Author: BJ (Page 10 of 34)

Nary A Murder Here In Over A Year? Hmm…Sounds Promising…

2 October 2022 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

You’re sick af and just need a place to get some peaceful sleep.

Yeah, that’s the perfect time to be dirt cheap…

“So…you and the girls are still testing negative, eh?”

I tried to sound as casual about the news as possible, but inside I was secretly stoked about this (non-)development: if the rest of my family members at home were all still COVID-free, then that meant that I would need to extend my COVID-cation by at least another day or two. Oh, the humanity.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” the Boss Lady conceded. “At least through tomorrow night.”

What was advertised as a day of rest–and a little bit of real estate–had turned out to be a little more burdensome than expected,¹White Man’s Burden, that is! and as Day 2 of my sickness came to a close, I still hadn’t truly had the chance to ‘rest’. Thus, even an extra day–especially a Saturday–was welcome, because that Day 3 would be just enough time to achieve the one and only actual item on my to-do list: write my weekly blog post.

*Ahem*

You can stop snickering now–despite how incredibly stupid of a goal “writing my weekly blog post” may sound, I have every right to make that disproportionately important to me. Which of course makes it even more amusing that that, of all things, is what really drives the plot of this sprawling, majestic, asinine story of me getting COVID this summer.

Oh, yeah, that’s right…some of you may not know what a sh*t-show you just unwittingly walked into. For those not caught up, we’re working our way through the tragicly un-uneventful saga of my COVID-vacation. And if you fall into this category, why not take a few moments to catch up, starting here?

Now, back to the task at hand: adding an extra night to my AirBnB booking…

“Hi there! I was wondering if I could extend my stay through Sunday morning? I tried to do it directly through the app, but I couldn’t figure out how. Thanks!”

After getting the go-ahead from the Boss Lady and checking the availability of my current accommodations, I fired off the short message to my AirBnB host at 7:41 pm. It looked like this place was free through the following Tuesday, so it should just be a formality to tack on Saturday night, and then I could (finally) get on with chillaxing/physically-recovering-from-COVID my evening away.

It was only a mere 5 minutes before I got a response:

“Unfortunately, someone is checking in right after you…”

“You got to be effin’ kidding me!” I muttered in the general direction of my phone.

I stared at the message in shock and disbelief. I flipped back to the availability calendar in my AirBnB app, and sure enough, Saturday night was already spoken for. Even worse, that ----- was only staying only one night. Sigh.

I quickly realized that it was my error, and that I must have gotten confused about the dates of my current reservation. Dang COVID Fog, already kicking in!

Well, crap, what were my options now?

Option 1: Just go home tomorrow morning. Possibly infect other family members. Be forced to quarantine in a single room and still be required to wear a mask 24/7. Attempt to write my blog post under the ever-judging eye of the Boss Lady.

In the words of my married co-worker, explaining my plight to our colleagues: “Once you get married, you want nothing more than to be alone.”

Yeah…so…that’s gonna be a hard pass.

Option 2: Find another AirBnB for tomorrow night. Eat the overhead cost of paying booking, cleaning, service fees, etc. Check out at 10 am here, check in at 4 pm there. Park at the library and rest and/or write with the car running the whole time. Defeat the entire concept of ‘relaxing’.

Geez, that sounds even worse now that I say it out loud.

Okay, think, Dude, think…what other options are there? You love problem-solving–here’s your chance to really shine!

Ah-hah! I got it!

Option 3: Book accommodations for not only tomorrow night, but TONIGHT as well. Have the legal right to a bed and a bathroom between the hours of 10 am and 4 pm tomorrow. Move to my new digs at my own convenience. Maybe even find a cheap option to offset the whole double-booking thing.

By golly! That’s genius–it’s amazing what problems you can solve with a little thinking outside the box (and/or by throwing a few hundred dollar bills at it).

In fact, I think I’ll head to the new place tonight and get “the move” out of the way so I can sleep in. It’s too late to let the Boss Lady know about my change in plans, as she’s no doubt passed out with our baby girls for the night. I’ll just fill her in in the morning…

“About your Host: Hi! I’m Ugonna²I’m not making this up, BTW. I double-checked my confirmation email and everything. and I’m a nurse in the Triangle Area. I’m currently overseas on a medical mission, so I thought I would it be a great idea to rent out my condo to strangers in the meantime…”

” ‘Ugonna’?!? That’s her name? As in: ‘U Gonna confirm my reservation request sometime tonight?’ Hah!”

At precisely 7:55 pm that evening I had located and subsequently requested to reserve a townhome about 20 minutes away. Even though it was one of the thriftier options, the total for 2 nights still came in around $265.

I decided to wait for the confirmation email and the critical “how to legally enter into this stranger’s home” info, before packing up my stuff and heading out. Which was also a good idea seeing as how I didn’t have an actual address, and the last thing I wanted to do was wander around homelessly in the middle of the night.

Around 8:15 pm, this native was growing restless, so I decided to read up more on the place I hoped to be staying. But when I saw that she was in Africa at the moment–and combined with the fact that AirBnB hosts³I bet every time I say ‘host’, you see a phantom ‘g’ in front of. Because you know at some point, I’m going to have to say the G-word at least two more times. have 24 hours to confirm reservations–I realized that Ugonna just might not gonna be handing over the keycode to her front door to me any time soon.

The mini-point of the story here is: AirBnB is not exactly well-suited for last-second/same-night reservations.

But you know what is ‘well-suited’? A hotel suite at an anonymous 3+-star hotel near the airport–at least according to the Hotwire app on my phone.

Turns out that I could cancel my AirBnB penalty-free up until the res was confirmed, and so I clicked through to the Hotwire payment page…and the total at this nice hotel was literally less than a dollar difference than the AirBnB that I would end up cancelling mere seconds later.

It was a no-brainer, right? Well…

Somehow, as soon as I committed to the idea of staying at a hotel instead, the penny-pincher in me immediately balked at the idea of dropping another $250 dollars just for–if we’re being overly-honest here–the opportunity to write my blog post mask-free and in peace…

“A grand total of only $150?? And it even has a microwave,⁴See last week’s post for the importance of this detail. too! Yeah, baby, now that’s what I’m talking about!”

My triple-guessing was about to pay off. One of the great benefits about Hotwire and similar websites is their blind-booking option. You know, where they guarantee a room in a certain geographical area and with a minimum star-rating for a lower price than you would pay going into it knowing the specific hotel you’re booking? Yeah, that thing. Except there’s a loophole: they normally show you 2 or 3 hotels and guarantee you’ll end up with one of them. Sometimes it might require a little more sleuthing, but you can almost always get a really good idea of what you’ll be getting.

In my case, it was going to be either a 3-1/2-star place, or this 2-1/2-star place:

Even though I kept my fingers crossed that I would somehow end up at the nicer place, I knew in my heart of hearts that for $150 I was going to get the not-even-3-star place.

At precisely 8:45 pm, I finally quit waffling and, patting myself on the back for being thrifty, officially rolled the Hotwire dice. Of course it came up ‘Extended Stay’, but hey–I was emotionally prepared for that outcome.

With that finally settled, I set my timer to see if I could be packed and out the door and on my way to my new home for the next two days in 15 minutes or less! And guess what? I nailed it in 14 minutes, 45 seconds! Things were at long last looking up.

On the way, there, I let my optimistic side give me a little pep-talk:

“It doesn’t look too bad, right? I grew up poor, so I ain’t one of those prissy princesses that can’t handle less-than-luxurious accommodations.”

…

“Heck, I saw that it even has a full kitchen–including a microwave–to boot!”

…

“And it’s pretty clear that this not one of those hotels where people get routinely murdered, so that’s good too…”

Content created on: 30 September/1 October 2022 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	White Man’s Burden, that is!
↵2	I’m not making this up, BTW. I double-checked my confirmation email and everything.
↵3	I bet every time I say ‘host’, you see a phantom ‘g’ in front of. Because you know at some point, I’m going to have to say the G-word at least two more times.
↵4	See last week’s post for the importance of this detail.

Yo, The Great Cornholio Don’t Need No Stin*ing Warning Signs!

25 September 2022 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

That moment when: you find yourself with your shirt over your head.

Be warned, though: it’s probably best not to curse the dead…

“Please leave a note for your host with the reason for your visit…”

I stared at my computer screen, feeling like I had been trapped in a web of lies. I wasn’t about to tell the peoples at AirBnB my real reason for crashing at their little apartment for 2 nights: I had COVID like a mothertrucker.

So I told them something equally true:

“Just need a cute place to crash while house hunting over the next few days…” I typed in furiously, anxious to confirm my reservation and get on with my COVID-cation.

“Wait. What’s all this ‘COVID-cation’ hub-bub all about, anyways?” you might be asking the lightly glowing screen of your favorite electronic device.

As always, I’m glad you asked. Ecstatic, even.

If I may, Dear Procastinating Reader, let me reference you to the 3 previous installments of what I grandiosely call “The Long Tale Of COVID”:

I’ll just chill here while you catch up…

…

All done? Great! While I know you actually read those fine pieces of prose, I feel I still need to briefly bring the other slackers up to speed on what’s a-happening in this wonderful saga.

