Category: General Cerebral Leakage (Page 9 of 25)

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

“Arggh! It drives me nuts…”

“Right…right…sure…mmkay. I TOTALLY believe you. All by yourself in your hotel room, bored out of your mind and having nothing better to do while you recover from COVID? Sure, your story completely checks out…”

Nurse Cami–who you may recall from last time–initially didn’t seem convinced.

But I swore up and down that, despite originating in my groin region, my mystery symptoms–surely related to me having COVID, and what landed me in the Urgent Care in the first place–had nothing to do with me, um…er…’laying hands on myself.’

Yeah, I know, right? I could hardly believe it myself that a nurse would put forth such a preposterous conspiracy theory.

“You know,” Cami continued, “as a medical professional, I have a duty to report any cases of abuse that come to my attention.”

“Um, I’m pretty sure that ‘self-abuse’ doesn’t fall under that umbrella–and wait, it doesn’t even matter! I told you that most assuredly that is not what is going on here!”

“Likely story…”

“No, for reals,” I felt that I shouldn’t have to defend my own honor, but I had no choice at this point.

“Believe or not,” I intimated, “I am indeed ‘Master of My Domain.'¹A legendary reference from the hit NBC sitcom, Seinfeld: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUtJBqgwNgo If you really must know, I have chosen to follow a higher path, one involving, let’s say, ‘meditative practices,’ if you will.”

“Oh, wow, really? Good for you. I could use some more ‘meditation’ in my life…”

“Though on a medical note,”–I hadn’t quite finished my thought–“there is sometimes the side effect of having too much pent-up energy in certain areas of the body…”

After thinking for a moment, Cami wondered aloud, “Hmm…Perhaps…could it be…epididymal hypertension?”

“Huh?!?”

I swear to the deity of your choice, I’m not making this up: Cami then looked me dead in the eye and said in almost a whisper, “So…is it possible that you just have a case of blue balls?”²I apologize, to my mother and all others, for having to include this phrase, but I’m guessing y’all were as confused by the medical name for such an affliction as I was…click here for more info, if you feel the need to actually know more. And for the record, this could have legitimately been related to my relatively recent vasectomy.

I had to chuckle at this new and very interesting theorem.

“I guess. But, c’mon! That still doesn’t explain the sensation of worms tunneling through my swollen calves!”

“No…no it does not…”

“Well, I think we’re all wrapped up here. My initial assessment is that you are most likely not in any immediate danger from blood clots–I know that was what you were most worried about. At this point, I’ll just have you wait your turn in the waiting room with the rest of the folks.”

“Oh. So I may have to wait another hour or so to see the doctor?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But let me or the front desk know immediately if you experience any sudden changes, okay?”

“Okay, sounds good.” At least I had the reassurance that I could be bumped to the front of the line if sh*t started to get really crazy.

There was a pause for a moment before Cami piped up again.

“So, before you head there, I was wondering if I could ask you a personal question?”

“Sure why not? I don’t think it’s possible to get much more personal than your last round of questions.”

“Great. So that term you mentioned when you were talking about ‘meditative practices’…I heard about that only recently and I was very curious. Would you be able to tell me a little bit more about it?”

“Would I? Would I ever!”

Self-care never gets enough attention, and I yes indeed I was going to jump at the chance to spread the gospel of some of my favorite methods for supporting one’s overall wellness…

“When I moved to Miami from Central America, that’s when I really had to decide where my life was heading…”

This conversation–with my nurse, of all people!–had really turned out to be quite the unexpected delight: complete strangers only an hour earlier, here we were, connecting on almost a spiritual level about our life journeys. It kinda reminded me of that one time that I really connected with our local bug guy…two souls appreciating each other for who they were, nothing more, nothing less. Something our society desperately needs more of, indeed.

And Cami’s personal story was indeed intriguing, and I listened with sincere ears to a tale about a life full of twists, turns, moving across oceans, enduring bouts of loneliness in strange new lands, and, ultimately, evolving as a person.

I, too, had experienced somewhat similar, almost identity-altering, changes later in life, and so truly relished hearing others share theirs. In a way, it can forge a bond between two random people–kinda like finding out that you’re both members of the FreeMasons or what-not…hmmm…maybe I better work on my analogies, but you get the idea.

“Yeah,” after thoughtfully listening, I responded, eager to strengthen this bond, “I can relate. You know for me, growing up–even into my thirties–one immutable truth about me was that I eternally hated two things: bleu cheese and olives. But now I can’t believe I enjoy both of those! As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that through opening myself to new experiences–and revisiting old ones–I can really learn a new thing or two about myself…”

“Yeah, so you ‘get it,’ my man,” Cami concurred.

