I'm sitting in the last presentation of our meetings right now. It's just before lunch, and the topic is "Wound Care". The presenter is a medical doctor that consults with our company. I think he is getting even with some folks who made comments last year about "just put a bandaid on it" because we just saw video of a procedure to drain an impressively infected abscess.
The abscess drained for a least 30 seconds straight with a half inch wide stream of puss. This after several images of some really nasty wounds.
And, with that mental image, dId I mention I no longer have a filter when it comes to gruesome?
So, I'm in St. Louis for business. The meals are all being catered by the hotel where we are staying. Now, I know a thing or two about food allergies, and I am genuinely appreciative of restaurants and catering people that take care to let you know when there might be an issue with the food. But...., there is courtesy. Then..., there is absurdity.
Case in point:
Lunch today had a pork loin protein option. Next to the sign indicating that the item was, in fact, pork loin, there was another sign that said, no kidding, "MAY CONTAIN PORK".
Um....yeah. About that. Are you sure?
But, wait...we haven't gotten to the dessert table yet.
One of the dessert options was a nice looking Pecan Pie. Pecan halves bigger than life right on top and everything. No mistaking that, yes, them pecans are nuts. I bet you smart folks can guess right where this is going.
Yep, you guessed it, next to the little "pecan pie" sign was another little sign that said "MAY CONTAIN NUTS."
Um...yeah. I can see that.
Is it just me, or are we passed nanny state and gone over the cliff full gonzo to bubble wrap society?
It's been a while since I've been able to welcome a new follower here; however, I noted a few days ago the ticker showed the arrival of official follower number 72. Please welcome OldAFSarge of the blog Chant du Depart. If you like airplanes, history, stories of piloting bravery and other heart warming, patriotic stuff, check him out. OldAFSarge, I'm jealous that you got to play with one of my all time favorite jets up close. Sit a spell and holler when you can.
The Queen and I, like most people, enjoy a bit of ice cream now and again. "Premium" ice cream to be precise. Our guilty pleasure of choice used to be Ben & Jerry's until they sold out. Now we have a particular fondness for the Marble Slab Creamery chain of franchise ice cream stores. We don't go there very often because it's expensive and not terribly healthy as a regular thing, but it's tasty nonetheless. Besides, there are very few places I can find cinnamon ice cream which is a personal favorite.
Now, why should you care about our personal choice of frozen treat vendors?
I shall endeavor to tell you.
The Queen, an otherwise intelligent and educated woman who learned German the hard way, occasionally has what we will politely call "English as a Second Language" (ESL) moments or "adventures in interesting pronunciation or syntax." I think it is because she has a tendency to think in German while trying to speak in English, but that's just a guess on my part.
For instance, once upon a time many years ago now, we were driving along the highway when she spotted a billboard advertising our favorite ice cream shop. The self same business I mentioned at the beginning.
The Queen says, "Hey, look! Marble Cream Slabbery!"
Me: "...." [blink, blink] "Say that again?"
The Queen patiently (she's a saint that way) says, "Marble Cream Slabbery."
I, barrelling down the highway at 70 something miles an hour, gave her the side long glance which clues her in to think about what she's saying.
The Queen, whose inner light bulb is flashing like it's disco night at Studio 54, says "Wha...? Ohhhhh...."
Giggle....snort, laugh, laugh, laugh.
To this day, she has a mental block preventing her from saying "Marble Slab Creamery."
But, wait, it gets better.
She's now adding variations on the theme.
As we headed to Galveston last night, The Queen brought up the subject of getting dessert, "Hey, maybe we can get some Marble Sleam Clabbery."
Me: "Sleam Clabbery???"
M&M: "No sleam."
The Queen: "Oh no."
Me: "How about some sleamed clabs for dinner?"
Things went downhill from there when we started trying to get her to pronounce "Worcestershire" as well. It was good for a solid 30 minutes of laughter which we both needed after not enough sleep.
So, I'm in Houston for business. The Queen and Princess M&M came with me since it's within driving distance and doesn't cost the company anything extra. It costs ME extra, but that's balanced out by the pleasure I get from not being away from my girls for two and a half days.