In summary, when I got COVID this summer, I promptly ran off to an AirBnB for a few nights with the hope of keeping my fam from catching what I had. In parallel–and what turned out to be a real plot-driver in this story–I wanted to use my 2-4 days of COVID vacation to do two things: write my stupid blog post for the week, and then catch up on library books. And relax and recover, of course.

Unfortunately, the entirety of Day 1 was wasted trying (and ultimately succeeding) to score some liquid fun from the pharmacy that I otherwise wouldn’t be allowed to legally ingest–but you already knew that from the last two posts, right? Including the part where I felt the weight of the White Man’s Burden every time I tried to pronounce the drug’s name, right? Good.

Well, though it’s not the point of this story, I figured I at least owed you a follow-up to that part of this odyssey. And then I can get on with the story…

After I finally had all my pharmaceuticals secured and I made it back to my temporary apartment, it was pushing 8 pm, and I had neither ate anything for dinner at that point, nor taken any of my medications.

All I wanted to do was get some food in me, self-medicate, and pass the ----- out for the next 10-14 hours. But why would life be that simple? Why?

I had two problems: 1) My stomach was queasy, and I suspected taking medicine before food would just make me vomit. Ja…I didn’t really feel like throwing up then nor there. Problemo numero dos: turns out, despite my very clear desire for a place with a full kitchen, when I was looking at the AirBnB listing, I mistook an oversized toaster oven for a microwave oven. Yeah…there was no microwave oven.

And guess what? I had specifically bought almost exclusively microwavable groceries. I was too exhausted to try to boil water, so I ended up just sitting on the couch, merely existing, for another 3 hours. Not even sleeping. It kinda sucked, to be honest.

Eventually around 11 pm, I mustered the will to boil that water and heat that rice-in-a-pouch and some overly stomach-friendly vegetable soup. I wish I could say that was the best meal I ever ate, but, nah, it was pretty horrible. On the bright side, it allowed me to finally go to sleep–even if I never got around to taking some of my hard-earned fun-time meds. The solid sleep, though, was much needed, because I had a big day of real estate hunting ahead of me the next day…

“You’re not gonna believe this–this place is not only 13 acres with a pond, but it actually has a ‘pre-Civil War cabin’! Mom is going to love this place!”

Let’s rewind back to Day 0: that fateful Wednesday my symptoms first appeared and were promptly written off as ‘anything but COVID’. That day found me slaving away in the lab scanning mice in the MRI machine for 9 hours straigt. Scanning days, while tedious, had the wonderful feature of plenty of down time while each mouse was being scanned, and I was using that to hotly pursue a new property that had popped up on my Zillow app.

It had long been a dream, nay, fantasy of my mother’s–who would be living on this property with us–to live out her years in a rustic, 100+ -year-old cabin. The reality, though, is that request is quite a tall order when looking for property (at least within our budget), so I had long ago told her to plan on not having a cabin of her own.

But, yet here it was–an opportunity that seemed to have come down to us miraculously from the heavens…this bad boy:

Figure 1: A Portrait Of A Pre-Civil War Cabin

Okay, so maybe it would need a little TLC, but nonetheless, there was at least a possibility to fulfill my dearest mother’s lifelong wishes. So of course we were going to at least see it. You know, in person.

For the record, before I knew I had COVID, we had set up an appointment with Lonny, our grandpa-esque real estate agent, to see this property Friday afternoon (aka Day 2). And since the main farmhouse on the property was in such bad shape that they didn’t even include interior pictures, we figured we could keep that appointment despite my sickness, on account of being outside 98% of the time we would be there.

So, after spending most of that Friday/Day 2 not blogging nor reading my books, I rendezvoused with Lonny and the Boss Lady at what could be our future forever home: 2310 Wildcat Creek Road.¹And yes, as a Kansas State Alum, I basically jizzed in my pants at the prospect of having ‘Wildcat’ in my eternal address.

When we rolled up (separately, of course), Lonny was already there checking things out, and he was quick to point out that the farmhouse pretty much just needed to be demolished. Not a good sign, I would say.

We checked it out anyways, and yeah, he was pretty much dead-on: the remodeling that would be needed to make that place livable was way beyond what I, handyman extraordinaire, would ever care to do. Still, not a deal-breaker though…

“Welp, let’s go check out that cabin!” I said, my optimism springing ever-eternal.

So we plodded on over where the cabin sat, me eagerly leading the way.

“Watch your step!” I yelled back to the Boss Lady as I spryly navigated the rickety porch on my way to the front door, like I was Little Red Riding Hood or Goldilocks or some shit.

This was immediately followed up by:

“What the fuuuuuuuuuuuuu**?!? Fu**! FU**!”

The exact instant my foot crossed the threshold into the cabin, I felt a searing pain in my back–I could have sworn I had just been stabbed in right between my should blades!

“Aaaagh! Ooooh, that hurts, that hurts so bad!”

It didn’t take long for this Sherlock Holmes here to realize he had been stung by a wasp or a bee, and so, if you would, now visualize me with my shirt over my head like the Great Cornholio,²This is a Beavis and Butthead reference, my friend: https://beavisandbutthead.fandom.com/wiki/Cornholio simultaneously instructing the Boss Lady to “Get it out! Pull out the ----- stinger!” while profusely apologizing to Lonny “So sorry for dropping the f-bomb–I swear I never cuss…around strangers, at least…”

After the dust settled–and after Lonnie pointed out that the dust (i.e. soil)³Truth is, the crappy soil was the actual deal-breaker, not the haunted ----- mansion, believe it or not. would make for the most worthless muck one could imagine when it rained–the Boss Lady got down to the completely rational process of deciding if this was a property we might actually buy:

“So, let’s see…crappy dirt, a farmhouse that would be worth more if it were already torn down…”

“…and that ‘pre-Civil War cabin’…say, you know, there’s something about that phrase…”

“Yeah, it’s been bugging me too…”

“Ah hah! I think I’ve solved the mystery! You know how we always talk about we would like some sort of divine sign whether or not a place is right for us?”

“Of course, otherwise we get lost in our perpetual collective indecisiveness. Go on…”

“I’m pretty sure that cabin was where slaves had lived…and I don’t think they have quite vacated the premises yet.”

“What exactly do you mean?”

“Well⁴And this is where I take creative liberties with the story……when I got stung, I could swear I heard a voice whispering:”

“Die, Ghost-Face, you pale-ass, enslaving, colonizing mothertrucker! You want a sign? Here’s a sign–to get the ----- outta my house!”
Now There’s a sign for ya…

…a sign that you should drink up, biscuits! Yup, that’s right–there is your first of three usages of the term ‘ghost’!⁵Turns out, ‘GhostFace’ ain’t as racist as I had believed: https://www.quora.com/Is-Ghostface-Killah-from-the-Wutang-Clan-a-racist-name Or as they would say in Pee-Wee’s Playhouse:

Is that the point of this whole story, though? NO! We’re only getting started!

I’ll even give you a little teaser to whet your appetite to keep you hungry for the next seven days:

Should I stay or should I go: how hard could it possibly be to extend my COVID-cation for a few days? I’m sure that will go off without a hitch. Or the need to file a Missing Persons report…

Content created on: 23 September 2022 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	And yes, as a Kansas State Alum, I basically jizzed in my pants at the prospect of having ‘Wildcat’ in my eternal address.
↵2	This is a Beavis and Butthead reference, my friend: https://beavisandbutthead.fandom.com/wiki/Cornholio
↵3	Truth is, the crappy soil was the actual deal-breaker, not the haunted ----- mansion, believe it or not.
↵4	And this is where I take creative liberties with the story…
↵5	Turns out, ‘GhostFace’ ain’t as racist as I had believed: https://www.quora.com/Is-Ghostface-Killah-from-the-Wutang-Clan-a-racist-name

Listen, What Happened Behind That Taco Bell Was Purely Survival

18 September 2022 / BJ / 0 Comments

5 Min Read

Oh, to be sick and just trying to get by (or maybe just trying to get high).

Oh, the places you will go, oh the drugs you’ll buy…

“Walmart Pharmacy, Jake speaking! How can I help you today?”

I sighed heavily before taking a deep breath. For some reason I already had a sinking feeling that ‘Jake’ wasn’t going to be the COVID-vacation savior I was looking for.

As you might recall from earlier, I had got me a little case of the COVIDs, and was desperately trying to keep my family safe (and write my stupid weekly blog post, and catch up on some overdue library books) by hiding out in a nearby AirBnB apartment. For all intents and purposes, I really was hoping to have the most boring, uneventful case of COVID known to mankind.

But once my doctor offered to ‘enhance’ my recovery experience by prescribing me some codeine-based cough syrup–heh heh, well don’t you know that I couldn’t pass up on an offer like that!

Of course, there’s always gotta be a proverbial fly-in-the-ointment, and in this case I actually had 2 flies with which to contend: 1) the CVS to which I had the prescription sent was plumb out of the good stuff–as was also the case with all CVSs and Walgreens within a 25-mile radius–and 2) the technical name of the drug I was after was, um, let’s just say “controversial”…

“Yeah, hi Jake–*sniff*–it seems that I caught me some COVID, but my doctor told me there is a magic, top-secret, elixir that will cure all my symptomatic woes. Just one problem…no one seems to have it. Maybe you could be my COVID-cation hero?”

“Sure! What is it you’re after?”

