OKAY, now—so what’s been going on…

Well, as I mentioned Tuesday, I had my regular bloated bureaucracy meeting yesterday and then had to type up all the minutes which took all the derned day and part of this morning.

So, no time to post.

And as for Miss Reba, she went home early Monday with a raging case of something, and had to go to the doctor Tuesday, where she found out she had an upper respiratory tract infection but, thankfully for me, NOT STREP THROAT! (I’d never hear the end of it if I had given her cooties.) She stayed home from church last night, but I couldn’t convince her to do the same today and stay home one more day from work. Anyone want to hire a workaholic? Never have I seen a person more dedicated, even when saddled with a workplace environment that she dislikes with a brightly blazing intensity.

And, those old contractor fellers…as you all may recall, I finally was able to convince the builder’s rep that they needed to fix my deteriorated chimney enclosure—he promised to call back on a Friday, and of course he didn’t call until later the next week and used a family illness excuse. MEN! They say they’ll call…never mind. Anyway, he said then (about two weeks ago) that he would have somebody out to fix it. No word since then, so I started calling back the end of last week to rattle his chain a bit. One message went unreturned. Left another. And he called back Tuesday…to my home…at 5:10 p.m.

Why call then? Because he is a CONTRACTOR, and he just knew no one would be at the house then and he wouldn’t have to speak to me directly because he is a YELLOW STREAKED COWARD! But, guess who was home? Yes, that’s right, dear sick Wife of Mine who, though in pain and feeling the effects of the wonders of the modern Western pharmacopiea, managed to give him a nicely controlled verbal vivisection. Heh. Serves him right. Yes, he should be frightened of me. But he very much should prefer to deal with me rather than the alternative. Anyway, he committed to calling “his guy” and get him to come fix it. Sometime. “WHEN!?,” said sweet wife. “Uh, hopefully Thursday, ma’am.” “Good!”

So, then he called yesterday to let us know when his guy was really going to be there. And again, not expecting working wife to still be home, he called at 4:30. HAH!! Jerkwad—WE’RE UNAVOIDABLE! She was feeling better yesterday and batted him around a bit like a cat with a eat-up mouse, but made him commit to today. Sometime. “We’ll be out there tomorrow for sure.” SO, this morning, I called him early:30 and left a message at his work that I needed to know EXACTLY when, and if they knew EXACTLY what all they were going to have to do to fix this thing. He called back, holding a spare buttocks in reserve for me to gnaw on, and I was my normal jovial avuncular self, laughing and cutting up and giving him the big verbal glad-hand and got him to nail down that they would be at the house by noon. So, in a few minutes I am back out the door for some fun.

It may be of interest to you that I have now an embedded reporter from the New York Times, Hugh Jass, traveling with me. I’m sure you will all enjoy his reports. Right now, I’m going to go the john, then I’m headed for the house. Talk to you all later this afternoon!

STUNNING SETBACK, ADVANCE SLOWED, REPORTER THREATENED WITH VIOLENCE

BIRMINGHAM—By HUGH JASS: Right now Oglesby is getting up slowly from his cluttered desk and making his way out into the hallway to the “john”, a slang term for a public restroom—right, left, then, out the door. The precision of his movements show a dogged determination in the face of many unknowns—even though he has done this many times, many obstacles litter his path. A secretary slows him down to ask him to take a phone call, but Oglesby presses on, oblivious to the need to answer the phone and he carried on with a single-mindedness that borders on the obsessive.

He orders the secretary to take a message, using words like “please” and “thank you” as if he actually meant them. The secretary dutifully copies down the caller’s information—some might even see fear in her eyes, but she hides it well.

Other obstacles present themselves in quick succession—a pair of glass doors leading into a large elevator lobby. The glass on doors like these is known to have breakable qualities that can cause massive bleeding and even death if they are broken and contact the skin. The doors also offer a host of other horrible injuries that can occur, such as pinched fingers or a startling static electricity discharge which can momentarily stun a user with a painful shock to the fingertip.

Heedless of these dangers, Oglesby strides purposefully though the doors, allowing them to slam into my face. I am dazed, hurt, feeling betrayed that a man so large, so capable of protecting himself is seemingly unable to protect me. I follow him into the room marked “MEN”.

He proceeds with an operation he has practiced here and at home many times, the actions committed to memory not through any sort of nuanced understanding of the mechanics of the situation, but merely through a rote script—stand still, unzip pants with right hand, fumble with bulky underclothing (all while maintaining his balance on only two feet—Oglesby thinks two feet are sufficient to his mission, and doesn’t question the so-called “higher authority” who put him on Earth with only two feet and no chances for reinforcements), releasing his urinary output device and aiming it at the large porcelain bowl in front of him.

His actions belie the amount of effort and danger involved. He finishes his task, reaches up to pull the lever, and in a deafening rush of water, he yells “Aw crap! I’m hit!”

It is a horrifying sight. A tiny drop of moisture, most probably coming from his own body, has landed upon the pristine khaki polyester trousers he is wearing. (Although more than likely a friendly fire incident, it has been alleged that droplets of water can actually splash out of the porcelain urinary receiving device, or PURD, leaving identical stains on clothing. However, these reports come from potentially biased sources, those persons using the devices. The PURD makers disclaim any responsibility.)

He tried vainly to blot the stain away with a scrap of toilet paper, yet it remains—lighter, and drying quickly, but until it is gone, it will be there. A sad reminder of the dangers in going too far, too fast. The betrayal in his eyes is almost too unbearable to describe—something he has done for so long, yet his supposedly rigorous training has failed him. He punches me in the side of the head and tells me if I don’t quit following him so closely and bumping him while he is trying to “pee”, he will push my head into the PURD and pull the lever himself.

And the cycle of violence continues.

With continued setbacks like this, there is much doubt among many whether Oglesby will ever be able to reach his home and supervise the “contractors” he says are coming.

posted by Terry at 12:00:00 PM