Mark Myers's Blog, page 34

Shaking Hands with your Urologist

My first experience with Dr. P was a week after we discovered our surprise forth pregnancy. I found myself seated uncomfortably on the metal table being interrogated by a very contemplative man half my height, but with an IQ obviously twice mine. He spoke with a fairly thick accent and seemed dubious of my procedure of choice.

Dr. P, “Missa Myers, you seem very young. How old are you?”

Me, “I’m thirty-four.”

Dr. P, “How old your wife?”

Me, “She’s thirty-three.”

Dr. P, “Oh, that very young. You sure you want this?”

Me, “Yes Doctor, I’m sure.”

Dr. P, “You know, this permanent. You might want reversal, but it maybe not work.”

Me, “I know. I’m sure.”

Dr. P, “Your wife sure? She know?”

Me, “Yes, she knows.”

Dr. P, “Okay, you sure. Just one more time I ask, because you maybe not go back?”

Me, “Dr. P, we just found out we were pregnant with our fourth child.”

Momentary pause for contemplation.

Dr. P, “Oh. In that case, why you not come see me sooner?”

He checked a box on his form and left. The procedure came a few weeks later. I’ll mention no specifics except to say that once I was prepped and ready, the quiet, secluded corner room seemed to turn into Grand Central Station. Nurses, accountants, inspectors, magazine vendors, interns, dog walkers, board certifiers, and I think a few pharmaceutical sales reps all of the sudden had important business in my room. Finally the good doctor came and did his work. I left hoping to never see Dr. P again. No offense, but I thought seeing him again meant a fifth bundle of joy. I was wrong.

My second trip to see him came after experiencing some discomfort during a long run. Until then, I had no idea that Urologists did everything! When I went back to the very same room, there sat my friend, Dr. P. who remembered me distinctly.

“How your baby?” Dr. P asked.

Me, “She’s doing great. Six years old now.”

Dr. P, “How old are you?”

Me, “I just turned forty.”

Dr. P, “You know, Missa Myers, we start thinking about prostate health at this age…”

 

I’ll leave the rest to the imagination. Based on my experience with Dr. P, I have some advice for men.

First, when your Urologist asks you your age, consider carefully the ramifications of the question.

Second, when you are greeted by your friendly Urologist, remember that his hands have been places that my dog’s nose only dreams about.

 

 

I poke fun at my interaction with Dr. P, but men’s health issues are not a laughing matter. Fortunately, I only had a couple of kidney stones that were easily blasted out. Get checked when it is time to get checked, men. Others are counting on you!

 

Johnny Reb’s Revenge

Welcome to the South! But beware – we have some surprises for you. If you are just passing through on the way to the beach, leave your car parked in Chik-fil-A’s parking lot long enough to get a sandwich and you’ll find it. The yellow nightmare that welcomes spring here every year: pollen.

 

 

We are used to it. We don’t love it, but accept it as one of the few drawbacks of living in God’s Country. I wonder what the Union soldiers thought of the yellow cloud in April of 1864. Did it slow them down or just shock the troops and make them sick along the way? I can’t imagine muskets are easy to aim anyway, but I’m guessing more than a couple Southern soldiers escaped the bullet because of the itchy eyes and runny nose of the enemy.

Despite our ideological divide, the Confederacy was short lived and we are united. This unity allows many Yankees to set up residence here when they get sick of the cold weather and frosty attitudes up north. I’m told they were called ‘carpetbaggers’ back in the day. We have nicer names for them now (when they are in earshot). We sell them our cow pastures at over-inflated prices and say things like “Bless your Heart”, which they think is nice but is actually a veiled insult.

Just kidding (except about BYH) – everyone is welcome here.

I had a humorous run-in with pollen at our first home. It was a cute little starter home that had one issue – when it rained, the run-off from the street came down our driveway and off into the side yard to a retaining ditch. You can never see something like that unless you happen to be visiting in the rain before the purchase. We weren’t and the community real estate agent didn’t share that fact. He was from Connecticut. Anyway, the first time it rained in April, our entire driveway and yard was painted yellow with pollen run-off. Being an inexperienced home-owner and relatively dull anyway, I marched up the street in the rain to confront whoever was spilling yellow paint into my yard. I figured it out fairly soon.