“Well, that’s the thing, I’m not even sure how to properly pronounce it without potentially being racist and/or misogynistic…”

“It’s okay, bro, this is a safe space for white guys like us.”

Of course ‘Jake’ was a white guy.

“Um, so I’m looking for some Codeine-[REDACTED BY THE WOKE POLICE].”¹Actually just go back and read the previous post if you really want to know what we were calling it.

“Oh, sh*t, man! You’re after the party-strength stuff! You gotta be careful with that, though…it can be addictive. And also–little known fact–you can get it without a prescription.”

“So…you’re saying you got some in stock?”

“Oh-ho-ho…no. We’re Walmart, man, we’re not allowed to dabble in those dark arts. But…”

“Yeah?”

I don’t know how, but I could tell Jake was looking nervously over his should right then.

“But I know a guy…Han…he’ll sell it to you over the counter, no questions asked.”

That name sounded familiar…

“Sweet. Where can I find this ‘Han’?”

“He’s over at the 501 Pharmacy…”

Disappointment washed over me. No wonder that name sounded familiar–‘Han’ was my source for Schedule-1 strength elderberry syrup, slanging it out of his ‘Pharmacy’ that was right next door to my doctor’s office.

And I use the term ‘was’, as in I was just paying my doctor a little visit less than 2 hours earlier, and Han and his 501 Pharmacy was not there no mo’–busted by the feds and shut down for good…presumably. Now I had to break the news to Jake.

“No, they went out of business. I was just there, and it’s just an empty building.”

“Oh, no, they didn’t shut down. They just moved a mile down the road. Yeah, yeah…*whispering* they’re behind the Taco Bell now.”

“You don’t say…well, Jake, I gotta admit, you’ve managed to be more helpful than any and all other pharmacist I’ve talked today. Not too shabby for a Walmart employee…”

“Han, my man! I’ve heard from a little bird that you just might have some Codeine-[REDACTED BY THE WOKE POLICE]…”

“Dude, that’s slightly racist…”

Dangit, I should have known I should have stuck with spelling out the name of the drug for Han, who might be of Native descent–or at least Asian. Now I ruined my last chance at scoring some codeine.

After a moment of awkward silence on the line:

“But yeah, I got the good stuff.”

“In stock?”

I could hear him clicking and clacking away at his keyboard.

“Yeah, I got several bottles.”

“Sweet. I just gotta call my doc to send you the prescription, and then I’ll be headed your way.”

“Uh, you know we close at 6:30, right?”

“I know. Don’t worry–I’ll be there.”

“It’s 6:10 now–“

“I SAID I’LL BE THERE!”

“Cool. Just, uh, come around back and text me when you get here then.”

“Damn, you are shady…”

“Nah, that’s just where we had to put our ‘Curbside Delivery’ at this new location…”

“Whaddya mean you ‘got nothin’ with my name on it’?!?”

Han had sent one of his hench-women around back to where I was parked to, instead of delivering me some ----- codeine, deliver me some bad news.

“Um, yeah, we don’t have any prescriptions under your name in our system.”

“Damn my doctor–I called her over 20 minutes ago to send the prescription over!”

“Sorry about that sir…”

“Wait, just a moment–rumor has it that you can get this same stuff over the counter?” My astuteness was about to pay off.

“Yes, but you’ll need to come inside and show your driver’s license and then sign something–“

“No time for details! Let’s get our asses inside and seal the deal!”

I was already out of my vehicle and double-masked, trying to follow them through the backdoor into the store.

“Um, sir, this is the employee’s entrance. You’ll need to go around front.”

“Oh, right. Heh heh…guess I’m just a bit over eager…”

Seconds later, promptly at 6:29 I waltzed through their front door, a fact Han was all to quick to point out with a sarcastic smirk.

“Coming in a whopping 1 minute before we close. Nice.”

I, for one, was in no mood for his attempt at stand-up comedy.

“Just shut up and Han over the item and nobody will get hurt…”

“Oh, you can cancel that order for me…I was able to find the Codeine-[REDACTED BY THE WOKE POLICE] elsewhere.” *eyeroll*

After finally scoring the codeine of my fever-dreams, I had made my way back to the original CVS that was supposed to be filling both prescriptions. But since they didn’t have a drive-thru, I had to go inside in person, COVID chills and shivers and all. Actually, wearing my sunglasses and a hoodie in June–and being quadrupled-masked–made me the one running around looking all shady. I had serious Una-Bomber vibes going on…

But, I digress. While the CVS pharmacist was able to supply me my other prescription–whatever those COVID pills are that ruin your sense of taste–she was trying to reassure me that they had my codeine ordered and would be in within a day or two.

I reiterated to her once again that I had been able to find some, and she could cancel that order.

The funny thing was that she didn’t cancel it, and I was literally haunted by this oversight of hers for the next two weeks. Yes, for 14 solid days I got at least one daily automated call from CVS telling me my ----- order was ready and I needed to come pick it up, and/or that my insurance didn’t cover my prescription starting with ‘CO’.

I’m sorry, CVS, it’s too little, too late. The moment’s passed and you missed your chance.

Plus, now that I know that my boy Han wasn’t shut down by the Po-Po after all, I won’t be needing your sorry ass for any of my future pharmaceutical (and occasionally, ‘recreational’) medication needs…

But wait! Don’t go anywhere just yet, Dear Reader–this story is far from over. In fact, we’re just getting this Spooky Season started.

I mean, sure, I used the term ‘haunted’ once, but that’s not the same as ‘ghost’–and you know that this saga cannot be over until you’ve heard that spooky word at least three times. And I promise you: I’ll make it worth your time if you stick around.

So, until next time, stay well-medicated, my friend…

Content created on: 16/17 September 2022 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	Actually just go back and read the previous post if you really want to know what we were calling it.

The Tongue-Twisted Guy Who Only Wanted To Get High

11 September 2022 / BJ / 0 Comments

4 Min Read

Positive COVID test? Check. Apartment all to yourself? Check. A really strong drug prescription? Check!

Let the pharmaceutical phun tymes begin…

“Well, I can write you a prescription for something stronger, say with Codeine in it, or I can give you something tamer, like–“

“Doc, I’ll take the Codeine–I ain’t got no responsibilities and nowhere to be for the next few days, so sign me up for the fun stuff, please!”

As alluded to previously, back in June I had caught myself a case of the cooties–aka COVID–and was just embarking on my COVID-vacation. Despite my very half-hearted “protests,” I had taken the Boss Lady’s advice and was going to quarantine at a nearby AirBnB apartment–all in the name of protecting the rest of my negative-testing family members.

Oh, and also in the name of getting in some uninterrupted blogging–my real goal–and then spending the rest of my time in recovery by reading overdue library books. A simple plan for a simple man, what can I say?

‘Twas Thursday of that fateful week–aka Day Two of Symptoms, and Day One of COVID-cation–and I had kicked things off by checking into my pad, and was in the middle of my Dr.’s appointment when the idea of enhancing my time with a little Codeine first entered the scene.

“Consider it done! Now, just tell me which pharmacy to send it to.”

Dang, the Doc seemed almost too happy to enable my explicit plans of borderline opium abuse…

“This is your local CVS Pharmacy calling. Your prescription ‘CO’ is not covered by your insurance. For more information, please stay on the line to speak to a pharmacist…”

Dangit, Automated CVS Phone Voice, I was just getting settled in and thinking about what to do for my dinner! Now, I have to figure out what in the hell this cryptic message is about…is this about my COVID drug (which I was seriously considering foregoing), or my precious Codeine? Better not be about the Codeine…

*Five minutes of listening to annoying on-hold Muzak later…*

“Oh, high there–er, I mean ‘hi’ there! Yes, it seems that it’s not actually an insurance issue, we just don’t have any of the Codeine-Gwaffle-In-Scene in stock.”

“Mmmkay, well this is super-important that I get some. Could you check to see if you have any Codeine-Gobbling-Incense in an of your nearby pharmacies?”

“Sure…hmmm, shows here that there we don’t have no Codeine-Good-God-I’m-Effin-Insane within a 25-mile radius. Would you like me to check within a 50-mile radius?”

“What? No! Jeez, you realize I have COVID, right? I’m supposed to be relaxing right now, and in fact, I’m starting to get some pretty bad chills. You think I want to be apart of some hour-long Easter-Egg hunt bullshit right now?”

“Oh, well I suppose not…”

“And honestly, I have no idea what you’ve been calling it, ‘Codeine-what?’ I need to know the name if I’m going to have to call up other pharmacies on my own.”

“Codeine-Guilty-As-Sin.”

“Um, could you maybe spell that please?”

In retrospect, I have no idea what my strategy here was, seeing as this whole conversation had been taking place whilst I sat upon my porcelain throne…you know, on account of gastrointestinal issues and what-not.

“Sure. C-O-D–“

“Yeah, yeah, I got the ‘Codeine’ part down–spell the other thing.”

“Okay: SOREFFHBENTBGRNAEFBVOGBIJO.”

*explitive/sigh*

“Sure, okay, I got it,” I said, unable to refrain from letting a copious amount of sarcasm bleed through. “Okay, see you!”

After hanging up, I couldn’t help let out a few more curse words.

“Welp, I’m sure the Google will know what he was going on about…”

“How do you not know what I’m talking about?!?” I basically screamed into the phone at the Walgreen’s pharmacist.