“Yup. I would even say that is key to truly savoring all that the human experience has to offer…”

“Along with some form of meditation, of course.”

“Of course. I almost forgot that was the original point of my story!”

“Welp, I think I better send you on your way now.”

“Yeah, I guess you have other patients to tend to.”

“Yup, but I just wanna say that our impromptu conversation has really made my day.”

“Thanks! I agree. Connecting has been…”

I paused for a moment, trying to find words that truly did our little chat justice.

“…it’s been truly pleasurable.”

“Agreed!”

Cami smiled and patted me on the back as I got up to gather my belongings and head back to the waiting room.

“Oh wait…I had just one more question for you before you leave…”

I chuckled lightly, wondering what last surprise might be in store for me.

“Oh, that Cami!” I mused to myself, “Always has the best questions…”

Content created on: 4 November 2022 (Friday)

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

Including some things you would rather stay hidden…

“Did you catch all that?”

The receptionist at the Urgent Care center turned to Cami, the nurse who had been standing within earshot of my overly detailed explanation of why I was absolutely sure I was about to succumb to COVID-induced blot clots. Cami nodded pensively.

“Well, most of it, anyways…”

Although it had only been barely 2 and half days since I officially tested positive for COVID, it had been quite the journey (one which you can catch up on here)–one that led me straight to Death’s Doorstep.

After having a very unnerving skin-crawling experience, I had rushed to the nearest urgent care, where I was forced to recount everything that had led up to that moment. That moment that found me standing there, calves quaking, wasting my time talking when they should have been giving me immediate medical attention instead…

“C’mon on back to our triage room, and I’ll check you out. If we think you’re in immediate danger, we’ll bump you to the front of the line to see the doc, mmmkay?”

I was relieved to at least be receiving a basic medical inspection by a professional, so I very much obligingly followed Cami to the exam room. Interestingly, the wife of a good friend and former roommate of mine was also a nurse named ‘Cami’–and maybe that was why I had the feeling that I would be in good hands with this Cami as well.

“I caught the basic gist of your troubles, but why not go ahead and start from the top and tell me what’s going one with you?” Cami gently instructed while starting to take my basic vitals.

“Well, as you heard earlier, I tested positive for COVID a few days ago, and had been quarantining away from my family at a hotel–“

“Oh yeah? Which hotel?” Cami seemed like a person overflowing with genuine interest in others.

“The DoubleTree just a few minutes from here.”

“Oh, nice. Really beautiful place.”

“It is! Has a pond even!”

“Yup. Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Continue…”

“Anyways, I’ve been having all these odd symptoms that started with some discomfort in my groin region–though I had a vasectomy earlier this year, so it could just be related to that–and has now transmogrified into these really odd sensations in my calves.”

“Oh, that’s not good…are you okay with me examining your inner thigh where you said you have felt some of that initial discomfort?”

“By all means, go ahead, Nurse. Well, what I was saying was that I really thought I might die in my sleep last night, and since I was all alone in the hotel room nowhere near any of my loved ones, I was rather scared.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Cami gently poked around where my thigh met my groin, inspecting for any sign of the blood clots I was convinced was lurking in that region.

“So scared that I wouldn’t even let myself fall asleep…” I continued.

It was at this point that I glanced down and was greeted not only by Cami’s gloved fingers prodding about, but also what appeared to be a trio of…of…were those…were those over-sized dried peaches?¹A thousand pre-emptive pardons to my Momma–and pretty much every one else–for the TMI.

I’m not sure how else you would want me to describe..um…such a sight, but let’s just say it wasn’t pretty when I was suddenly reminded that–whoops!–I wasn’t wearing anything at all beneath my mesh shorts.

The good news, though, was that I was more focused on surviving long enough to hug my babies again, and wasn’t exactly concerned about “dressing to impress”–hell, if anything, I was a hot mess, rolling up to the place unbathed, double-masked, eyes bloodshot, and half my hair frizzing out from the side of my head instead of in my ponytail.

My thoughts wandered even more slightly off course, recalling how this wasn’t even the first time that I’ve had to have a nurse touch me in the, uh, how you say? “The Land Down Under.”

You remember that too, right? Of course you do.

Suddenly, Cami snapped me back into the present:

“Good news, I don’t feel any heat or lumps in that region–or in any other region where you mentioned having discomfort.”

“And that’s a tell-tale sign of a clot? Stupid internet didn’t mention that part. I could have rested a little bit easier knowing that bit of exculpatory information.”

“Ja, that’s one of the first things we learn about blood clots in nursing school. But it sounded like your situation was a bit more complex. Go ahead, please regale me with all the glorious details.”