Now I have a new boss moving from New Jersey. He seems like a really nice guy and I look forward to working with him. I wonder how he and his family will feel about Johnny Reb’s revenge. They will mostly likely wait to move until after school is out and will miss it this year. So the question is, should I warn him?  Or let him enjoy the surprise in 2015…

 

 

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Photo credits: “I Heart Pollen !” by Brooke Novak & USGS Native Bee Inventory and Monitoring Laboratory from Beltsville, USA

I Won’t Do That!

The season my first daughter was born, Kentucky won the NCAA championship. Two years later, along came daughter number two and, lo and behold, UK hoisted another banner. I joked with my lovely wife at the time that with all of the rich basketball fanatics in my home state, we could surely find a patron who would sponsor future babies if Kentucky kept cutting down nets. Alas, no such luck with numbers three and four.

You’d have to know my wife, though. She loves babies. She would have started looking for real estate in Lexington had they won with our third. Her baby wanter gets turned on just by the smell of hospital soap. If she gets to hold one, I practically have to pry the child out of her hands. I came home not too long ago and she was holding a baby I had never seen with a contented smile on her face. I looked around…no one else in the house. For the briefest of moments I truly thought she had finally stolen one. (It turned out we were babysitting a teacher’s baby for a night.) Me, I like ‘em okay. I liked watching a game with one sleeping on my chest, but they always felt too fragile in my oversized mitts. I preferred the toddler years where we could wrestle and play.

Much to my delight, my beloved Wildcats have made it to the Final Four again this year. I said at the outset of the tourney that I wouldn’t be surprised if they got beat in the first round and I wouldn’t be surprised if they won it all. It’s been just that type of up and down year. I don’t keep up with sports like I used to, but I still watch my Cats when I can.

I’m sorry Cats. I love you and want you to win with all of my heart. But my baby days are behind me. I won’t do that!

(A little Meatloaf just for fun!)

 

Good luck to the Wildcats this weekend. I hope you cut the nets down on Monday. You just have to do it without my progeny this time.

 

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Speaking of my progeny, I was set to post this yesterday until we got news related to the health of our youngest. We haven’t gotten an exact diagnosis yet, but have further tests next week. I appreciate the prayers and words of affirmation from my friends here. We’re hanging in there and she has meds now to make her feel better…  

I Need a Verse

Isn’t God good? We got some cloudy, murky news yesterday that left me muddled. We don’t have enough information to worry yet. But the mind tends to wander through potential – all of the worse-case scenarios. When I finally got home, I sat thinking, “I need a verse.” But nothing would come to mind. My mind was literally empty. Tabula Rasa. Clean slate.

God didn’t let me flounder long. He reached into the blankness nearly instantly through a text message of an old friend who was praying with us.

Philippians 4:6-7
6 do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. 7 And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

 

The lovely wife and I are rallying to get more testing today. We have made our requests known to Him. If you are a praying friend, I covet a word for my littlest, Kylie. She is a little worried and just wants her leg to stop hurting.

 

Artwork credit: Otto Greiner [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Shutting it Down

After six months of writing this blog, I have been issued a court order from The State of New Hampshire to cease and desist using the name Portsong. It seems that an official in the city of Portsmouth got hold of my fictional history book in which I poke a little fun at Yankees during Sherman’s march to the sea. The Honorable Thomas Lankin has taken umbrage with my depiction of Union soldiers from his fair city.

 

 

The letter looks official. I haven’t had the chance to get it to a lawyer and quite frankly don’t have the wherewithal to do so. This means a great deal for me, though. I’ve built whatever brand I have around the name Portsong and the characters within. The support I’ve garnered and readership I’ve built will be subject to loss when I rename everything. I find this turn of events quite disheartening.

Until I can sort this all out, I will have to go silent and shut down this blog. Obviously, there are some folks up north who will be happy with this. The Southern boy in me would like to make a Yankee joke about it, but I’m not up to it right now. I find it sad that a little guy in Georgia can’t come up with an idea and build a dream without being prosecuted. Where’s the justice in that?

