I'm getting a Tattoo - but wait....

It is true.   I am getting a Tattoo.  I've held out for all these years while others were making black ink marks.  Not me.  I truly don't understand tattoos.  I once new an elementary P.E. teacher who had a tiny little butterfly on the outside of her right ankle.  I suppose it was lovely.  I didn't understand it then; I don't understand it now.  Someday that young 20 year old will begin to put on weight - or her ankle will swell up.  That cute  little butterfly will enlarge to be a large vampire bat.  But it was her ankle.

Follow this:  I am getting ready to have radiation treatments for 5 days a week for 9 weeks.   I muttered "That would be 45 treatments."  The doc jumped right in and said, "Only 42."  I suppose I am blessed.  I have a cousin who had 40.   Soon, I will report to the Baylor Scott & White cancer institute and they will zap me 42 different days.  I have been told that I will never notice it.  

The problem is:  the Big Zapper does not know where to zap.  They don't just take aim at you from 20 paces and let fly a jolt of uranium.  Nope.  Doesn't work like that.  Tomorrow I go in for a scan.  During the scan they will place a couple (who know, maybe 10) marks on me   in an appropriate location of course.  These will be tiny tattoos - so I have been told.  

No, I do not intend to take photos of the tats and post to Facebook.  I'm thinking, down in the area where the prostate and bladder are located, that might create a photo which would lean towards the Porn side.  Don't want to go to no jail for having my tats shown to some 11 year old child.  If they want to see my Tats, they'll just have to wait until they hit "OF AGE" and, then, pay me a lot of money.  I mean a lot of money.  I don't just show my tats to anyone.  I have standards.

Well that is it.  The prostate cancer saga continues.  One cancer doctor lady said I probably have 2 to 5 years or so.  I liked her.  She went to school at Dallas Skyline and played the flute.  Band kids will be my saviors.

As I close, my little girl Sadie is sitting at my door giving me the eye.  We are close to supper time.  She has "that" stare.    "Look into my eyes.  Now!  Come into the kitchen. Find my bowl.  Fill the bowl.  Don't forget the good stuff.  NOW!!!  You will not be sorry."

mtz3

 

She came back to see me...

 I don't know if this is a sad or a happy bluggy  (translation:  blog).  In some ways, it made me happy.  Then, later came the sadness.   Some days you just can't please anybody, including yourself.

As  you can see by looking down the page, this is not a real long entry.   

(I prefer to pronounce that word:  " AUHN-TRAY "  not  "In-tree."   "In-tree" just sounds so nasal.}

I had a dream.  Mine was nothing like MLK's.   His was dipped in goodness and fire.  Mine was merely sprinkled with "me-feel-goodness."  They say you can never remember a dream.  Usually, I would agree.  Once I am awake, the memory of that last dream vanishes.  Poof!  

ASIDE:  At Tech, I had an Education professor who constantly told us about his dreams.  I suppose it beat listening to education drivel that would make no difference in our future teaching careers.  He recited how a pencil and pad were kept by the bedstead.  When he awoke, the pencil was grabbed and he wrote about the latest dream.  I am sure this professor made someone a fabulous grandfather - assuming he had been able to find a wife.  But, as for teaching education, that's another story.

This morning I was jostled awake by my Sadie girl barking at something she saw out the front door.  We have a storm door on the front door - quite substantial door made of a big piece of glass.  Sadie watches "TV" by looking out the door glass and yelling at anyone or anything that should cross her line of vision.   At 8:20 this morn, she let loose her pent-up frustrations on someone passing by.  We have a lot of joggers in Amityville who pass by --  being walked by their dogs.

Sadie barked, I woke up - and at that moment I remembered the dream I was having.  Magic, it was.  The dream (all I can remember of it): I was inclined on a bed - twin bed size I believe - when I swung my tootsies to the floor into fuzzy slippers.  As I stood, from around the corner of the bed, Greta came prancing in.  Beautiful Greta.  I bent over, picked her up, and held her close.  She was still as soft and sweet as always.  The dream ended right there before I had time to talk to her.

Seeing Greta is the happy part.  The dream ending early?  That was the sad part.  When I told my wife later, I started to choke up a bit.   Even now, I am bothered.

Greta was our first wire-hair dachshund.  Dripping wet, she might have hit 10 pounds.  Greta was born in 2000.  She had a twin sister which we should have bought too.  I introduced Greta to some of my students soon after.  Sharisa was a French Horn player who had lost both of her parents and lived with her grandparents.  That is a wonderful story to be told later.  What spirit, drive, and determination.  You have to respect a young lady like that.  {She is an elementary Principal today.)