“Oh, if you’re looking to be regaled, have you come to the right place! Allow me to lay it all out for you…”²And, no, this is not a pun referencing how I had inadvertently already ‘laid it all out’ there–and by ‘it’, I of course mean my larger-than-average-but-not-in-a-desirable-way wrinkly-ass scrotum and my hibernating ‘huge manatee’ that was also so wrinkly and amorphous that it was indistinguishable from the other man-lumps down there. What I mean to say is that it looked like I was the Universe’s attempt to balance out the famed uni-testicular bi-cyclist, Lance Armstrong, giving me the appearance of having been blessed with not one, not two, but three testicles. Oh, sorry Mom, if you’re reading this, I apologize for not putting a trigger warning up front. Oops!

At that point I proceeded to tell my attentive nurse every bit of minutia that I’ve shared with you, Dear Reader, so far–right down to the supernatural injury I had incurred while land-hunting. After all, maybe that was the true source of all my physical ailments and woes…

“Well, that’s all very interesting…I hope we can get it all sorted out by the time you leave here today.”

Cami listened patiently as I wrapped up my long-winded tale, Kevin Bacon reference and all.

“Thanks, Cami, you’ve been fantastic. You’ve really helped calm my nerves.”

“It’s been my pleasure. Oh, and speaking of ‘pleasure’…”

“Yeah?”

“Well, I’m not sure how to ask this, but…”

“Go ahead, at this point, you can ask me anything!”

It’s always good when you can build rapport with your local medical professional.

“You mentioned that you were staying in a hotel by yourself, away from your family…”

“Ja, that’s true–gotta keep my loved ones all healthy and safe!”

“Yes, well, sometimes, when husbands are away from the regular routine of their wives and kids, their habits…um…change…”

“I’m not sure if I’m following…I mean, I’ve probably haven’t been eating as healthy as I normally would–waaaay too many PB&J’s–if that’s what you mean.”

“Well, sure, there’s always that. But that’s not really what I’m talking about.”

“Okay, I admit I haven’t showered as much as I normally would at home…”

“No, no, not that either.”

Cami looked at me like I was a thick-headed school boy, too dull to understand the basic lesson being presented to him.

“Some might call it ‘an increase in incidents of self-abuse’…”

“Wait…What?“

Cami’s patience was seemingly wearing thin with this idiot of a patient.

“Oh, for ----- ‘s sake, have you been ‘going to town’ on yourself more than normal or not, man?!? You know…’pleasuring yourself’…’auto-erotic activities’–whatever you want to call it.”³Do you now see what I did there in the title. Eh? Eh? Bwa-ha-ha-hah!

I sat there, kinda stunned, not exactly sure how to respond.

I mean, I had pretty much discounted the possibility this story couldn’t get any more bizarre…

“Well, that is definitely an ‘interesting theorem,’ now isn’t it…”⁴Stay tuned–yes, ABSOLUTELY stay tuned!

Content created on: 28 October 2022 (Friday)

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

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

“Are you experiencing moderate to severe chest discomfort?”

“Yes!”

“Are you experiencing numbness in any of your extremities?”

“Yes! The lower side of my left arm has been asleep for almost 7 hours now–that can’t be normal…”

“Are your experiencing any cramping in your legs when you squeeze them?”

“Yes! As matter of fact I have started having cramps in my fat ol’ calves!”

*brief pause*

“And my toes have started tingling intermittently…give it to me straight, Doc, am I going to lose my precious little piggies to a case of ol’ COVID-toe?”

*a couple of minutes of awkward silence*

“Oh, man, am I really talking to this WebMD page like it was a real doctor?!? I really need to get some sleep!”

I looked around my luxurious hotel room–the one I had gone through hell and high water to secure–and sure enough, I was all alone.

As you may recall from last time, my COVID-cation/quarantine had got, um, ‘complicated’ when, at 1 in the morning, I started experiencing what WebMD had just bias-confirmed to be symptoms of either a massive blood clot and/or a bajillion micro-clots. You know–something that could come dislodged at any moment and cause a massive brain hemorrhage and/or heart attack.

All I had to do was make it morning, when I could I go see my medical professional first thing, and either they would immediately rush me to be admitted to the hospital (where I might pick up COVID), or they would assure me that whatever the heck was going on with me was nothing serious, and I could finally–finally!–get some gosh-darned rest…

“One-forty p.m.?!? I’m possibly dying here, Doc, and that’s the soonest you can get me in? That’s over 5 hours away–if I die in the meantime, my blood will be on your hands!”

The front desk receptionist at my doctor’s office didn’t say anything. That’s because most of my mini-rant had raged on only in my mind, with the only thing being uttered aloud was ‘one-forty p.m.?!?’

