Brown Eye Sees Red

Although it may sound like what I'm about to declare is cynical, I assure you that this is not the case.  Simply put, throughout my life I've observed many people and things, resulting in my having certain attitudes and beliefs.  Many, or more likely, most people will disagree and this is where the label of Cynic would be bestowed upon me.

I don't believe in God, Jesus or Heaven and Hell.  The likelihood that once upon a time there was a dude named Jesus, is possible.  Hell, you could go down any street in the greater Los Angeles area, call out that name and a half dozen fellas of Latin decent will respond, so the likelihood of one existing in the "biblical" age, is possible.  He probably wouldn't have been found at a Home Depot....  Although, Jesus WAS a carpenter, wasn't he? 🤔  Hmm.  Subject for another day.

I also do not believe in coincidences, accidents or luck.  Not good luck, anyway.  I am somewhat superstitious.  Not to the point that I believe Friday the 13th to be cursed, nor do I think it unfortunate if a black cat crosses my path.  However, I do think that if I break a mirror I will receive seven years of bad luck, although with a good lawyer, you might get that reduced to three years with good behaviour. 😄 [Insert comedic rimshot here 🥁].  I think Wednesdays tend to be the worst day of the week for me, but have improved over the course of the last year, so perhaps I can lay that one to rest.  And red underwear promotes diarrhea.

"WAIT!! What was that last one?" you all are probably saying to yourselves. "Red underwear does what now?" 

I've discovered through trial and error that consistently, whenever I leave the house wearing red underwear, I usually will have an accident or what is called in the armed forces as a near miss.  Today I had a near miss and I will tell you all about it.

It was dark and I was still half asleep when I dressed myself for work, this morning, so I never noticed what colour of undies I was stepping into.  I got to work and everything went as planned.  I arrived downtown late and missed the shuttle back to the garage, so I waited.  When I finally got back to the Operations Center where we keep the buses, I had to go inside to fill out the sheet for overtime.  It was when I was returning to my vehicle to come home when I felt a little pfft.  A little fart snuck out like a teen sneaking out her bedroom window to see the bad boy her parent disapprove of.  Only the aftermath of this sneaky little ripper felt... off.  I stopped dead in my tracks, standing in the middle of the parking lot looking perplexed.  It wasn't until I sat down in my vehicle before I realized what had actually happened.  If the wetness I felt in my undercarriage wasn't enough to convince me, the stench certainly did.  Woof!! 😬

What's done was done.  No getting around that.  I had planned on stopping off at the grocer on the way home and decided to follow through with that plan rather than racing home.  I figured I could salvage my situation in the public restroom before going home.

Have you ever had to "go" really bad and as soon as you arrived at home, it's like your body believes it's okay to open the flood gates before you get to the restroom?  That never happened to me, but like I said, today's debacle was a near miss.

The moment I parked my truck and began my trek into the store, the same thing occurred.  My body thought it was time to unleash the Hounds of Hell at which moment, I tightly clenched my cheeks and I'm not talking about the rosy red ones on my face.  Now I had to quickly make my way inside the store, walking only from the knees down and very little movement everywhere else.  It was all eyes straight forward, avoid eye-contact with everyone and steer straight into the bathroom.  You avoid eye-contact because at moments like these, everyone becomes psychic and they suddenly know you're in peril and will either intervene, forcing the matter to be even more intense.  Or they'll stand back and stare with judging eyes.  Either way, I don't wish to engage.

Before the door was completely open, I saw a sign stating the toilet was out of order.  "Oh shit!!" I said aloud, but then noticed there were two stalls.  A reprieve!!  After removing my heavy coat and gloves is when I discovered the aftermath AND that I was wearing red underwear. 

I ate a salad on the weekend.  Within a few hours, the lettuce and everything had vacated my body and it wasn't pleasant.  At the time, I believed that it was because I may have put too much dressing on the salad.  I'd shaken the bottle so instead of thick ranch dressing oozing out of the bottle, it was a liquified ranch that came rushing out of the bottle.  So last night, when I finished off the pack of salad, I used much less dressing, even adding croutons and cheese to the blend.  So when I discovered the tragedy that had occurred in my skivvies, I was bewildered.

Later in the day, I had to consult Google as to whether salads cause diarrhea and guess what?  I was not the first person to pose this query to the search engine, nor am I the lone wolf affected by this.  Apparently, because salads are high in fibre, it promotes bowel movements and because lettuce has high water content, the afore mentioned bowel movements are often liquified.

🤨 The shit you learn...  Pardon the pun.

I finished out my tasks, including filling up with fuel.  The nastiness was behind me (Again, pardon the pun.)  I had makeshift protection in my pants in the form of folded T.P., which got me thinking about a product to pitch to the folks on Shark Tank.  A protection pad for men.  Similar to those pads that the ladies use, only these would be designed to guard against sharting.  It happens way too often.  Hell, I remember missing my best friend's son's baptism because I sharted on the way to the church.  That was not a near miss.  The attack that day struck with heavy vengeance.  Today's nastiness was mainly water, I believe, but this is bordering on T.M.I..