And can you blame me? At this point it was pushing 5:45 in the evening, and sadly there was no codeine on my horizon. Even worse, almost every pharmacy in town that wasn’t a CVS was about to close around 6.

“Um, can you say that again?”

“Codeine–CODEINE! I have a prescription for cough syrup with codeine in it. This ain’t no Over-The-Counter strength that my Doc prescribed me. No, she gave me permission to score some Knock-You-On-Your-Ass-Give-You-LSD-Quality-Dreams-Don’t-Wake-Up-Until-Your-Quarantine-Is-Over strength codeine. How many cough syrups can there be like that?!?”

“Well, we have plenty of cough syrups, sir, if you like–“

“NO. Give me the good stuff. I don’t want any half-assed OTC ‘drugs’ of yours–I’m here to par-tay...”

“…with some of the hottest, most overdue library books in town,” I completed my own statement under my breath.

“What was that, sir?”

“NOTHING. I’m just looking it up on the Google now. Jeez, you call yourself a pharmacist?’

…

“You there, sir?”

“Okay, I think I found it: do you have any Codeine-G-U-A-I-F-E-N-E-S-I-N.”

“Oh! You mean. Codeine-Queafing-Raisin? Yeah, yeah, real good stuff…”

“So you have it?!?”

“Oh, no, we don’t got any of that in stock. Maybe you could try…uh…Walmart?”

“You got to be f***ing kidding me.”

I looked down to see my hands slightly trembling, with what I at first thought was rage, but soon realized that…wait, is it possible–no, it couldn’t be…

Somehow had I managed to be the world’s first person to have a physiological reaction to not having an addictive drug in my system.

OMG…

I was suffering from premature withdrawal.

Hold on, I’m getting a phone call…

*Hey, what’s crackin’? Uh-huh…what’s that?…oh. Ok. I see…yeah…ok. What about ‘preemptive’? Can I use that?…No? Oh well. Thanks for the heads-up.*

Sorry about that…um, it seems that particular medical term is already taken, and if I continue using it, I might just get sued by the good folks over at Coitus Interruptus, Inc...

Honestly, though, I don’t care what we call the malady that was overtaking my system (other than, ya know, COVID)…I just needed to get my drugs on and get on with my evening.

But, seriously, Walmart? I’m basically pinning all of my semi-psychedelic sedative hopes on Sam Walton, that old fart?

Welp, folks, if that’s not drama for you, I don’t know what is! You better tune in next time to find out whether ol’ Sammy-Poo came through for ya boy here, or if I got stuck trying to weather my COVID-cation sober af.

I can’t imagine things getting any worse for my poor, sick soul. I really can’t.

I mean, for crying out loud, this white guy has found himself in the uncomfortable position of randomly calling strangers and begging them for something that kinda sounds like a really poor choice of a name for an Indigenous American child: “Excuse me, my good man, do you happen to have any…uh…Queafing-Raisin“…

Content created on: 9 September 2022 (Friday)

Just Another Boring COVID Story? Now That’s The Spirit!

4 September 2022 / BJ / 0 Comments

4 Min Read

No one wants to have an exciting story about getting COVID.

But if you can live to tell about it, it’s TOTALLY worth it…

“You gotta be f***in’ kidding me…”

It was 4 am on a Thursday morning back in June, and I found myself staring down in disbelief at the positive pregnancy test in my hand…

…

Hah! Just kidding! I wasn’t pregnant, per se–unless you counted all the little baby COVID virus-lets running around my body. And whether or not I found it incredulous that I, snowflake extraordinaire, had finally fallen to the mighty ‘VID, that didn’t change the facts of the matter: I was officially sick with the plague. And I could only imagine that I would indubitably be in for a bumpy ride over the next 3-7 days.

You might even say the situation was “pregnant” with potential for a modest amount of shenanigans. Not only do I have to try to survive my mind and body being ravaged by the cooties, but I had to hope beyond hope that I didn’t get anybody else sick–especially my daughters.

But then the Boss Lady had a brilliant suggestion: “Hey, maybe you should get a hotel room for a few days, or at least as long as the rest of the household is testing negative.”

What’s that, you say? A little “COVID Vacation”–quarantining and doing jack squat for days on end–just for me?!? Well…that changes everything.

One ticket to Boring Town, please…

“I just want to get my blog written, and then spend the rest of my time reading my way through some overdue library books…”

Of course I didn’t say this out loud, but in the back of my mind I was thinking that the key to enjoying my COVID-cation would be by setting my goals super-low. By the time I had gotten around to think about such things, it was only Thursday mid-morning, and seeing as how my self-imposed blog deadline wasn’t until late Saturday night, I was feeling pretty good about my under-achieving plan. I figured that if I had 2 full, quiet days to myself, then that would be more than enough to accomplish that singular item on my To-Do-Before-I-Can-Really-Relax list.

I had already called up my Primary Care Provider and had an appointment for 4:20 that afternoon, and so the only tasks that remained now were to nail down some accommodations for the next few evenings, pack my bags, and then jam out.

Instead of getting a hotel room, I decided that an AirBnB with a full kitchen would be a much option. I’m frickin’ sick–I don’t wanna have to be going out and about to forage for food! (Well, apart from a triple-masked express supply run to the grocery story beforehand for fresh fruits and microwavable meals.)

Pretty quickly I had scouted out the perfect setup: a sweet little one-bedroom in the nearby college town for only $80/night + tax + fees–and most importantly, I’d have the whole place to myself! I didn’t hesitate to nail that bad boy down and booked it for Thursday & Friday nights¹Total for 2 nights: ~$285. Believe it or not, this was one of the best deals to be had. lickety-split!

Just check out this place–is it not the cutest?!?

(It was only later that I learned that it boasted not 1, but 2 beautiful views–one of a brick wall, and the other of a Wendy’s. Surprisingly, those turned out to be rather relaxing vistas.)

The only hiccup I encountered in that process was the fact that AirBnB is overly nosy, and demanded that I “leave a note for your host, let them know what brings you to town!” This is actually required for you to book any place on their website…so I had no choice but to tell them an alternative truth–I can’t be like, “I’m deathly ill and I’m just gonna quarantine and/or possibly die over here at your place,” right? So instead I said I was “in town researching some nearby real estate”–which was technically true (more on that later, though).

It wasn’t long before I had packed up two nights’ worth of clothes and supplies–and my laptop and library books, of course–and I was heading to my new temporary home. A short detour to check out some land just outside of town–I told you I wasn’t lying about the ‘real estate research’–and to get groceries, and I rolled up to my apartment right at 4 pm, aka Check-In Time.

Man, was this plan clicking like a well-oiled machine or what? I had perfectly timed it so I could then back-track to my doctor’s office for my 4:20 appointment. Scoring some suitable meds, followed by a microwave meal back at the pad, and it looked like I was gonna be ready to settle in–and since I was starting to feel like crud at that point–get some much, much needed rest…

“…and then, youngen’s, I took a nap, wrote my weekly blog post in record time, and spent the rest of my COVID-cation reading 3 library books. ‘Twas the closest to heaven I had ever been on earth…”

…said no future version of myself, ever. What? You think I would get off that lucky?

No! This boring story was only a prelude to what I desperately wished was one very boring and uneventful COVID-cation.

Instead, what happened? Oh, well wouldn’t you like to know? I’ll have to leave you hanging for now because, well, it’s a tale that will take a few posts to get through–a tale with four distinct Acts/Parts, in fact.

But since I kinda like you, I’ll throw you a bone and I leave you with these 2 vaguely suggestive tidbits:

Teaser 1: Afterwards, when I was trying process all that had happened, the Boss Lady eventually out of exasperation had to declare, “Jeez, just blog about it and get on with your life already!”

Teaser 2: In this Tale, you will hear the term “ghost” used with not one, not two, but three completely different meanings.²In an earlier in-person retelling, I accidentally used ‘ghost’ a fourth time, so you might get a bonus one thrown in there for free.

What else can I say at this point but “stay tuned…”

Content created on: 2/3 September 2022 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	Total for 2 nights: ~$285. Believe it or not, this was one of the best deals to be had.
↵2	In an earlier in-person retelling, I accidentally used ‘ghost’ a fourth time, so you might get a bonus one thrown in there for free.

The Long Tale Of COVID

1 September 2022 / BJ / 0 Comments

< 1 Min Read

When I got COVID, it took me about 5 days to get over it.

Getting over what happened during those 5 days? Oh, about 6 months and counting…

‘Twas the summer of ’22 when I came down with the 21st-Century Flu. What do I do, oh what do I do? Well, for starters, I had pretty high expectations, as anachronistically inspired by this spot-on SNL sketch:

Let’s just say I want a ----- refund…

I run away from problems, that’s what I do (on the advice of my medical professional wife)! It seems that instead of running away from problems, I instead ran into an entire ----- Soap Opera with at least 4 major conflicts to be resolved, a couple of plot twists, and–best of all, and just in time for Spooky Season–3 completely different usages of the term ‘ghost’!

So, yeah, I’m gonna have a story or two to tell. Ladies and gentlemen, get your shot glasses and finest liquors out and get ready to drink every time you hear the G-word, as I present to you: The Long Tale Of COVID…

Just Another Boring COVID Story? Now That’s The Spirit!

