Yes, it's really Monday. After all the days off around here for the icy conditions, I could have sworn we had two weekends and this should be December, 16. So much for being able to keep track. I fell asleep about 1930 last night, woke up at 2130 and wondered what the hell my oldest daughter was doing up at 0400. Hmmmm, I pestered her for a minute, fell back asleep and only woke up twice, and at 0500, decided a shower, drugs and feed would be a good thing, just not in that order. Feeding always comes last in my routine. There's no real reason why it should, it's just it shakes out. The weekend was uneventful as far as big deals go. Excluding the "discussion" with Massage Envy about them not being able to treat me, getting that fixed after sliding into complete asshole mode, and the actual massage (which is still with me, just not as strongly as it was) the only thing going on was football on Saturday, and one pro game. Yes, I swore off pro football, but that raging snow storm that they had yesterday was great to watch em play in. I can't even recall now who was playing, it was just fun watching them. I spent part of that time thinking "Yeah, I've worked in a blizzard more than once, what's the big deal?" I'm pretty certain a lot of people would say they could be seriously injured. True, but try climbing a ladder on the outside of a rig derrick eighty feet up to the rod basket, and not being able to see the floor. Nothing like something that could get you killed for not paying attention to put pro football in a blizzard in it's proper perspective. Not to disparage the players, but they get pretty well compensated, and the guys in the trenches don't get their fair share compared to the "stars" on the team. I think a lot of the time the QB, receivers, and running backs seem to forget who makes that all possible.
Sidebar: Cudo's to Jon Herod, owner of Schlotzky's Deli in Midland. His employees weren't treating customers to his satisfaction, so he closed the place and has been holding "Attitude Adjustment" meetings to straighten that out. They've been closed for more than just a few days working on it. Finally, the owner of a restaurant does the right thing. Even if it cost him revenue. Thanks, Brother, and even though I can't eat any longer, I've got your back.
Mike, the man who gave me my massage didn't want to take a tip. I kinda laughed it off, and kept after him to take the money. He kept refusing, until I said, "Liz will kill me if I don't", and he took his tip. He was telling me that out of all the employees that place has, that he and two others are the only ones that aren't afraid to touch me and give me a massage. I asked if that was because of the surgery or what, and he said "Yes" to both things, the surgery and "or what". Apparently I make some of the other folks nervous. I could tell when I went in Friday to try and sort out a way to get me a massage. The assistant manager, the young woman that turned me down, looked at me like I was going to attack her and leave her covered in scars and tracheostomy. Well, we all know that's not true, scars maybe. I realize as well that I can seem to be pretty "untouchable" and that not knowing where to start on me could be an issue. It's really very simple. I show them where I've got the most suffering from pain going on, and they massage that area/areas out for an hour. I'm still cruising from that massage. It's truly made a difference. Couple that with the Lymphedema Therapy and I'll be in pretty good shape down the road a bit. Of course, down the road a bit, I may not need either service. But until that time, I'm going to make good use of the services I've got working for me now.
Way way back in 1969 or 1970, some where along those lines, we lived on a section of ranch, wheat, and milo farm. We just lived in the house, we didn't own cattle or plow the rich soil around Russell County Kansas. It's where I learned to saddle a horse and ride. I got $5 a month to move 80 head of registered Black Angus cattle between pastures every month, and for taking care of the horse. He wasn't shod, so I had to learn how to look for splits in his hooves. I'd tell my Ma, she'd call his owner, and he'd sent out a farrier. I also learned not to talk him places he might get a stone bruise in his hoof. He was well trained, you could steer him with your knees. Something he liked better because he had a cavity so big you could park a truck in it.The vet came out to look him over and did something to the tooth, I don't know what he did, pulled it or filled it, I don't know. But I do know that you could ride him with a bridle, without fear of catching that bad tooth on the bit. I didn't like to use the bit, but there were times just using a hackamore wouldn't cut it, he'd ignore the hackamore, and go off on his merry way if you weren't careful and let him have his head.
So, anyway, we had a pretty large pond about 200 yards from the house. Great fishing, pretty free of trees and small shit to cut your feet if you went swimming. Which got a lot better when dad brought home a double deck, pontoon boat (the entire thing was home made, the pontoons were made from old barrels). It was fun to fish and swim off. You did, however, have to put the horse in the paddock with the calving shed. We didn't do that once, and the damn thing tried to get onto it with you. He could be around it all the time and not try to get on the damn thing. He got both front feet on the deck one time, liked to capsized the damn thing, so we locked him up.
We'd had a real turd floater of a rain. Three or four inches in the middle of the night. The anchor on the pontoon boat didn't hold and the water going over the spillway carried the boat about half way over. I was told by both parents to let the boat sit, and dad would be home and fix it for me. WRONG!!! I figured I'd get it off myself. Two car jacks and several creosote fence posts later, it was back floating on the pond. I was quizzed pretty hard about how I did it, and I never changed my story. I kept bouncing the front end and pushed it in. DUH, you can't do both. But I was sharp enough to put everything back where it belonged. I was 21 before I admitted to the parents how I got the damn boat back in the deep water. They weren't pissed, but laughed their asses off. Whew
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