn’t blow your hat off, then please return it in the enclosed envelope.
6. I saw your ad on the information highway, and I came to a screeching halt.
7. Graduated in the top 66% of my class.
8. Experience: Watered, groomed, and fed the family dog for years.
9. I am a rabid typist.
10. I have a bachelorette degree in computers.
11. Excellent memory; strong math aptitude; excellent memory; effective management skills; and very good at math.
12. I worked as a Corporate Lesion.
13. Married, eight children. Prefer frequent travel.
14. Special skills: Thyping.
15. Personal Goal: To hand-build a classic cottage from the ground up using my father-in-law.
16. Experience: Provided correct answers to customers’ questions.
17. Education: Graduated from predatory school with honors.
18. Never been fired, although it could happen anytime now.
19. While in military, was instrumental in creation of a treat detection system.
20. Hire me and you won’t regret it - I am funny, cute, smart and creative… really.
21. Referees available upon request.
22. Previous rank: Senior instigator.
23. Reason for leaving: They stopped paying me.
24. Personal achievements: Successfully played “Chop Sticks” on a toy piano with my big toes.
25. Strengths: Impersonal skills.
26. Please explain any breaks in your employment career: 15 minute coffee break while working at a home improvement store.
27. Vocational plans: Sea World.

And we wonder why unemployment is so high.

If this is the future, I'm looking forward to the next fity years.

The Elvisity of It All

Elvis changed my life.

Well, Jesus changed it first, when I was seven, but Elvis wasn't far behind.

I'm not putting the two on par with each other, as some do. But the King of Rock and Roll was important to a true Southern boy growing up.

I had a toy tennis racket that Mama tied a string around so I could pretend I was playing a guitar, and off I went to Memphis to play with Elvis.

Hound Dog? No problem, you ain't nothing but a. Blue Suede Shoes? Don't step on 'em. Are You Lonesome Tonight? I can help out. Return to Sender? No such zone, no such code.

I was infected with a hip problem...mine wouldn't stop moving, and my leg swiveled when I sang.

It wasn't always cool to love Elvis, but I didn't care. I had the one-two-three-four, operation G.I. Blues.

I wasn't old enough to understand all about love, but I knew the King did. If only he had married Ann-Margret for real and not just in "Viva Las Vegas". If only.

I drove his race car, flew his helicopter, wore his clothes. I was the King, a few years and miles away from the actual person. All my friends wanted to be Elvis, but they were just poor impersonators. I had it down and wasn't ashamed of it. I could sneer, lip up, and sing his songs by heart.

I was on the beach at Daytona in the early 70's, laying on the sand after coming out of the ocean, when I felt a shadow over me. This older lady was standing there and she said, "Does anybody ever tell you that you look like Elvis?"

I said, "Thank you, thank you very much."

When Elvis left the building for the last time in 1977, my best friend heard it before I did and was hesitant to tell me because he knew how much I loved him. He pulled me aside that afternoon and told me "the King's gone, man."

Not as long as I'm around, he's not.

My daughter loves Elvis, thinks he's beautiful, and wants to know if I think he's in heaven.

I saw him in concert once and someone yelled out, "You're the King!" He replied, "There's only one King, and that's Jesus."

Is he in heaven? Absolutely. He was raised right before he was raised on rock, a church-going, Jesus-loving Southern boy. Black velvet and angel wings.

He once said that all he ever really wanted to do was sing gospel music. I guess now he is, over in the Promised Land.

Suspicious Minds? You know I'd never lie to you, baby.

Thankyouthankyouverymuch, Elvis. Happy Birthday.