4 Min Read

No one wants to have an exciting story about getting COVID.

But if you can live to tell about it, it’s TOTALLY worth it…

The Tongue-Twisted Guy Who Only Wanted To Get High

4 Min Read

Positive COVID test? Check. Apartment all to yourself? Check. A really strong drug prescription? Check!

Let the pharmaceutical phun begin…

Listen, What Happened Behind That Taco Bell Was Purely Survival

5 Min Read

Oh, to be sick and just trying to get by (or maybe just trying to get high).

Oh, the places you will go, oh the drugs you will buy…

Yo, The Great Cornholio Don’t Need No Stin*ing Warning Signs!

6 Min Read

That moment when: you find yourself with your shirt over your head.

Be warned, though: it’s probably best not to curse the dead…

Nary A Murder Here In Over A Year? Hmm…Sounds Promising…

6 Min Read

You’re sick af and just need a place to get some peaceful sleep.

Yeah, that’s the perfect time to be dirt cheap…

Oh My Viral Imagination, Is This Really My Final Destination?

7 Min Read

The sick mind can really play tricks on a guy.

Oh, the many places we will go! Oh, the many ways we might die…

Impractical Ways To Pass On Advice To A Lonely Wife

6 Min Read

In marriage, it’s often hard to get your message across.

Especially when it has to get across the Other Side…

Dangit, Now Even Kevin Bacon Is Hazardous To My Health?

6 Min Read

How do you know if your condition requires immediate medical attention?

When the only way to describe it is with a Kevin Bacon reference…

Never Under Estimate The Value, Jack, Of An Astute Nurse

5 Min Read

An observant nurse is trained to pick up on details that most folks wouldn’t see.

Including some things you would rather stay hidden…

Rare Pleasures, Tawdry Treasure–‘Tis The Life For Ol’ Captain BlueBalls!

4 Min Read

As any pirate could tell you: “Loneliness is like a steering wheel in my pants:”

“Arggh! It drives me nuts…”

You Never Learned How To Say ‘No’ In Spanish? Fantastic!

6 Min Read

The good news? I might have just made a new best friend.

The bad new? Look, amigo, I ain’t got time for no buddy…

Who Doesn’t Know How To “Keep Things On The Download”?

6 Min Read

I’m not really a “Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” kind of guy.

Me? I’m more of a “No Whammy! No Bammy! No thank you, Nurse Cami!” fella…

Not Sure How To Say This, My Beautiful Bride, But…

6 Min Read

What’s a guy to do when immoral influences comes a-knocking at his back door?

Oh, this tricky pickle is just too big to just ignore…

The Truth About That Urgent Care? Oh, It’s Out There…

4 Min Read

Some stories, well, they’re straight-forward.

And then there are some stories you simply can’t tell with a straight face…

I’m Just Curious…Does This Really Need To Be Revisited?

6 Min Read

When someone has a quasi-traumatic life experience, it’s natural to take time to process it.

But your dude? He doth processeth too much…

‘To All A Good Night’?!? This Is No Holiday Miracle, Alright?

5 Min Read

There’s a knock on the door; you call out “Who is it?!?”

You can only hope you don’t hear “Tis your Favorite Nurse, here for a home visit”…

Behold! Be Delighted When You See My Glorious Bonus Material!

9 Min Read

In the spirit of the season, here’s a little something extra for all you faithful fans out there.

As they say, “Take a look inside”…

Content created on: This sh*t went down in late June 2022.

Boy, Would I Kill For A Little Extra Social Skill…

28 August 2022 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

We all have regrets, both large and small.

But the real trick is figuring out how to get away from them all…

“Hello Ashonta,¹Not my wife/the Boss Lady’s real name….merely an anagram.

I was overjoyed to see Myra’s²Not my younger daughter/The Younger’s real name…but it will soon become apparent that is the point of the story. application come on for Folk school. How is her big sister doing? It’s seems like such a long time ago now that she was here…”

The Boss Lady intently watched me as I read over the email she had received from Ms. Heidi, the middle-aged hippie lady that ran the Fairy Farm where our now 9-year-old daughter, The Elder, had attended kindergarten.

“Um…maybe it was just a typo? I bet she was so excited that we might be sending our youngest child to preschool there–“

“JUST KEEP READING,” the Boss Lady firmly commanded me.

At this point, it was mid-June, and one could reasonably make the argument that we had dropped the ball in applying to potential preschools for the upcoming year. For the sake of convenience, our first choice had been the school The Elder was attending, but our lazy asses had been rightfully immediately been put on a waiting list there.

So, our backup plan, of course, was to send The Younger to join Ms. Heidi on the Fairy Farm, a delightful childhood experience in its own right.

But as I continued scanning Ms. Heidi’s reply to our application, I noticed things were amiss–such as the fact that we were applying to the preschool, not the Folk School, which was altogether a different part of the Farm.

Oh, and there was the issue of our child’s name. It was one of those “close, but no banana” type situations.

“Sh*t, she misspelled it with an ‘M’ three times in her short email. Is ‘Myra’ even a real name?!? “

“I know, right?”

“Ja…well, this is awkward. So…you’re going to correct her, right? She sent the email to you, not me.”

The Boss Lady and I sat there in awkward silence for a minute or two before I piped up:

“Welp, I guess we have no choice but to legally change her name to ‘Myra’, right?”

The Boss Lady concurred.

“The poor kid is going to be so confused come this fall…”

“Hello, this is Jake calling on behalf of the N.C. Troopers Association. Could I speak to Robert?”

Sh*t. The State Troopers calling me, again? I was just a newly-married graduate student at the time, and so somehow had even less money when I was a single graduate student–back when I had made the initial regrettable mistake of feeding The Beast–er, I mean, “donating to their non-profit association.”

The NCTA was, like most charitable organizations, pretty much a homeless person when it came to soliciting donations: no matter how many fat twenty dollar bills you threw at them, they would always come back asking for even more. (Not to mention that they blab to all their homeless associates about how loose you are with your purse strings!)

Sure, donating money to help the families of Troopers fallen in the line of duty is a worthy cause, but was it the worthiest? By that point, there were legion other causes–like credit card and student loan debt–that were easily worthier. Plus, I had gotten fed up with them incessantly calling me.

“This ends NOW.” I thought to myself.

“Hi Jake, I’m sorry Robert won’t be able to come to the phone. You see–*sniff!*–he tragically passed away a few months ago.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry to hear tha–“

Thinking on my feet, I realized that I would have to take swift action before Jake could force me into creating an alter-ego–and then subsequently guilting him into making endless donations.

“OK, see you!“

*Click*….

“Are you effing kidding me?!? You want to move to Finland, but Canada is ‘too cold’?!? You’re out of your gosh dang mind, woman!”

About halfway through this summer, The Boss Lady and I were revisiting an idea we lightly toss around every so often: expatriating to another country and actually getting our daughters a decent education–and hence why cold-ass Finland somehow weasled its way to the top of our hypothetical list.

Attempting to get my life partner to consider a more feasible option, I decided to play the Anne-With-An-E card:

“What about Prince Edward Island? Remember how you forced me to watch the entire 6-hour Anne of Green Gables miniseries before you would agree to marry me? And you’re always talking about taking a vacation to see Anne’s stomping grounds.”

“Ooh, I could do Prince Edward Island…”

“Good, then…”

A few days later, I found myself checking my Zillow app for the 4th time that day–which had become an ingrained ritual for me this summer, as we’d been in the hunt for some acreage in the nearby countryside.

But instead of staying focused on Central North Carolina as per usual, I decided to zoom my search map out, and see what was happening in the real estate world in, say, Northeastern Canada.

I quickly decided that Prince Edward Island wasn’t quite what I wanted, being in the middle of an inland sound and all, so scooted down to check out some of the bright red dots on the southern coast of Nova Scotia.

I only needed to look at two listings before stumbling upon this little coincidence:

“1588 Myra Rd.?!? I gotta share this listing with the Boss Lady!”

You know what the funny thing is about sharing a real estate listing through Zillow? They automatically think you’re super-interested in actually buying that property. You know, never considering the possibility that you might have just found the street address mirthful in a very, very narrow context that only your wife could appreciate.

Wouldn’t you know it though, about a week later this shows up in my email inbox:

“Welp, Honey, it looks like we better book our plane tickets to go see this place…”

“Ooh, you look just like Elsa from Frozen! Is that what you’re wearing to go Trick-or-Treating tonight, Little Girl?”

Last Halloween, I had taken the Younger with me to our usual grocery store to grab some last-minute candy supplies, and she had insisted on wearing her costume, an Elsa princess dress. As we were ringing up our goods in the self-checkout, a guy who was clearly the manager started chatting up my wee one.

The Younger, being 3-1/2 and still a bit shy, just nodded enthusiastically without saying a word.

“Let me guess…is it…wait, one second, I’ll be right back!”

A moment later he returned holding a Barbie-like Elsa doll still in its package.

“Is this who you’re going to be?”

More enthusiastic nodding.

“Awesome! Do you have a doll like this?”

At this question, The Younger seemed more uncertain. And me, being a complete social idiot, almost grasped what was happening in this situation, but panicked nonetheless, deferring to my daughter to handle it.

“Do you have that doll? I think you might, but I’m not sure.”

With a thick layer of uncertainty, she whispered to me, “yes.”