“Oh, and since you have tested positive for COVID, it’ll need to be tele-visit…”

“Awww…dangit, okay. I guess I’ll see you then.”

Even though it was over the phone, I could see the condescension on the receptionist’s face as she replied with a coldly-professional:

As you may have inferred by now, I did at least make ’til sunrise without nary a serious health incident. But I was severely disappointed when I called my doc as soon as the office opened, only to find that I had a solid 5-hour window in which, knowing my luck, I would be taken out by my all-but-confirmed blood clot(s).

Adding insult to injury, though, was them forcing me to stay far far away from their office on account of my COVIDity. You see, the worst part about the ordeal I had just endured all through the previous night was being alone.

Apart from not wanting to die a lonely death, there was the practical matter of just having someone to look out for you in case you became incapacitated for any reason. And I really would have felt much better just being in a health care setting, where if I did happen to randomly pass out, there would be professionals who would be able to give me immediate treatment.

But instead, I found myself with 5 hours to kill before those 5 hours killed me. Fortunately for me, one of the amenities that this DoubleTree hotel had that almost no other hotel (within my price range) had was a beautiful pond with a walking trail around it, as can be seen in this picture I actually took so I could later brag about what an exquisite view I had:

So if I was gonna die, why not do it in a beautiful, semi-public location? There’s just something immeasurably sweet about ruining the day of anyone else who might be out there trying to enjoy the fresh air, amiright? Nothing like a little trauma from seeing a healthy, sexy, be-ponytailed young buck like myself drop dead right before your eyes during your morning walk.

Of course I kid–I hoped I wouldn’t traumatize anyone, but I really did want to be somewhere where people would see me if I collapsed to the ground and started foaming blood at the mouth (the hope/assumption here is that any on-lookers would know how to call 911 and do so accordingly).

It was kinda hot, though, and I could only stand not more than a 15 minute walk in one go, so I passed my first two hours or so with a few walks interspersed with 30 minute chill-and-do-nothing sessions in my hotel room.

In my spare moments in between, I occupied myself by doing more unreliable internet research about how to self-mitigate blood clots. For example, I knew that a common pain killer–Tylenol or Advil or aspirin–had some sort of anti-clotting effect, but I had better use the interwebs to make sure I buy the right one from the mini-store in the hotel lobby.

Of course, not sitting or laying down too long was another recommendation, so I felt proud that I was preemptively on top of that one with my little walks around the pond.

And then there was recommendation to not wear anything tight or constrictive, especially below the waist.

Funny thing was, I almost skimmed over that tidbit of wisdom before realizing–“Wait just a tick–I’ve been wearing tight workout shorts as underwear this entire time!”

So off came my underpants! And my wedding band while I was at it–after all, that could have been part of the reason my left arm had got a full night’s rest when I hadn’t.

There was just one little problem with the shedding of my undergarments, though: since I had only planned on being away from home 2 nights, I had something of a laundry situation on my hands–i.e., the one pair of non-constricting boxer shorts that I had packed were no longer clean enough to wear.

You know, though, what did it really matter if I went commando in the comfort of my hotel room? And as long as I remained upright during my subsequent walks, I should have no problem keeping things P.G., right? Just put it out of your sweet little pretty head my dear…

“It’s high noon, and barely over an hour to go before my appointment–I got this! I got this…I got thi……ZZZZZZ…”

I jerked my head back up, saving myself from nearly falling asleep face-first into my gourmet peanut butter and jelly sandwich. If I was going to snooze, I would prefer to do it in the comfort of my bed instead of using a pile of nut-paste as a pillow.

By the time I had finished chowing down on my sammie, I figured I had just enough time to squeeze in an hour or so nap before my appointment. And believe you me, my ass was dragging at that point and I desperately needed it.

No sooner than I had set my alarm for 1:15 pm and settled into the covers, did the cramps kick back in. Dangit!

I attempted to fall asleep for about 5 minutes, but at this point the whole I’m-going-to-die-in-my-sleep anxiety kicked in full throttle.

“Screw it! I’m going for another walk!” I resolutely muttered to myself before hopping out of bed and heading out the door.

But just as I was passing through the hotel lobby, my left calf started to lightly tingle and twitch. Disconcerting as that was, my first thought was, “hey, I forgot to by some Advil, so might as well do that while I’m down here and pop them pills sooner than later!”

After procuring them, I headed back up to my room so I could down them with some bottled water. In those brief moments, though, that was when things…changed.