My business is taking place in southwest Houston near Beltway 8 and 288 for those of you who know the area. For those of you not in the know (you're not missing anything...trust me), there is not much in the way of "nice" places to stay in that area. So, we decided to stay in Kemah Boardwalk area which is right on Galveston Bay a little bit further south and east of where I'm spending my days. It's about 45 minutes away, but the extra drive time is worth it to us to have a nice, fun place for The Queen and M&M to hang out during the day while I am taking care of business.
Kemah is about halfway (more of less) between Houston and Galveston. As such, I thought it would be a good idea to take The Queen and M&M to the island yesterday evening for the purpose of giving M&M her first big water beach experience and having dinner.
Bear in mind, this week is Spring Break for the majority of the world.
As a side note, defective global warming made for some amusing people watching last night as scantily clad youngsters froze their kiesters off along Seawall Blvd. in 60 degree temps with a steady 20 MPH wind.
Any stupid, before we made it to the beach area, we were minding our own business stopped at a stop light southbound on Broadway (which is what I-45 turns into after you get on the island from the causeway) in The Queen's chariot...a big, white, Lincoln Navigator. As The Queen and I chatted about something, there was a popping sound at which time we felt a slight bump.
From long experience, I knew exactly what had happened which was easily confirmed by a check of the rearview mirror which revealed a white vehicle entirely too close to the rear of our vehicle. I prepared to hastily exit the vehicle to confront the other driver after a somewhat vexed utterance of "What the H...?" The Queen, in her infinite patience, admonished me to remain calm. She's compassionate that way.
I exited the Nav (as we call...we're lazy that way) and walked back to find a white Honda Accord sedan's front bumper kissing the hitch cover on the back bumper of the Nav.
I approached the driver's door on the Honda which, much to my aggravation, was not already open and gave the driver a opened handed "what gives?" gesture. I couldn't see much through the tinted windows, but the door finally opened to reveal a young, 20 something female in a sundress. If pressed, I will guess that she was of Vietnamese descent.
I looked at her, looked at the Nav and looked back at her. Still not getting anything verbal from here yet much less an "are you okay?", I asked her "What happened?"
20 Something replied, "I don't know what happened. I was just driving, and...." while waving her right hand in a vague, dismissive manner.
I looked at her lap which contained a cell phone and inquired, "Were you on your phone?"
20 Something: "Yes." somewhat sheeplishly. At this point, she finally woke up out of her tech haze enough to exit the car and see if there was damage.
We both examined the bumpers. I looked over and asked, "Are you all right?"
20 Something: "Yes."
"It doesn't look like there's any damage here.", I say. "Just drive more careful."
I turned and walked back to the car. I had more important things to do than exchange information with her over a scratch on the bumper.
She never once asked if I was alright or if there was anyone else in the car. Hopefully, she will take the rather inexpensive lesson to heart.
I have commented here before about the shear tender hearted sweetness of my daughter. Mere mortals should tremble in fear of their hearts being unable to stand the strain of melting from the awesome power of our fully operational M&M. It's a good thing that I've had two years to work up to this level of daddyhood. Otherwise, I would be a pool of sobbing, slobbering emotionally connected masculinity clutching feebly at my chest trying to figure out why I have no pulse right now.
Truly, I almost feel sorry for the poor schmuck who takes her on her first date. Almost. I might even hire an ambulance crew to follow them around with me and the coroner. Maybe.
Case in point, M&M woke up this morning at around 6:30 just as I was stepping into the shower. Nothing like a blast of cold air on a wet behind from a two year old yanking the shower curtain aside to say "Hi daddy!" to get your attention. She continued to shadow me as I went about my morning routine including following me into the closet where I get dressed. She was amusing herself sitting on the floor and/or crawling around at my feet and otherwise trying to trip me (a trick she has learned from the cat no doubt).
Every once in a while, she would look up at me and say, "Daddy go to work."
I would respond, "Yes, daddy has to go to work."
When I was finishing my dressing routine by buckling my belt, M&M stood up from her spot on the floor, reached up to me with arms outstretched and said, "Hug."
I reached down, picked her up and once again enjoyed the slender little arms embracing my neck and left shoulder. As she tucked her head into the crook of my neck and shoulder, she said "Want you stay home."