I had initially called them Shart Pads, but quickly changed the name to Shartnado Pads. [Patent Pending 😉] It's just a catchier name.  

Break A Leg

As a child, my dream was to grow up to be an actor.  Not a movie star, but a working actor.  As a troubled youth, I'd find solace in watching movies and TV.  It was my escape from the horrors I'd face at home and as a result, I hoped to, one day, be allowed to permanently escape into the world of pretend by becoming interesting characters.

Alas, as I revealed my hopes and dreams to those around me, it was told unto me, that I'd never be able to do that, as I lacked the skill or the talent to do so.  Resist those words of negativity all I wanted, eventually the negativity will break down those barriers of resistance and belief sets in.  Look at me now.  Today, I still have my face pressed up to the proverbial glass window, peering in at what might have been, rather than what is.

"Break A Leg" is an idiom used by amateur and professional theater folk. It's a term affectionately used to wish someone luck.  Wishing someone ill will, tricks the trickster gods into granting the opposite and as a result, good things will happen.  Superstitious?  Perhaps, but given what's happened throughout my life, I can't deny the logic.

This past winter, I was unemployed.  Like previous winters, ever since I slipped on that patch of ice, that fateful evening in March of 2018.  So for the past few years, I've been employed at a job that was seasonal, so I'd be laid off in the winter.  Perfect for a guy who has some form of PTSD, when it comes to icy surfaces.  That company I worked for, went bankrupt, last year and I had to scramble to find another job.  As luck would have it, the job I had, sucked and they let me go after about a month and a half and I'd, by then, accrued enough hours to go on E.I. for the winter.  Come spring, though, I had some trouble finding work.

Every interview I'd set up, I'd get excited and post to Facebook that I was about to embark on this interview and there'd be a slough of friends and well-wishers sending love and 'good luck'.  Then as well as I'd do in those interviews, I wouldn't get the job.  This happened a lot.  A LOT!!  I have one friend, bless her, who would always send a loving message of "Good luck!  I believe in you."  As grateful as I am to have a friend who cares that much for my well-being, I feel that sentiment was the biggest curse of them all.  Whatever Gods overheard those thoughts of positivity, sought to quickly shit on my parade and prevent me from any sort of success.

Tuesday, I officially become a professional driver.  A bus operator for the City of Saskatoon.  It's a job that I've wanted for many many years.  So much that I almost faced charges of Grand Theft in my pursuit.  At the time, they gave me a choice, resign from my job or face prison.  The choice was a simple one. 😂

I'd had job interviews in the past for civic transit, but failed to get the position.  I can't recall if anyone wished me good luck on that interview, but suffice it to say, probably.  So this time around, when I got the call, I never spoke a word.  Nothing, not to anyone.  Not even my mom.  I wanted this shit more than anything and by keeping my mouth shut and not receiving all the words of positivity and luck, I managed to lock down the position.  Next came five weeks of classroom lessons and practical driving and now, come Monday morning, I'm about to be unleashed on the world.  I hope that I don't jinx myself by releasing this blog a day early and have some kind-hearted soul, inadvertently f*cking me over and having me crash into a pole or a f*cking school.

I had a dream last night or maybe it was early this morning.  Doesn't matter.  In the dream, I set out on my first day of driving alone.  I was given the articulating bus, like the photo seen here.  In training I drove it and loved it.  In the dream, my affection was short lived.  For some reason, while stopped at a traffic light, the bus malfunctioned and the bus began pulling back in reverse.  The transmission was in drive, but the mechanisms had failed and the bus was now pulling in the opposite direction.  I quickly put the emergency brakes on, but to no avail.  The pulling power was stronger than the brakes and screeching tires were being dragged backward, up the street, against oncoming traffic.  All I could do was to attempt to steer the bus and avoid catastrophic collisions with one hand and scream into the phone calling for supervisors to help me out of this jam.  Oddly, the supervisors weren't the competent folks I've been interacting with for the past few weeks, but Kev Dogg (Kevin Schiele from TVs "Bitchin' Rides")

I can't remember what happened next, but suffice it to say that the articulating bus came to rest on a patch of grass, off the road and professionals were on their way to investigate and tow the vehicle back to the garage for further investigation and repair.

In the dream, I was shitting bricks, fearing I'd lose my job after one single day, but Kevin, Kev Dogg, assured me that my job was safe and that I'd reacted properly and in a safe manner.  I hope this dream was one of luck.