The only way to describe this experience is–did you ever see the 1990 Kevin Bacon classic¹https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0100814/?ref_=fn_al_tt_1 Tremors?–yeah, it was like something was tunneling just underneath the surface of my skin in my lower legs. “Worms crawling under my skin” is a phrase that comes to mind, though it’s just short of being that freaky.

However, given that I have never experienced anything like this ever in my life, I sure was freaked the ----- out. I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t wait around another hour to see if this crazy sh*t was going to kill me or not. I had to get to a medical professional, and I had to do it now.

A quick Google Maps search revealed that I was a mere 6 minutes from an urgent care–and even then I feared that might be too long. No time to second guess! This sh*t is really happening–out the door we go!

And just like that, in a span of about 30 seconds I went from “doo-tee-doo-tee-doo, just gonna go for a walk around the lake” to grabbing the bare essentials–keys, wallet, phone, hoodie, two masks–and darn-near sprinting to my car.

I peeled out of the parking lot, and as I pulled onto the road, my legs started lightly spasming, feeling as if those worms really wanted to make their way out.

“C’mon! Seriously, I’m going to die in a clot/tremor-induced wreck 2 minutes from getting professional medical help?!? You gotta be kidding me–no–you gotta be f*cking kidding me…”²Obviously, I’m leaving you hanging on a cliff, and you will definitely need to tune in next week, as we finally enter the final–and most interesting–chapter of this whole ----- saga!

Content created on: 21 October 2022 (Friday)

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

Especially when it has to get across the Other Side…

“Nuts!” was my first thought, almost immediately followed by “Umm…micro-clots?”

After a long night of trying to find a place to spend the rest of my COVID-cation (aka “quarantine”–catch up on the saga here), I was finally ready to enjoy a hot shower at my luxurious DoubleTree accommodations and then head off to bed.

And just when I thought my supposed time of “relaxation, rest, and recovery” was at last going to be as boring as I had hoped it would be–well, that’s when things really took a sharp turn in the opposite direction.

What was the source of all the newfound excitement? Well, I’ll tell you what it was: it was a pain in the groin–that’s what it was!

I mean that literally, too–all of a sudden I was experiencing an occasional brief-but-sharp discomfort in my inner-thigh/upper dangly-bits region, and of course my mind goes immediately to the most likely explanation: micro-clots.

You see, it just so happened that just a few days previous, I had briefly come across an article in a tech magazine about how more evidence was emerging that linked COVID to an increase in risk for micro blood clots.

Now, did I actually read the article? No! Of course not! I got all I needed from skimming the article’s headline and its accompanying blurb: the half-baked, ill-informed idea that if anybody was going to be lucky enough to develop a fatal case of micro clots from COVID, it was going to be me…

“Uggh…I think I’m going to be sick…”

After a way-too-long and way-too-hot shower, I was getting ready to put my pjs on and hit the hay when a sudden powerful wave of nausea hit me. At first, I thought I just had my towel wrapped too tightly around my bare torso, so I took that off, only to find that nope, my stomach was still very displeased with me.

I immediately made my way to the elevated toilet in the bathroom (I was in a handicap-accessible suite), and subsequently prepared for the possibility that I might have a, um, “blow-out” from either end of my body at any moment.

Yet…relief never came. I would have welcomed vomiting or diarrhea, but instead, my stomach insisted on being indecisive and just felt like it was rotting inside me.

During those few minutes of eternal suffering, I couldn’t help but think about the text conversation I had just had with my mom not but 5 minutes before. It had gone something like, “Hey Mom, I’m having pain in weird places, probably from blood clots, so here’s my hotel address and room number, you know, just in case I stop responding to your texts and calls…”

And her reply was “GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM,” which of course I ignored, because who the hell wants to spend 1am-5am there, where one could easily pick up…um…COVID? (Or, spread it to others, as I guess was my case.)

“I don’t wanna call an ambulance or go to the hospital!” I muttered to myself, right when I noticed that my hands had started tingling and I was becoming real light-headed. And sweating–I started to profusely sweat out of nowhere.

“Oh sh*t, oh sh*t, oh sh*t. Am I about to die?!? Do I need to try to crawl to my phone and dial 9-1-1 with my last fleeting moments of consciousness?!? This is definitely not how I want to be found dead…though this seems par for the course. Oh man. ----- my life.”

It’s somewhat humorous in retrospect, but in the moment, it is ----- scary. I mean, you can’t just assume you’re not going to die in a moment like that, right?

Well, fortunately, the lightheadedness, tingly fingers, and rotting stomach passed after another minute or two, but emotionally the damage was already done. I immediately took a cold shower to try to calm my system down, and while my body seemed to normalize a bit, I couldn’t get my mind off my own mortality…

“I’m not ready to die! No one else in the family knows all the passwords!”