“Thanks, but she says she already has that doll,” I told the manager.

“Uh. Okay. You sure, though?”

Looking again to the Younger, I threw the grenade of social responsibility back in her lap: “Wait, do you have it? Maybe you don’t have it…you have it, right?”

A very tenuous nod was all we got from her.

“Yeah, she has it already. Thanks, though.”

He seemed disappointed as he wished her good luck with her candy-schlepping and walked away.

As I continued to check out, I overhead an older lady, who had been nearby and watched things unfold, quietly ask the manager, “You were going to give that doll to her, weren’t you?”

“Yup…” he said as he shrugged his shoulders in resignation to the fact that his attempt to delight a child had been rebuffed.

From the moment we left the store, I instantly became obsessed with the mistakes that were made…ones that were clearly my mistakes. I had the chance to make my little girl and a middle-aged man both very happy by accepting his very generous gift of a $20 doll, yet I blew it. Ugh, I wasn’t looking forward to the next time I might bump into that guy.

Two weeks of mulling it over later, I had to go on our bi-weekly grocery run. My daughters, along for the ride seemed confused when we passed our turn to the store.

“Uh, Daddy, where are we going?”

“Sorry, girls, but we can never show our faces in that store again…”

“Congratulations! We would like to offer Lyra³Not our daughter’s real name, but this time ’tis I misspelling it for the sake of her privacy. a spot in our half day program at our Children’s House!”

I tell you what, the email from the admissions office at the Elder’s school was like music to our eyes! Sure, it would cost us $100 a month more than sending Lyra/Myra to the Fairy Farm, but it would totally be worth it just to get us out of the pickle with Ms. Heidi.

“So, you finally replied to Ms. Heidi that we wouldn’t be sending our baby to her school, ja?” I had to confirm the obvious with the Boss Lady.

“Ja.”

“And did you address the fact that her name isn’t actually ‘Myra’, ja?”

“Ja…kinda…”

More awkward silence.

“You told her ‘Myra’ died, didn’t you…”⁴A few days after I cracked this joke, I finally realized why it seems a bit familiar. There was an episode of Seinfeld that culminated in Elaine actually holding a funeral for ‘Suzie’, her alter ego that was accidentally created when a new co-worker called her by the wrong name, and she never had the courage to just correct her.

Content created on: 26 August 2022 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	Not my wife/the Boss Lady’s real name….merely an anagram.
↵2	Not my younger daughter/The Younger’s real name…but it will soon become apparent that is the point of the story.
↵3	Not our daughter’s real name, but this time ’tis I misspelling it for the sake of her privacy.
↵4	A few days after I cracked this joke, I finally realized why it seems a bit familiar. There was an episode of Seinfeld that culminated in Elaine actually holding a funeral for ‘Suzie’, her alter ego that was accidentally created when a new co-worker called her by the wrong name, and she never had the courage to just correct her.

Whoever Said Nicknames Were Supposed To Make You Feel Special?

21 August 2022 / BJ / 0 Comments

4 Min Read

What?!? A special name just for me???

Oh, wait…that kind of ‘special’…

“BEE-YAY! TELEFONO!”

In the beginning, those words were music to my ears. You see, in high school I lived on a farm a few miles outside of our local raging metropolis, Rolla–no, not the one in Missouri, but rather it’s lesser-known red-headed stepbrother in Kansas. And for quite some time I didn’t have my own transportation, so just walking or driving to a friend’s house wasn’t an option at my disposal.

So you could imagine that nothing could break my serial sense of boredom quite like those blessed words, “Bee-Yhey! Telefono!” That, my friend, was the sound of my bestie, Phillip K. Ballz (aka PKB) blowing up our home phone,¹This was circa 1996 after all, before I could ever dream of having my very own cellphone. perhaps offering to come pick me up in his mom’s forest-green Ford Explorer so we could go back and kick it at his place in town.

“But, why the, uh, ‘unique phrasing’?” you are indubitably asking the screen of your mobile device.

Well, I’m glad you asked! My dearest stepmother, “Daisy”, was Mexican, and despite living in the U.S. for at least 10 years and having mastered the English language, she never really got around to figuring out how to master the pronunciation of my commonly accepted moniker, “B.J.” As they say here in the South, “bless her soul.”

Anyways, every time ol’ PKB or anyone else called for me and she answered, the silence of our double-wide trailer would soon be broken by broken-sounding English reverberating off every wood-paneled wall in the place:

“BEE-YAY! TELEFONO!”

Somebody calling just for little ol’ me?!? I feel so special…

“BEE-HEY, TELEFONO!”

Well, as it turns out, that phrase, when heard muffled on the other end of the phone line, can be music to other people’s ears as well.

It didn’t take long before I found out that my dearest dipshit, PKB, found this to be comedic gold and soon was using it publicly in our high school, whether referencing me directly or indirectly. And high schoolers being the immature bunch of dumb-asses that high schoolers tend to be, it wasn’t long for this very much unwanted moniker spread like wildfire through the hallowed halls of Rolla High School.

Sometimes, I got the short version lobbed in my direction–“Bee-Yay!”, “Bee-Hay!”, “Bee-Yhey!”–no matter what ‘flavor’ of my newfound nick-nickname my fellow students preferred, they were always sure to include the very important “!” Well, technically, if this were a comic book, their speech bubbles would need to include the bonus upside Spanish exclamation mark–aka el signo de apertura de exclamación:²https://www.spanishdict.com/guide/what-is-the-upside-down-exclamation-point *ahem* “¡Bee-Yhey!“

Other times, when my cohort of jackasses were feeling particularly ornery, I might be lucky enough for them to include my nick-last name: “¡Bee-Yhey! ¡Telefono!“

Usually, referring to someone and including their last name would be a sign of respect. This was not one of those times.

In fact, The Legend of ¡Bee-Hey! got so out of hand that in our Sophomore English class, when tasked write and illustrate a children’s book, the Real ¡Bee-Hey! chose to write about a substance-abusing (but very sanguine ³I’m using definition #3 here: https://www.merriam-webster.com/thesaurus/sanguine.) extraterrestrial. Meanwhile, elsewhere in the classroom, my brother-from-another–my classmate with whom I not only shared a first name, but also a birthday–ol’ Roberto chose to immortalize ¡Bee-Hey! for generations to come.

Did he write of tales of a dashing and debonair young man, the kind that men want to be and women want to be with? Were we regaled with all the adventures and conquests of a man in a foreign land who, like Cher or Beyonce, had a last name but never needed it? Are millennials worldwide indoctrinated from childhood with strange-yet-true stories that someone only as special as my alter ego could generate?

Nope, not so much. But at least Roberto managed to nail that “special” part on the head. A little too hard actually: this version of ¡Bee-Hey! appeared to suffer from a brain injury or some other developmental issue. I.e. he was “special” in all the ways one wouldn’t want to be.

Por ejemplo, did this ¡Bee-Hey! have a modestly successfully career as a published physicist/neuroscientist? No, but his employment was almost as illustrious, with him tackling the challenging task no one else at the local restaurant would even dare think of attempting: sorting out the clean forks and knives after they were ran through the industrial dishwasher.

But fortunately, ¡Bee-Hey! was blissfully obliviously to his station in life, and never once did that smiling idiot caricature of me ever cynically wonder” ¿Cómo se dice en English ‘chinga mi vida’?”⁴Mother, if you’re reading this, please don’t bother running that through Google translate. This, in stark, stark contrast to the real-life ¡Bee-Hey!…

The irony of all this is that occasionally I find myself envious of ¡Bee-Hey!’s unburdened and uncomplicated life. It’s taken awhile, but I have slowly come to embrace my inner idiot–er, I mean ‘simpleton’–and I guess you could say the point of the story is: take ownership of whatever it is that makes you “special.”–even if some of things aren’t exactly the most flattering.

Oh, and there’s definitely an upside to this naive optimism: I get to enjoy a little chuckle to myself in those very special moments when I have the pleasure of making a new acquaintance with a native Spanish speaker.

You know…that moment when I get to explain to them that “my name is Robert, but I go by ‘B.J.’,” and without fail, they repeat back to me “¿Bee-Yhey?”

*snort*

And always, also without fail, I can’t help but mentally respond with “That would be Dr. ¡Bee-Hey! ¡Telefono!, PhD to you, buen señor or señorita…”

Content created on: 19 August 2022 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	This was circa 1996 after all, before I could ever dream of having my very own cellphone.
↵2	https://www.spanishdict.com/guide/what-is-the-upside-down-exclamation-point
↵3	I’m using definition #3 here: https://www.merriam-webster.com/thesaurus/sanguine.
↵4	Mother, if you’re reading this, please don’t bother running that through Google translate.

How To Make This The Last First Date Of Your Lifetime

14 August 2022 / BJ / 1 Comment

7 Min Read

You know what I really, REALLY hate?

The inevitable no-good, horrible experience of The First Date…

“So it was you all along!”

When I last left y’all, I had fell ass-backwards into what was maybe a date with my cute’n’kind af ,neighbor/church friend, “The Dimpler”. Pretty sweet, right? Well, as they say, “the night is young”, and when they say it they usual mean “don’t worry, you still have plenty of time to screw this up.” Let’s just see how this all pans out. But first…

Now, one who is already up to speed–aka, have already this post and this post–might point out that writing drug-themed-yet-romantic poetry and sending it your crush via FaceBook messages, attributing it to a mystery author that you “personally know”, subsequently spamming her with a random trivia questions (also via a FaceBook message), then “awarding” her a dinner with this made-up mystery author when she gets the question right–you might point out that this may more fall under the purview of “deception and deceit.”