Sharisa got her grandparents to take her north where she got Greta's sister:  Harmony.  What a great name and dog.  The two dogs spent their first birthday together eating dog cake.  Fun time.

Greta was blond - wheaten, if you wish.  She was a soft coated, wire-hair doxie.  She was beautiful.  Sometimes I would just sit and look at her.  So pretty.   But don't get me wrong.  Greta was a fireball.  Nothing scared her.  She was what we called our snake dog.  It didn't matter what kind of snake - big or small - Greta attacked.  She was fierce.  My favorite story was when this 4 or 5 foot long snake came up on our back porch.   I'm sure it was probably a big rat snake.  It didn't matter; a snake is a snake.  

She was down in the yard when it was spotted.  I grabbed a shovel and pinned the snake's head to the ground.  Greta would have nothing to do with that.  She grabbed the snake by the tail and pulled it free from the shovel.  Together, we fought that snake till - well, until it was over.  I threw the dead snake over the fence and Greta tried to climb the fence.  She was a terror.

Nobody wants to hear other people's dog stories.  I miss Greta very much as well as all of our dogs who have moved on.   Her heart grew too big for her insides; and, she died on the kitchen floor one morning.  She had lived for 18 years.   Eighteen Years.   Her ashes are up here on a shelf.  I have requested that all dog ashes accompany me when I go.

It was nice to hold Greta again, even if it were only for a few moments.  

I wonder if this is a sign that I am having psychological problems.  Maybe.

See ya guys later, Mike  

I was honked at today

 I was honked at today - it wasn't some carload of females commenting on my beauty amd charm - This morning, the spouse and I drove up to Waxahachie to take daughter Laura and hubby Tom to lunch.  They have an anniversary coming up.  Those two are different.  They will have a special day planned for their anniversary - a different, special day.  Those two are not always normal when it comes to celebrations...signs, music, planned outings.

So, naturally, the spouse & I wanted to do our best to celebrate with them before the actual day arrived, 17 years of marital bliss.  Nobody wants to get in the way when they do their thing.   Never have two people been better suited for each other.

We drove to Waxahachie, loaded them into the car, and headed for their choice of  food.  I don't think I can spell it correctly:  Johnny Carinos  or something like that.  It was good food and a good time was had by all.

We drove away and stopped at a traffic light.  I was the first in line to make the left turn.  It was a long light.  Highway 287 where it crosses old Hwy 77.  If you have ever been to that intersection, you KNOW how long the light is.  The light changed.  Less than 3 seconds, the guy in the big black Chevy pickup behind me - honked.

We don't honk in Texas.  Must be a Yankee or from California.   Honked.  Of course that meant that I had to stop and look in the mirror.  His honk slowed my reaction time.  Finally, I took off - edged slowly across the street as I turned left.   Still, I was ahead of the car in the other turning lane to my left.  As soon as the big black Chevy truck was able to get around me - he gave it the gas and, you guessed it,  he honked the entire time he was passing me.

I was honked at.  In Texas - I was honked at.  Dumb cluck.

Carino's report:   service was slow - friendly, but slow.  Normally we go to Olive Garden for Italian food like this.  Carinos gives you a basket of 2 small loaves of bread and a saucer filled with oil.   Break the bread and dip the oil.  It was tasty.   The food was good and hot.  It took forever to get served.   In all fairness, they had a sign outside advertising for help wanted.  

If given the choice, I'll go to Olive Garden next time.  I love their bread sticks and big salad...plus the guy who puts extra cheese on your plate.  The bread and oil was nice; but the bread sticks and salad trump.  Cost is about the same.  Enough of that.

After lunch, we went to Braum's - ice cream.  I don't get to eat normal ice cream.  The wife had a one scoop vanilla cone - the guy behind the counter seemed to like her and filled the cup up to the brim - well, way past the brim.  My wife loves vanilla ice cream.

Long story shorter.  It was a good day.  We stopped in West, TX on the way home for sausages.

Just so you know, a Kolache is a bread thing with fruit on it.   A Klubosnik is the same type of roll with meat/cheese in it.   We bought the latter.  This topped off our trip (with a loaf of jalapeno cheese bread and a loaf of raisin bread.  All yummy but way over-priced for a reitred bandman.

see ya,

mtz.