: phew, it’s saturday the 14th :

This year, there are three Friday the 13ths. Three, and they occur thirteen weeks apart: in January, April, and July. That doesn’t bode well, does it?

The one in January was especially unnerving, coming as it did so damn early in the year. It seemed to me like an omen, a welcome mat to mayhem and calamity. Just the fact that it was January was plenty bad enough, adding a Friday the 13th to the mix was plain mean.

Now, here it is, April, and winter is comfortably behind us. If you can call what we had a winter, it was more like an extended autumn or a really, really early spring. Why can’t they all be so agreeably temperate, that’s what I want to know. No blizzards or ice storms or snowdrifts or sub-zero temperatures, that would be bliss. Personally, I think winter is trying to kill me — every year.

But I digress, as usual.

So we’ve skated through two of this year’s Friday the 13ths, leaving only one to contend with in July — thirteen weeks away, give or take. Then it’s clear sailing until September, 2013. I don’t know about you, but I could use a breather from bad luck and unexpected curve balls. My coping skills, which aren’t so great to begin with, are stretched mighty thin. Transparently, tenuously thin.

Why, may I ask, is there no Dumb Luck Day on the calendar? Don’t you think there should be, say, a Tuesday the 6th or some such date when everything falls your way? When the lights all turn green at your approach? I do, but there’s no such thing. We have Friday the 13ths, we have the Ides of March, we have the entire month of February, and one Monday every week, but not a single scheduled Serendipity Day. That’s wrong.

We should write to the good folks at Hallmark, get them on the case. Heck, look what they’ve done for Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day and Talk Like A Pirate Day. They can get a Lucky Break Day launched, I know they can. Let’s start mailing cards and letters right now to our appointed holiday representatives at:

Hallmark Cards
P.O. Box 419034
Mail Drop 216
Kansas City, MO  64141-6580

Ask them to work their magic, mobilize their greeting card thinkers, and rescue the post office while they’re at it. Then go buy a stamp and head to the mailbox!

On a positive note, Harold Camping and the Mayans and Nostradamus and the doomsday preppers are lately exercising some restraint. They’ve issued no new predictions of apocalypse or end-of-the-world catastrophics in months. No news of space junk afoot in the atmosphere, either. May it ever be so.

Have a nice day : )

Copyright © Publikworks 2012

: the glowing review :

The good news is I’m not glow-in-the-dark, I don’t even glimmer. I’m not growing hair on my palms or sporting a third eye, either. Shoot, I’m not even queasy.

You see, yesterday I had an ablation. In other words, I had a dose of radioactive iodine to shut down production of my hyperactive thyroid gland. It’s been flooding my system with thyroid hormones and causing a rapid, erratic heartbeat, among other things. I didn’t mind so much, but I guess a funny heartbeat is bad.

That’s how I wound up sitting in the Nuclear Medicine department, waiting for my dose of radioactivity to arrive. They don’t keep them in stock, apparently, but order them on an as needed basis.

When the radiologist at last appeared, he was bearing a short, fat, heavy cement cylinder. It was like something from the bomb squad. Entombed inside all that cement sat a plastic vial containing the dreaded capsule, the one I had to swallow. It was black and gray, very grim-looking.

The tech handed me the vial and a styrofoam cup filled with Sierra Mist — on the rocks, I might add. Then they both backed up, retreating to a safe, comfortable distance from me (and my nuclear medicine). The whole thing struck me as just totally absurd. I laughed, they didn’t. Do they ever?

With my very first gulp of Sierra Mist, the radiologist swung the door open wide and dismissed me. It was sort of a ‘here’s your hat, what’s your hurry’ moment. I’m used to those, but I was, nevertheless, defiant. I took a second swallow, then a third, and decided not to press my luck any further than that.

As I toddled out, the tech presented me with an official, bona fide certificate to flash at airport security and federal buildings, explaining why I’m setting off radiation detectors. Isn’t that a hoot? I’m thinking of having it framed, that’s how much I like it.

Thus ended a most peculiar experience. One I’m happy to report caused no ill effects. No stomach ache, no headache, no swelling, no luminosity, no nothing. Now let’s cross our fingers and hope it works.

Copyright © Publikworks 2012

: the ablation :

When the medical people take down a thyroid without surgery they call the procedure an ablation. That’s what I have on my schedule for this afternoon. You know, I think I’d rather be handcuffed and hauled off to jail than have this done; hospitals are, without question, my least favorite places on the planet.

Once at the hospital, I am to proceed to the Nuclear Medicine department where I’ll be treated with a dose of radioactive iodine. What form the dose will take is a mystery, I’ve heard it is commonly given as a pill and an IV and a drink. Whatever, I won’t enjoy it. What I will do is become radioactive for five days and that freaks me out a little. Wait, that’s a lie, it freaks me out a lot.