You know what though? I didn’t really care, because practically speaking I was going to get an evening with her all to myself, and I wasn’t about to ask too many questions such as “who tricked who?” or “am I straight up lying to this chica?” or “wait, what if she is expecting some illicit drug use as part of this dinner date?” to kill my vibe. And also, isn’t there is a universal rule, “if the Universe drops a beautiful potential life partner in your lap, just shut up and roll with it” or something like that?

Anyways, after work on that fateful Tuesday evening in August 2007–the one in whence I accidentally discovered Nerd Plutonium–I donned my finest blue jeans and t-shirt and hopped in my sweet ’95 Camry…and drove just around the corner to The Dimpler’s apartment. I then subsequently strolled up to her door and with a surprising sense of calm, knocked on her door…

Speaking of “surprising,” I was somewhat surprised that she was somewhat surprised that I was indeed the Mystery Author. But then again, just the day before I had cleverly added to her uncertainty and confusion by stealthily delivering to her apartment a real book about poetry and physics.

Oh, right, I had totally forgotten about that. You see, I had gone over to her apartment at I time when I was pretty sure her and her roommate weren’t home, and so thought it best to just slip the book into the mail slot in their door.

When the book got slightly jammed in the slot, I knelt down to get it unjammed and to then make sure it made it safely inside. Well, wouldn’t you know it, once the book suddenly popped past whatever it was catching on, I was slightly shocked to see two pairs of very wide eyes staring back at me from across the room.

THEY WERE BOTH HOME AFTER ALL!

Sh*t. And now I’m a certified Peeping Tom. Well, this has backfired spectacularly.

“Just give us a minute!” I could hear one of them shout through the now-shut mail slot flap.

Moments later the door opened and they both greeted me with smirks on their faces.

“What’s up–“

“I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING I SWEAR!”

“Protest too much, my lady?” quipped her roomie, henceforth to be known as A Hot Piece of Ash (or using her more convenient anagram-acronym hybrid, “the Hapa”).

“I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE HOME!”

The Hapa turned to The Dimpler, “Oh, yeah, he’s definitely protesting too much. What do you think? Should we report this perv to the church elders?”

“Oh, definitely. I’m pretty sure he caught a glimpse of my **censored** without my consent.”

My jaw about dropped to hear those words coming out of her mouth.¹Okay, time for a disclaimer. Those words didn’t actually come out of her mouth. She said something more PG like “You might have seen Muffin naked.” Note that she did not use the word “my”.

“You mean our **censored**?” The Hapa corrected her.

At this point I was scrambling to extricate my jaw, which was now buried in 3 feet of their concrete porch.

“Yes, our Muffin likes to lounge about in nothing but fur…”

Now I was just confused.

“Ok, now you’re just messing with my head. Who–or what–is ‘your Muffin’? Like, we know each other from church…right? Or have I slipped into some perverse parallel universe? (Not that I’m complaining, *ahem*)”

“Muffin’s our cat, you big doof. And next time, just knock first. At least give Muffin a chance to put a bra on…”

“Ok, confession time: up until I saw you show up at my door step alone, I was about 50% sure that the Mystery Author was real and wasn’t just your alter-ego.”

We were about halfway through our dinner, and by some miracle things were going pretty smoothly. Funny story: it turned out that the Peeping Tom incident only endeared me to her. Oh, and also it probably helped that I considered the whole evening with her a freebie–the proverbial icing on the cake–a date that I had never expected to even happen. The end result being I was able to continue my “George-Costanza-philosophy-of-doing-the-opposite-of-my-instinct” and, instead of nervously and anxiously saying stupid sh*t trying to impress her, just relax and enjoy the ride.

Even though she was confiding to me that she had been confused by my “gonna-trick-you-into-a-date” strategy, I wisely decided that it was too early in the game to confess to her that I had genuinely thought she was insulting me when she told me High-ku was “good”. Too soon to release the inner cynic into the wild, know what I mean?

Anyways, yada-yada-yada, and, after a failed attempt to hang out with an Indian guy from my lab and a bunch of his friends that we randomly met on the street after dinner, and another failed attempt at finding dessert, we decided to just wind down our surprisingly pleasant-in-spite-of-me-wearing-jeans-in-August evening by wandering around our shared neighborhood and chatting.

“Welp, seeing as how it’s almost 2 in the morning, why don’t I escort you to your door and call it a night?” I suggested like a true, confident, gentleman would.

…

What I had thought was a natural pause in the conversation (finally!), I soon realized that she had something on her mind, but was having trouble finding the right words for.

“Oh…ok. So I see you have something to say?”

If she was about to give me the axe, her intentions were sure hid pretty well behind that huge genuine, single-dimpled smile on her face.

“Yeah…um…well, first I want to say that I have really, really enjoyed this evening. Thanks so much for dinner and great conversation.”

“Sure–it was my pleasure indeed! But clearly you weren’t trying to figure out how to that. Just tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Okay…so, as you know, I just recently broke up with a long-time boyfriend, and well, I just thought I would need to take a break from dating for awhile.”

“Cool…cool…”

“Also, I feel that the Universe²At the time, the exact term she used was “the Jesus”. is steering me towards being a missionary overseas, and well…you’re a physicist.”

“Oh. Okay, well th–“

“…but…this night went differently than I had expected, and now I’m not sure of anything.”

Well, that was a plot twist.

At this point I noted to myself that, historically speaking, now would be the time I would normally argue with her and perhaps convince her that those were hair-brained notions and she should most definitely become my girlfriend (or at least go on a second date with me).

Or, as Seinfeld would say to his arch-nemesis, “Hello, Instinct”:

Obviously, my a-hole Instinct hadn’t exactly served me well in the past–time for a new tack.

“Well, sorry I won’t be able to help you out with that. I mean, c’mon, I’m not exactly unbiased here, and I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t trust any ‘advice’ I could offer you.”

“Huh?!?” Clearly this was not the response she expected.

“Yeah, the best I can suggest is you find some older, wiser woman from church that you trust, and see what advice they might have for rebound-dating a domestic heathen scientist like myself. Oh, and take all the time you need…”

“Oh. Okie-dokie. That sounds like a pretty solid plan…thanks?”

“Sure thing, Kiddo. Now how about I walk you home? It’s not safe for a sweet young thang like yourself to be walking around by yourself at 4 in the morning.”

As we got to her door (where I could have sworn I saw The Hapa peeping out through their mail slot), she paused and subtly leaned in towards me–a move that was promptly met with a side hug from me.

“Yeah…so, I would love to give you a kiss goodnight, but I feel the Universe³Again, a more philosophically flexible euphemism for “the Jesus”. wants me to wait until my wedding day for that very special ‘first kiss’…”

“Well?!? How did those unorthodox methods work out for you!?! First, you welcome her back to town in your way-too-flattering bike tights, then you lean quite hard into illegal substances when looking for inspiration for poems you send her but won’t even claim as your own, after which you completely fabricate another persona to whom you give writing credits, followed up by a trivia contest that she didn’t even consent to participate in, meanwhile you decided engaging in a bit of light voyeurism would be a sure way to seduce her, and of course you had to follow up your “contest”⁴No, this is not a reference to “The Contest” episode of Seinfeld. by awarding her a trick prize that entrapped her with you for an evening. If that wasn’t bad enough, you go tell her ‘don’t even think about dating me unless you get a clear non-me sign from the Universe’, and–the icing on the cake–refuse to kiss her until she likes it enough she puts a ring on it.”

Let me just respond with: and yadda-yadda-yadda…now every Sunday morning I get to enjoy The Dimpler’s freshly-baked muffins, if you know what I mean…

…

…and by that I mean that The Dimpler is now the be-ringed Boss Lady with whom I have a standing weekend, um, “arrangement.”

…

…and in this “arrangement,” I get up with the kids on Saturday mornings and make breakfast so The Dimpler/Boss Lady gets to relax for a few sacred hours, and then she returns the favor Sunday mornings. Though, instead of muffins, I typically make pancakes or waffles.

It’s pretty much the sweetest arrangement known to mankind⁵Wait…what did you think I meant? You ----- pervert.…

The point of the story, Young Nerdlings, is that if you follow the exact opposite of your instincts, along with listening to the Universe for the occasional bit of divine inspiration, one day you, too, could find yourself in a mutually beneficial baked-breakfast-goods-on-the-weekend relationship with a fine lad or lass waaaaaaay out of your league.

Or who knows? Maybe it’s just my instinct that is faulty and you should go with what your gut tells you instead. What do I care? It’s your funeral…that this person will be planning if all goes well and you die before them at a ripe and mature old age.

P.S. The Dimpler, if you’re reading this (LOL): Happy 15th First Date-versary!