It was 2 am by this point, and I wasn’t about to let myself fall asleep. I had started doing COVID and blood clot research on my phone, and I just couldn’t rule out the possibility that it was a clot that I felt in my inner-groin area–and that it wasn’t on the verge of coming loose with fatal consequences!

Let’s run down the facts real quick, shall we?

Fact 1: The chances of developing blood clots significantly increase in symptomatic COVID patients.

Fact 2: Though normally associated with higher-risk patients in general, incidents of blood clots have occurred in otherwise healthy people as young as 30.

Fact 3: Some might call me ‘lucky’, but a better description of me would be ‘statistically exceptional’–remember, I’m the same guy who almost died at the age of 24 from an exploding bladder. So just because micro-clots killing youngsters is uncommon or unlikely gives me no solace at all. As the saying goes, it would be “just my luck…”

Fact 4: Falling asleep and having a clot-induced stroke probably feel about the same…

Logically, the conclusion one would draw after being presented with these facts would be:¹Original source: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U9t-slLl30E

So I would set my timer for 30 minutes at a time, just to make sure I didn’t fall all the way asleep and end up passing away peacefully.

In the meantime, I did what any normal person who was all alone and didn’t know if they were going to live through the night would do: I Googled “how to schedule a text message on an iPhone.”

Facing down death is never fun, especially when you never got the chance to hug your daughters (and other loved-ones) one last time. Yes, it can be a very emotionally difficult experience. And yes, one might find themselves preemptively shedding a tear or two.

But, Buddy, at some point, ya got to get past all that emotional fuzz and take care of practical matters.

You know, one thing I discovered was that I wasn’t particularly afraid of dying–it’s gotta happen at some point anyways. What is terrifying is the thought of not being able to take care of the ones you love.

Financially? Oh, they’ll be fine without me–I got decent life insurance, and the loss of my salary would mostly go unnoticed on account of the Boss Lady being an insurance executive (#SugarMomma).

Finances? That’s a different story altogether! Believe it or not, I’m the one in the family who almost exclusively takes care of the managing of all our monies. And if I were to pass on, we would likely go bankrupt in 3 months or less.

So in case I died, I had to find some way to make sure my dear widow had all the info she needed, ergo, “how to schedule a text”…

To my relief–and in case you were wondering–I found I could accomplish this using the ShortCuts app on my iPhone, and going to the “Automation” section to set up my ‘fail-safe message.’ Or, as I preferred to think about it, ‘my message from the Other Side.’

Now mind you, this message was to be sent only if “something” happened to me, so the first thing I did was set a reminder to myself–if I were still alive come morning–to turn the danged thing off.

After that, I got down to business of writing my last will and testament to the love of my life. First order of business: when to send it? Well, being the sentimental guy that I am, I figured her receiving a message at 12:29 pm–our anniversary, minus the ‘pm’–would definitely give her the creeps. Er–I mean ‘comfort her grieving heart.’

So, what does one include in a message like this anyways? Well, as you can imagine, that is a very personal and private matter–meaning I will share almost every last detail with you anyway!

Most importantly, I laid out instructions for accessing our password manager, in addition to the password to my laptop and any encrypted Excel spreadsheets that might be financially critical. Oh, and the code to the safe in our bedroom, too–though she should know that one already!

Beyond that, it’s critical to throw in there something sincere-yet-lighthearted–or whatever you think best reflects your personality–letting her know how much you’ll always love her and your kids, etc., etc, yadda yadda yadda.

Penultimately, I recommend you share a video clip that you took at that concert²Link to the full song, ‘Bedlamite’ by Puscifer: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eIyg7G8e3aA you went to with her–you know, your last date that ended up being the last moments you were able to share together (bonus points if the lyrics just happen to say exactly what you would want to whisper from your grave):

And that’s it!

With that all set up and ready to roll, one can… finally… drift… off… to… peaceful… rest…

I’m not a complete d*ck. May the official record show at least that, Your Honor.

As much I really wanted to prove my cleverness by pranking my freshly bereaved wife into believing that I had figured out how to hack the afterlife, for once I managed to thoughtfully put the needs of others before my own.

Begrudgingly, I tagged the following disclaimer to the bottom of my phantom/fail-safe message before I floated off into the great unknown:

*note: this is a pre-scheduled message (as opposed to proof that I’m a ghost)…

Your Second of Three ‘Ghost’ References

That’s right, drink up, my homies! That’s G-word #2 for you! And, if I somehow survive the night in question, maybe–just maybe–I might be able to find myself needing to use that word a third and final time…stay tuned…

Content created on: 14 October 2022 (Friday)

The sick mind can really play tricks on a guy.