I don’t want to glow like a nightlight. I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. If radioactivity was good for you, heck, Three Mile Island and Chernobyl would be meccas for the sick and lame, like Lourdes. But they’re not, are they? No, they’re desolate, abandoned, uninhabitable wastelands.

And isn’t ‘nuclear medicine’ an oxymoron, like civil disobedience? Think about it.

Now, should the tech who administers the radioactive medicine be wearing a Hazmat suit or a lead apron, I’m out of there. I mean, if they’re unwilling to even handle the stuff, I seriously question the magical healing properties. Wouldn’t you? Even though they say thyroid tissue is the only tissue in the body able to absorb the iodine. Still, yikes!

Then, too, there’s a fair chance it will take more than one try to effectively shut down my thyroid. I might get to do this all over again in a couple of months. But only if they can catch me — nert nert nert.

In the meantime, should you notice a faint glow in the northern night sky, don’t worry. It’s only me.

Copyright © Publikworks 2012

: run, easter bunny, run :

This isn’t a good time to be a bunny, you know. It’s particularly dangerous for those of the chocolate or marshmallow variety. You see, tomorrow everyone everywhere will turn into Elmer Fudd — all seven billion of us — hunting for wabbits. Or chicks. Or eggs.

Kids, even the ones barely able to toddle, will be set loose on grassy, blooming lawns to plunder and pillage. They’ll run from bush to flower to fence post in a mad, screaming frenzy to fill their Easter baskets. Unsuspecting bunnies and chicks will freeze mid-hop. And get snatched up by grabby, clumsy little hands.

That’s when the gruesome carnage begins, when the hunt is over. Normally tender-hearted children become tiny Ozzy Osbournes, biting the heads off chocolate bunnies, snapping off feet with their baby teeth, popping marshmallow chicks into their mouths whole. It’s an unsettling sight, this bacchanalian tableau. It’s how cavities and sugar rushes get started.

Suddenly, a trip to the grocery store or Walgreen’s is the equivalent of a trip to the zoo, shelves are lined with bunnies and duckies and chicks and eggs, both the edible and huggable kinds. Peeps, those day-glo sugar bombs, stare out at us in wide-eyed wonder. Kids stand hypnotized before them all, mouths watering. Adults, too.

Me? I stand in the cookie aisle, dreaming of butter cookies. Boxes and boxes of butter cookies, truckloads of them, being brought to my house by a relieved and grateful Easter Bunny who knows he and his kind are safe from me. I can’t eat a bunny, not even a chocolate one. Or a chick or a duckie or a lambie. I can eat those Cadbury eggs, though. Oh, yum.

Anyway, that’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow, eating butter cookies with a shovel. It’s been six long weeks since my last taste and I’m jonesin’ for a cookie fix. I imagine my friend Lenore will be filling up on Ben & Jerry’s. What are you jonesin’ for this Easter Eve? Whatever it is, I hope it’s in your Easter basket tomorrow.

Have a happy day!

Copyright © Publikworks 2012

: emergency, my eye :

My-oh-my, yesterday was a glorious morning. Sunny and clear and warm, all the adjectives you want in a weather forecast. The sky was blue, the grass was green. The birdies were singing, a sweet-scented breeze wafted, the world was abloom, it was utopia.

Then the tornado sirens went off.

Now it doesn’t matter how courageous you are or how many times you’ve heard them wail, your hair will stand on end at the sound. An ominous, foreboding racket that fills a person with an alarming sense of dread. The images it conjures are not of a bicycling Mrs. Gulch, no, but of the Luftwaffe and The Blitz and stiff upper lips. It’s like every World War II movie you’ve ever seen, except this isn’t Britain and it’s not 1940.

It’s Illinois at ten in the morning on the first Tuesday of the month, the appointed hour for testing the emergency sirens. Were I a nefarious sort, the first Tuesday of the month would be my busy time. With the warning sirens already blaring, it would be the ideal moment to stage a coup or create other various and sundry mayhem.

Even worse, imagine if a Category F3 Tornado had dropped out of the sky at, say, 10ish in the a.m. Who’d have run for cover? Exactly no one, that’s who. We’d have been caught flat-footed. Okay, the odds are really long against such a thing happening, but they’re pretty long against winning the lottery, too, yet someone always collects the big money, don’t they?

This same principle of false alarms is hard at work in my new place: the smoke detectors go off as soon as the stove burners are lit. The property manager suggests using an electric fan while cooking, because the smoke detectors are ultra, ultra sensitive. To what? They go off before the pan can get warm — beeeepbeeeepbeeeepbeeeep.