P.S.S. Kinda Fun Fact: I found out later that from the outset of our ‘date’ her one and only goal was to preemptively give me the axe. Had I known that I had one shot at changing her mind, I would have most definitely utterly and completely bungled everything. Sometimes that well-known PSA from the childhood of every 80s baby should instead say: “The Less You Know…”

Content created on 14 August 2022 (Sunday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Footnotes & References:
↵1	Okay, time for a disclaimer. Those words didn’t actually come out of her mouth. She said something more PG like “You might have seen Muffin naked.” Note that she did not use the word “my”.
↵2	At the time, the exact term she used was “the Jesus”.
↵3	Again, a more philosophically flexible euphemism for “the Jesus”.
↵4	No, this is not a reference to “The Contest” episode of Seinfeld.
↵5	Wait…what did you think I meant? You ----- pervert.

How To Land The Most Exotic Hottie In The Hood

7 August 2022 / BJ / 0 Comments

6 Min Read

The Good Lord hath blessed you with a real angel next door.

But alas, barring some miracle, she shall never be yours…

“James Earl Ray.

Adobe.

The Man of La Mancha.

Al Green.

Red Skeleton.

James Earl Ray. Adobe. The Man of La Mancha.

Al Green. Red Skeleton.

James Earl Ray. Adobe. The Man of La Mancha. Al Green. Red Skeleton…”

What do you do when you hear the begrizzled man loitering at the bus stop muttering these words under his breathe like some bizarre version of the Lord’s Prayer? You should pay no him mind, but…

But then again, once you hear those words, the mystery of it all is bound to haunt the darkest recesses of your mind until the day you die.

Well, as that begrizzled man, I’m here to say: you wouldn’t be alone in your insanity.

You see, I myself am doomed to be frequented by this very same specter for all eternity; this random list of trivia(l) facts fluttering through my mind at unexpected moments, causing an inexorable shudder, an indubitable pang of regret.

But what are These?

These? They are The Ones That Got Away…

Believe it or not, I wasn’t a jock in high school, but *ahem* that doesn’t mean I wasn’t a stud in my own right. Back in those glory days, I was a member of a juggernaut Quiz Bowl¹AKA Scholar’s Bowl, Knowledge Bowl, Trivia Bowl–basically competitive Jeopardy at the high school level. team, the one that the mere mention of struck fear in the hearts of opposing team of schools all across Kansas, both large schools and tiny schools alike: Rolla High School.

Look at this picture. Just look at this picture:

Figure 1: The 1996 Kansas State Quiz Bowl Champs. Am I the blonde on the left or on the right? You’ll never know…

I mean, wouldn’t you poo your pants if you walked into an academic showdown and you saw these intellectual beasts at the opposing table?!?

I would like to try to #HumbleBrag here, but I can’t: the fact is, we were good. Real good. And me? I wasn’t just some B-Team backup, clinging onto the coattails of more successful and competent members of my team. Even from my Freshman year, I was carrying my share of the load, and from my Sophomore year on, my name was a name to be reckoned with for those who dared face…Rolla High School *dun-dun-duhhhhhhn!*

Out of my four years of high school, we were State Champions three of those, I made the Santa Fe Trail All-League Team all four years, and my Junior year we pulled off a feat that no RHS Quiz Bowl team has been able to pull off before or since: we went 10-0 in all our tournaments. We were the 1972 Miami Dolphins.

But for all that personal and collective success, there were still failures. In fact, when you’re that good, those rare incorrect (or inexplicably forgotten) responses that end up costing you have a way of really sticking in your craw.

It’s like regret on steroids. I mean, James Earl Ray? C’mon, how do you ever forget the name of an asshole like that?

Yes. It’s true. Even studs can have their down days…

“Surely you didn’t write that beautiful and strangely romantic haiku about drugs yourself…did you? I mean, it’s just…really good.”

Oh, right. I forget that I previously left everyone on a cliffhanger last time, wondering if my newfound George-From-Seinfeld-Do-The-Opposite-Of-What-My-Instinct-Tells-Me strategy was actually going to profoundly impact my life in any way, if it was going to finally get me somewhere with the ladies, if you will.

In case you need a refresher, you can pop on over here for a sec to get caught up. And as always, I’ll wait…

…

Yeah, so to catch you up, I had started FaceBook flirting (kinda) with The Dimpler, the hottest and most exotic young lady at my church–and my new neighbor.

She had accidentally thrown down the gauntlet and challenged my poetry and prose skills unknowingly, and got surprised when a professional-grade haiku ended up in her inbox. So good, that she didn’t believe I had written it.

And when she shared how good she thought it was, I couldn’t believe that she was being sincere, and got pissed that this pretty girl was turning out to be just another mean girl. Like, geez, did she have to mock my attempt at the written verse.

Last I left you, though, I had remembered that my natural instinct hadn’t exactly served me well in the past, so instead of firing back and telling her to f**k off, I just ghosted her for a few days. You know, let us both digest the situation.

Well…around that same time, one of my roommates–also neighbors/church friends with The Dimpler–came back from a visit to her place with a sh*t-eating grin on his face.

Turns out, he had inadvertently learned that this seemingly off-limits beauty had recently broken up with her long-time boyfriend (side note: do you know how flipping hard it is to flirt/”not flirt” with your hot af neighbor when you have to assume they have a boyfriend? Didn’t think so). One might even say she “\finally “kicked his ass to the curb.”

An interesting development indeed…

Flying monkeys. Would I ever be able to redeem those ----- stupid flying monkeys? That was yet another question that perpetually haunted me.

The year was 1998, and it was my Senior year of high school. Recall that the previous year our Quiz Bowl team had went undefeated in all 10 of our tournaments. And now it was supposed to be my turn–Quiz Bowl Stud Extraordinaire–to lead our fabled team to another undefeated year.

But it was not exactly going well. It was early in the season and we had suffered two Second Places in a row–no one wants second place–and in the current tournament we had made it to the championship match and were looking to break that streak of bad beats.

Late in the tight match, all tied up even with our challengers, the moderator began their question: “In the book, The Wizard of Oz…”

*BUZZZZZ*

I realized that I had instinctively reacted to the trigger phrase “Wizard of Oz” and ol’ Quick Draw McGraw here had buzzed in prematurely.

Normally, I would know the answer and leave the audience in awe at my ability to conjure the correct response with such little information and with such great confidence.

But…fuuuuuugggg. It was the Don Quixote/Man of La Mancha fiasco all over again (for the record, that was another premature answer on my part that effectively cost RHS the chance to achieve another unthinkable: winning the State Championship 4 years in a row).

The best, exasperated, I-am-fully-aware-of-how-ridiculous-this-situation-is, “educated” guess I could proffer with a chuckle was…flying monkeys.

I mean, it had as good as a chance of being the right answer as any other character/item/scenario from that beloved American book/movie.

But of course it wasn’t. And instead of being awarded 10 points and securing the win going into the final question of the match, we were dinged 5 points because I buzzed in early and got it wrong.

We went on to lose that championship match moments later. By 5 points…

“In the book, The Wizard of Oz, what color were Dorothy’s slippers?”

Not knowing what else to do with The Dimpler, I broke the 3 days of FaceBook radio silence with–you guessed it–the full version of the question that screwed me over roughly 10 years earlier.

Honestly, I didn’t have a plan of any sort. I just wanted to get back to chatting with her online, because when she wasn’t ambiguously insulting/complimenting me, it felt good. Real good. It was a bit of a high, and I feared I might be getting willingly addicted.

A day later, her response came back:

“Silver.”

I later found out that she Googled it, but obviously I didn’t give a rat’s ass whether she cheated to win or not. And yes, in the movie, they’re ruby-red, but in the book they are indeed silver. And the only reason I know this…well I just regaled you with all that.

Was I surprised that she got it right? No.

Did I have a well-calculated move waiting in the wings when she did? Also no.

And then…and then the Universe shined kindly on my dumb face with another inspired moment.

It felt as if I was watching somebody else control my hands as they typed out my response: “That is correct! And for your correct answer, you have won an evening with…the Mystery Author of the High-ku!”

…

“Awesome. When?”

…

“Does tonight work? He happens to be in town from Virginia.”

I had been playing along with her doubt about my authorship, going so far as to claim not only was the High-ku from an anthology of poetry written by current and former drug addicts, but to actually write another addiction-themed piece of work called The Light. Yeah, I was having a bit too much fun with the power that came with keeping things a mystery.

…

“Sure. I’ll be available around 6.”

…

“Sounds great. I’ll bring him by around then…”

The point of the story is that what you ultimately do with some of your deepest regrets is up to you. You can sit around and forever kick yourself for your Flying Monkeys Moments and all the stupid silver medals they won you.

Or you can turn around and find the Silver-Slippered lining in your hilarious, face-palming mistake and use it to trick and/or fall ass-backwards into a date with the hottest girl in the ‘hood.

In the end it’s up to you…

“But wait! Does the whole trickery about the Mystery Author blow up miserably in your face? How long can you last before your luck runs out and/or you return to your natural instincts and blow it all? Can you stick the landing, or will you add The Dimpler to your long list of The Ones That Got Away???”

…you are indubitably asking.

Well, stick around a bit longer and you just might funk around and find out…

(*Ahem* That’s how I say “To be continued…“)

Content created on: 5 August 2022 (Friday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Author: BJ (Page 10 of 34)

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How To Land The Most Exotic Hottie In The Hood

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Previously, on “The Point of the Story”…

The latest word on the street

Dig into the vault for lost treasure

Enjoy this blog? Please spread the word :)