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

“Hey there, Boss Man! How can I help you this evening?”

At 9:15 pm on Night 2 of my COVID-cation (catch up starting here, if needed), and I found myself a nomad, as I had desperately wanted to extend my me-time, but the AirBnB I had been staying at was booked up after my stay.

Speaking of ‘stay’, I was now in the lobby of the local Extended Stay…appropriately named, as I was attempting to do just that: extend my stay. However, as I had rolled off the interstate and up into the parking lot, I quickly began to wonder if maybe choosing a hotel based on how cheap it was might–just might–backfire spectacularly in my face.

Maybe it was the fact that this was one of those places where all the doors were on the outside of the building…you know, where anyone could just walk up to your door off the street and do lord-knows-what.

Or maybe it was on account of some of the clientele I saw parking when I was wandering around trying to figure out where the hell the lobby/check-in was. Now, I’m neither confirming nor denying any racism and/or classism on my part here, but…well, if you’ve been following along these last few weeks you would know that I was involuntarily feeling a bit too ‘woke’ for my own comfort. Ya know…like this vignette, or when this happened.

And then, when I eventually figured out where the lobby was, I was greeted by…not a single living soul.¹A G-H-O-S-you-know-what reference? Pysche! Got ya! After 5 minutes of killing time by checking out where “complimentary breakfast” was to be served the next morning–a barely 8’x8′ room that also housed the vending machines–the attendant on duty, a young Black man, greeted me with ‘Boss Man’?

You’re ----- kidding me right? Then–and then!–he kept using that term! Each time I cringed a little bit, thinking, “My man, you REALLY gotta stop calling me that–some racial wounds are still so fresh…and words like that, well…they sting.”

I was too tired at that point, so I just let it slide.

“Yeah, I have a reservation for [Last Name Sooooo White It’s Redacted By The Woke Police].”

“Oooh. So sorry, Boss Man, but we are all booked up for the evening.”

Ok, seriously now: you have got to be ----- kidding me.

“No, I just booked the room earlier this evening.”

“Oooh…was it through Travelocity or one of those sites? That’s funny, I just got off the phone with them two hours ago telling them we were out of rooms.”

I just stared at him blankly for a few seconds.

“I JUST BOOKED IT…less than an hour ago.“

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Boss Man, we don’t have anything. Here, let me show you…”

He flipped his touch pad monitor around and started tapping his way through their reservation system. When he got to the final page, there was clearly a room–Room 138–available, an outcome he clearly wasn’t expecting.

“See there are no roo–oh. Right. Oooh. Yeah…um…”

Feeling a sense of relief that my room was available after all, I started to take my victory lap.

“Oh, great! So I will have a room for the evening. Awesome.”

“Uh…yeah, that room isn’t supposed to be in the system. I thought I had taken it out… I tell you what, Boss Man, you can have that room if you want it. But I’m going to give you the key and let you inspect it before you decide.”

“So…did it just get skipped by housekeeping or something?”

He was having trouble gaining and maintaining eye contact with me at this point.

“Uh…how about you just check it out for yourself?”

“Sure…give me a key card. I mean, how bad could it be, right?” I chuckled.

He did not laugh at this.

“It’s not like there’s a phantasm of somebody who got murdered in that room lurking about, right?”²HAH! Got you again! Nope–that doesn’t count as an instance of the G-word. You gotta keep playing if you wanna win.

His silence was starting to worry me…

“The holy hell?!? I kinda wish I was looking at a bona fide murder scene. At least that’s a theory that would make some sort of sense. But this…”

I shook my head in disbelief that my night could actually get any more complicated. Whatever I had stumbled into in Room 138 was…hard to explain.

First, I have to apologize for not taking pictures, because it really is hard to put into words the vibe the place gave off. But I’ll take a stab at it nonetheless.

As I entered the room, I could hear music thumping from the other side of the wall, making a wave of regret wash over me, because, let’s face it: something like that is what you should expect when booking a cheap-ass hotel–no, wait, this was no ‘hotel’–a cheap-ass motel. So while this was unpleasant development, it was not unique to Room 138.

The mysterious small patch or two of missing carpet, though? Pretty sure that wasn’t a standard amenity. And of course, the eerily flickering lamp probably wasn’t complimentary with every reservation made there.

These uneasy revelations were interlaced with more common realizations such as, “What’s that smell? Oh, that’s just cheap motel smell.” And “Wow, that table isn’t even big enough for my laptop. How am I supposed to compose a blog post in this sad-af place?” Or how about: “That is one short microwave…it’s like, normal width, but…only 3 inches of clearance for your food. That is bizarre.”