To prevent this, I have to stand under the smoke detector and fan the ceiling with a magazine. Do I feel stoopid? Sure I do, but I refuse to buy a fan I don’t want or need. And, judging by the number of smoke detectors I hear, I’m not alone. If ever there is a fire, no one will stampede the exits, they’ll just plug their ears and turn up the tv.

The moral of the story?
Beware of the people who are paid to protect us. They’re not helping.

Copyright © Publikworks 2012

: strike the tent :

Those were believed to be Robert E. Lee’s last words when he died in 1870, except they weren’t. Scholars and / or historians have dismissed the possibility of such metaphorical thinking since Lee had suffered a stroke, one that left him unable to speak. Still, it makes an enduring and poetic epitaph, don’t you think?

My last words aren’t nearly as memorable. Or as final. Or even my last.

Because, you see, I will be back. I will return to the battlefield. Maybe not tomorrow or next week, but soon and for a long time. Thank you for your patience.

: the milestone :

If I had a nickel for every post I’ve written in the last eight and half months, I’d have $4.95. I know, it’s not a lot of money, is it? But it is a lot of posts. Ninety-nine of them, I’ll have an even hundred after I publish this. Wow, one hundred posts — I should do something spectacular here, inspiring even.

Yeah, spectacular, that’s something I can do. Especially now, with my nose running like a marathoner. Who knew one head could hold this much fluid? Or two pockets could harbor so many damp, soggy tissues. I won’t stick my hands in there anymore; seriously, it’s the Okefenokee.

Be glad you’re out there and I’m in here, because I am a petri dish, teeming with germs. All I do is sneeze, sniff, blow, wipe, honk, and wheeze. My eyes are glassy, my skin is blotchy, and my nose is chapped. I’m surprised it’s not picture day.

Instead it’s the biggest day (thus far) in the history of publikworks and the best I can come up with is a head cold? Well, I guess it’s better than what I had — I had nothing. Squat. Bupkis. I briefly considered doing a retrospective of my old posts or charting my growth as a blogger, but I spared you that. More importantly, I spared me that.

I decided to celebrate this, my 100th post, with a shot of NyQuilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

Copyright © Publikworks 2012

: on the books or movies question :

The Academy Awards are this weekend, you know. And I bet you’ve seen most of the nominees, haven’t you? Well, I haven’t. I didn’t even know what movies were nominated or who was in them until I googled the list. Turns out I’m hopelessly unhip and unaware. Some might say I’m un-American for this indifference to movies and celebrity, but that’s not true.

Of the nine movies nominated, I’ve heard of four: The Artist, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, The Descendants, and The Help. Two of them were hugely popular books first, which is the reason I know of them. I heard about the third movie when it was discussed on a talk show and I saw television ads for the fourth. None of them got me atwitter, even though Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close has Tom Hanks in it. I love him.

The sad, awful truth is I like books better. Going to the movies is a lot of work, you have to take a shower, wear grown up clothes, drive to the movie theater, stand in line, spend $20 for popcorn and a Coke, then realize your shoes are stuck to the floor. Ew.

Books, well, they’re low maintenance entertainment, they go where you go. Anywhere from a bathtub to prison. Showtime is any time. And shoes are optional; heck, so are pants if you’re so inclined. If those aren’t reasons enough, you also get to cast all the parts when you read a book — you’re the director and the producer. Not some dude in a beret and goatee.

As a rule, Hollywood can’t compete with your imagination. Okay, To Kill A Mockingbird was an exception. It was equally outstanding as a movie and a book. Gone With the Wind came pretty close, as well, but the book was just too good.

Oh, and another thing: when’s the last time you got stuck watching an awards show for the publishing industry? With dancing authors swanning around in celebration of Helvetica type? Never, that’s when. They’re too shy for such gregarious behavior. I like that about them.

Even so, I’ll be among the billions watching the broadcast Sunday night. I’ll be completely lost, blinded by all the glittering jewels and cutting edge fashions on people I don’t know or recognize, but I’ll be there.

Copyright © Publikworks 2012

: the doctor visit :

I spent Monday afternoon at the doctor. Is there anyone who enjoys doing this? Visiting a doctor? I don’t, I’d rather go to prison or wrestle alligators, anything.

So what happened there? Nothing. Well, not nothing, but nothing new. I learned my heart rate was back up to 140 and my blood pressure was high. So they doubled the dosage on the beta blockers.

Plus I found out the endocrinologist they’re supposed to be consulting with isn’t returning phone calls, which means I’m still at square one. Then they drained another quart of blood from my arm and told me to come back in two weeks. (What are they doing with all the blood? Have I stumbled into a secret nest of vampires? I’ve got bruises on top of bruises on top of bruises from the needles.)