When I was a kid, growing up on a farm just west of the city, we had horseshoes hanging over the doorways into the barn.  You always hang a horseshoe with the tangs facing up.  This is to contain the luck, rather than allowing the luck to spill out, if hung upside down.  If I ever move back to an acreage or am in a position to hang another horseshoe, I'd like to recreate this practice.  

I don't necessarily believe in luck.  I've been lucky in life, not in love, but in life in general.  As bad as shit gets, I've always known I'd bounce back.  I don't know if you'd call it lucky or just fate.  I know that when I won that $1000 on that scratch ticket, a couple years ago, the vendor who sold me the ticket, was rude and never uttered anything to me.  I know that when I buy tickets and I'm greeted with a smile and a wish of good luck, I never win.  All circumstantial and coincidental, but I don't believe in coincidence, either.  Only cause and effect.

So when you see me out and about, don't wish me "good luck", because chances are, you're pushing me one step closer to the grave.  Instead, tell me to "break a leg".  I'll know what you mean and that maybe, you actually read my blog.  For which I thank you. 🙂

Karma is a Pain In The Ass

It is granted that I'm not active by any sense of the word, though lately, I've been leaving the house and getting out in the world more frequently than I was a few months ago, even though I'm essentially a glorified purse holder for my gal pal, Melissa.  She would argue that I purchase as often as she does, but her regular haunts are hardly places where I would freely purchase wares.

Usually a few hours out and about, results in my legs cramping up and my back getting unusually sore.  In January of 2014, I injured my spine really bad, an injury that left me with three compression fractures in three different vertebrae.  My T3, 4 and 5 were broke with patterns that reminded me of a spider web or a smashed car window.  I was reassured by medical professionals that I had nothing to worry about.  That there was little or no chance of any rogue pieces splintering off and dissecting my spinal cord.  Trusting their word, I continued to live life, albeit a lot more subdued.  Not that I was B.A.S.E. jumping or racing dune buggies, but my options, I felt, were limited after that.

After finishing treatment from my lovely physiotherapist, Elissa, I was unemployed and left to recover from other injuries sustained from my fall on the job.  Money being limited, I stayed pretty close to home, choosing to live vicarious adventure through heroes and characters viewed on my television set, rather than venturing into extracurricular activities.  I'd still go for walks in the park, with my boy, Monkey, just for a change of scenery, beneficial to him as well as myself, but mostly I stuck close to home.  My back never gave me much issue.  No overindulgence equaled very little, if any, pain and discomfort. 

Winter came, and unfortunately, my snow blower still won't start [*Boycott: Home Depot], resulting with my having to clear my two-and-a-half driveway (meaning I have room for two automobiles across plus space for a small RV).  It's a back-breaking process, excuse the pun.  Lately, with the abundant snowfall we've received, I've opted to only clearing a path from the street to my front door, in addition to the city walk in front of my house.  The last time I tackled that endeavour, was midway last week.  My back had stiffened, but hardly gave me issue.  Yesterday, my sixty-eight year old mother came to my house for supper, but before coming into the house, unbeknownst to me, she took it upon herself to clear a respectable patch of snow and ice and did so in half the time it takes me to do a patch half as wide.

It wasn't until her actions caught the attention of my cat, that I became aware of her actions.  I'm appreciative, but rushed outside to scold her of her actions.  She's sixty-eight years old, for f*ck sake.  A sixty-eight year old, who recently informed me that she requires a hip replacement.  What the f*ck is she thinking?  She reluctantly let go of the shovel and went inside, as I replaced the road salt that had been flung onto my snow covered lawn, an action that should reveal some interesting patterns of murdered grass, come springtime.

We watched a couple movies that she'd not seen before and had, what she described, was a tasty supper, before she left for home.  I laid down on the sofa, like I've done a thousand times before, over my eight year tenure at this address.  I chose a previously recorded show to watch and fell asleep, like usual.  About four hours later, I woke up with a desperate need to pee.  I expected to jump up and rush across the living room, but instead, I experienced a sharp shooting pain down my spine.  A blistering shot that is reminiscent of the early days that followed my initial injury.  There was no mad rush, but a slow painful hobble.

The great deal of discomfort I've felt in the hours that have passed, is unimaginable.  I'm hunched, fighting to straighten up to walk upright.  Sleeping was a little better, being that my mattress is ideal for sore ailing backs, and without a pillow under my head, was able to sleep in.  I'm walking a little more upward than I was last night and with a greater pace.  Getting up and mobilized is incredibly sore, however.  I'm hoping this recent flare-up is due to a sudden and dramatic drop in outside temperature, the barometric pressure wreaking havoc on old injured bones.  Especially, given that I need to go for a physical regarding this new job I'm trying out for.

I don't believe in luck, but I do believe in karma.  I don't know what I did in this life or what anyone could have done in a past life, to deserve as much bullshit as I've endured in this life, but holy f*ck!!!  When is enough going to be enough.