The main revelation, though, was “I know I grew up poor, but, dang. Even then a man has got to have some standards. I can’t–I just can’t do this. What have I gotten myself into?!? Dammit, you just had to be cheap, didn’t you?”

However, not everything was revealed so easily. In fact, the part of all of this that raised the most questions was the spatter. The red spatter. It was on and near the depressingly cheap stove top, and there was also a nice little smattering on the bathroom sink.

But…it definitely wasn’t blood. Like I said, I probably would have been much more comfortable if it had been an actual murder scene. At least that’s something I could quantify; something I could at least have a chance at wrapping my mind around.

This? This had no readily available explanation.

My best guess is that a murder had indeed taken place in that room. But the victim was a…mannequin? This substance appeared to be melted wax, and, uh, I guess that’s what would spurt out if you slashed up a mannequin. Maybe? Right?

Aww, ----- man, I told you already, I have no clue what had gone down in that place. Even if it was something more mundane like, say, a Satanic ritual, I sure as shit wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

The front desk attendant had given this Boss Man a way out of this ----- mess, and this Boss Man was going to take him up on it–even if it meant I would be back to roaming the streets.

I popped back into the lobby, and he immediately recognized that knowing look on my face. The face that told him that I knew he was right about suggesting I would be better off sleeping on the streets than taking that room.

“Yeah…you were definitely right. I think I’m going to have to pass on Room 138…”

“You needn’t say another word, Boss Man.” And he proceeded to tell me the laborious process I would need to endure to get my refund, and then wished me a good night.

Much later, when I was trying to get my refund, I learned from Hotwire that they were indeed able to confirm with the hotel that they didn’t have any rooms for me when I showed up.

Who, pray tell, was able to provide them with such critical information? And I quote–“[they] called the hotel and spoke with a Queen G…”

With a name like that, all I can say is: you gotta be ----- kidding me…

“A 4-star hotel for only $300? For a handicap accessible junior suite? Screw it–I ain’t in no mood to gamble again!”

*proceeds to pound the Book Now button a few too many times*

It was 9:33 pm by this point, and I was more than ready to be done with all the completely uncessary excitement for the night. I had early-stage COVID, for funk’s sake–I JUST WANTED TO GET SOME REST!

Fortunately, this luxurious DoubleTree Hotel was a mere 3 minute drive down the road from my current location of the Extended Stay Room 138 debacle. At this point, I would normally use the phrase, “So I hopped in my car and sped there straightaway,” except for the fact that I was already in my car. You know, on account of being turned away from the inn like Mary and Joseph.

As I putted down the road towards what would be my Final Destination, a rather dark thought crossed my mind: this must be how people inexplicably vanish from the face of the earth all the time, where a series of routine events go sideways and then something terrible happens in the midst of it all, and BOOM–that person just disappears and no one can ever figure out what happened to that devoted mother of 3, etc.

(An example of this would be, say, a woman running out of sanitary pads late at night, and has to make a midnight run to the store. But her car breaks down on the way, and she gets lost in the woods trying to get help. And then she slips on some mud into a ravine where she gets critically injured, and then a thunderstorm the next day causes a mudslide and covers up any trace of her…something like that…)

Shaking my head of such notions, I parked and went inside to the pleasant surprise of actually having a room waiting for me!

After packing my stuff up to my room and settling in, I almost collapsed in exhaustion. But not one to be defeated by my circumstances, I resolved that at the very least I would make the surprisingly mentally-exhausting-under-normal-circumstances editorial decision of what I would write about for that week’s blog post. At least that would be some progress towards achieving the singular goal of my COVID-cation.

But I earned a little mindless me-time, too, so I penciled the blog stuff into my schedule in between a little YouTube stand-up comedy session and a hot shower. Then–then!–then I could finally get that good night’s rest that I had been so stupidly chasing all evening…

It was right before I got in the shower. That’s when I felt it: a sharp pain in or around my testicular region. Or was that in my inner thigh?

Am I going to die here? Is this how it all ends for me? And good god! Nobody knows where I am. I literally have had four–FOUR!–different places booked for this evening. The investigators are never going to find my body. At least not until it’s been rotting for a couple of days…

Nah, I’m sure that pain was nothing…take a shower and get some sleep, Boss Man. I’m sure it’ll be fine…

Content created on: 30 September/2 October 2022 (Fri/Mon)

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)

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”:

• Just Another Boring COVID Story? Now That’s The Spirit!
• The Tongue-Twisted Guy Who Only Wanted To Get High
• Listen, What Happened Behind That Taco Bell Was Purely Survival

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:

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)

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)

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)

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!

(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)