Later, at the pharmacy, the pharmacist asked if I’d noticed any changes yet from the thyroid medicine. The only thing I’ve noticed is the way I walk — it’s a more natural, easier gait these days — does my thyroid impact the way I walk? She said the thyroid affects everything — hair, eyes, fingernails, skin, metabolism, energy, moods, memory, the whole shebang.

This news interested me, so I investigated. And I discovered stuff I’d blamed on getting older was really Graves’ disease or hyperthyroidism: it causes fatigue and forgetfulness and muscle weakness, depression, the racing heart, all kinds of weird things. I don’t have every symptom, like panic attacks and skin anomalies, but I have a bunch.

I can’t imagine it all going away and feeling like I used to, but I guess it’s a good possibility. Oh my gosh, that would be a miracle, wouldn’t it? And if the endocrinologist would get off his fat, lazy bum and make a couple phone calls, why, that’d be super, too, really.

: what should I give up? :

Do you realize Lent starts Wednesday, the day after tomorrow? I didn’t, the news came as a surprise, and I’m not prepared. I mean, I know I have to give up something, something I love eating or doing or having, but what? And how much do I have to love it? A lot or a little or not at all, really?

Last year I gave up my beloved Leibniz Butter Biscuits. Cold turkey. I endured six long, miserable weeks without so much as the sight of one. No kitchen cupboard harbored the happy yellow box with the blue and red type. In its absence I tried to fill the void with graham crackers, but it wasn’t the same. I was jonesin’ for the Leibniz, man. Every day, I was jonesin’ for the Leibniz.

One year I gave up smoking. Okay, it was in June, so technically it wasn’t Lent, but I quit smoking, anyway. Again, cold turkey. I don’t remember enjoying myself then, either. In fact, I don’t recall one amusing anecdote from those days. None.

Another year I gave up candy. All kinds, candy bars and Starburst and Twizzlers and Milk Duds  — everything. Then I forgot and ate a Mars bar. The guilt, when I remembered, was huge. Big huge, I tell you.

Do I have to keep doing this to myself? There are so many things I’m willing to give up, forever if I have to. I just can’t decide which one to choose. Wait, I know. How about I make a list and you pick for me. Does that work? Yes? Great, here’s the list of possibilities:

What Should I Give Up for Lent?

1. Shaving my legs
It’s vain and narcissistic, yes?
2. Flipping off chucklehead drivers
I won’t lift a finger for 46 days.
3. Beets
I’m willing to share.
4. Paying bills
A two-digit credit score will be plenty.
5. My Facebook page
I’ll close it down if I remember the name I used.
6. Leibniz Butter Biscuits
I ate a box today, just in case.
7. Smoking
I quit once, I can do it again (since I remain non-smoking).

See how hard it is? Each choice has its own unique merits, wouldn’t you say? I suppose I could go for martyrdom and give up all seven, but that seems like showing off. Well, I’ll leave you to decide. Thank you and good luck.

Copyright © Publikworks 2012.

: the black cloud :

Like a billion other people in the world, I did laundry last week. Of those billion, I was one of, maybe, three who screwed it up. Laundry isn’t difficult, you know, a sensible 8-year old can do it. But me? I get outsmarted by a washing machine.

Somehow, when I transferred a load of clothes from the washer to the dryer, I overlooked a light gray cotton turtleneck. It was squashed against the front of the wash tub. Being oblivious to this lurking garment, I went ahead and added bleach for the upcoming load of whites. And that’s when I noticed the turtleneck, just as the bleach splashed into the wash tub.

I snatched the shirt out of there, examined it thoroughly, and saw no evidence of bleach spots. Until I pulled it out of the dryer. My once light gray shirt had a spray of ivory spots dotting the left sleeve, body, and right shoulder. It’s a whole new look, sort of a Jackson Pollock thing. A look that says, ‘I need a keeper.’

On Sunday, the earpiece of my glasses broke off. Now both of them are taped and I look like every other nerd in the world. Heavy eyeglasses bound together with white adhesive tape sitting slightly awry on a bewildered face above a bleach-splattered turtleneck. It’s a pretty picture, isn’t it?

But it doesn’t end there. No. Tonight my desk chair, which I was sitting on, listed heavily to the right and collapsed. There was no warning, no screech of metal, no shudder signaling imminent danger. It just quietly dumped me on the floor and I write this sitting on a plastic storage container. At some point I expect the lid to give way and trap me inside the thing, so if this post ends abruptly, that’s why.

Folks, I’m in the midst of a protracted bad luck streak. Seven and a half years, if you must know. That’s not as bad as Job, he of the boils and Biblical suffering, but it’s plenty bad enough. With all candor, I’m beginning to fear for my safety. I’m afraid to use my car or the sharp scissors or even take a shower. Heck, the bathroom is a death trap, it’s where most accidents happen.

So, if it’s all the same to you, I’m just going to sit here quie

Copyright © Publikworks 2012