So, goodbye, friends in my blogging community. Until we meet again, let us hope and pray that some people develop a sense of humor. The world would be a much better place – especially on this, the  first   day    of     April……

 

 

A Frozen Mind

Remember in the 70′s when some white-haired old men in polyester suits said that if you spun your evil rock & roll records backwards, you could hear embedded devil lyrics that would worm their way deep inside the unsuspecting soul. Backwards masking! Subliminal hellfire! My friends and I spent hours pulling at our turntables hoping to find something through all of the garbled, warped noise. In the end, the buffoons probably boosted record sales more than anything else.

But why are we fascinated? Why do we spend time, energy, and emotion looking for bad?

Abe Lincoln once said, “If you look for the bad in mankind, expecting to find it, you surely will.”

Yeah, you don’t have to look hard to find bad. It’s everywhere. So, when you stumble upon it, as you inevitably will, what do you do with it? Shout at it? I can’t find where Jesus said we were to shout at the darkness. What good does that do? “Hey darkness, uh… you’re dark!” I do see the Sermon of the Mount where Jesus said we were to shine a light in the darkness. There is quite a difference between the two.

Matthew5:16 Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.

Shouting only makes noise, while shining a light shows direction.

Shouting creates confusion, light dispels fear.

Shouting is angry, sharing light is love defined.

♦

 

My oldest daughter told me about a “preacher” out west who has decided that the Disney movie Frozen is going to make us all gay with its hidden agenda. Before I address him, I want to give you my review of the movie. I really liked it. It was like Up - I had few expectations going in but I walked away loving it. Olaf cracked me up, the story was compelling, and the music was beautiful. Now that the Bluray has come out, I’ve seen it again and I still like it. (oh no, I said ‘come out’, what’s happening to me?) It’s a very sweet story and I think anyone finding an agenda simply has one of their own. They are searching for substance out of shadows.

I had originally quoted some of what the shouter said here, but I don’t want to give air to such blather, especially since he admits he has not seen the movie. I will give one quote for the sole purpose of mocking it:

“If I was the Devil, what would I do to really foul up an entire social system and do something really, really, really evil to 5- and 6- and 7-year-olds in Christian families around America?…If I was the Devil, I would buy Disney in 1984, that’s what I would have done.”

I read The Screwtape Letters. I know C.S. Lewis, and you, sir, are no C.S. Lewis.

But maybe.  Just maybe… if I were the devil, I’d sit back in an ivory tower and in the name of religion spew ridiculous insinuations that make the church of Jesus Christ seem like a bunch of backwards, unloving idiots that no one in their right mind would want to be a part of. Yeah, that’s what I’d do.

Look around, Rev. Shouterson, this tactic seems to be working.

 

This post is a bit out of the norm for me. I typed it while ticked off and debated whether to trash it. I even made a new (hopefully seldom-used) category called ‘Don’t Blog Angry’ for it when I decided to push publish. Uh, enjoy – I guess?

Photo Credit: Fyrsten (Own work) via Wikimedia Commons

Back to the Scene of the Crime

On a beautiful Saturday recently, my daughter and I broke a rule or statute, I’m not sure which. I don’t think it was the law we broke, and I doubt there would have been a stiff penalty had we been caught. True confessions time – we took our dog, Winston to the dog park. Why is that a problem? Because Winston was banned from the local dog park a few years ago.

He’s a very friendly, yet stupid dog who has no spatial awareness and is completely unconcerned with the personal bubble of others – dog or human. The last time we took him there, a Weimaraner pup intrigued him. They chased each other around for a while until suddenly, the dog was gone. To the shock of the other owner, Winston had decided to use him as a chaise lounge. We ran toward him, screaming for him to get off. But he just cocked his head contentedly, unconcerned with us while seated on his comfy new chair.

The other owner just happened to be in charge of the dog park. Her dog was fine after we got our oaf off of him. But Winston’s picture went up on the dog equivalent of the post office wall as a canine non grata.

But on this day, with no other dog in the over 35 lb yard, we decided to let him in. He sniffed around, ran some, and paraded along the fence separating him from the little dogs. I guess he decided it wasn’t worth being where he wasn’t welcome because he peed on the bench then sat by the gate, ready to leave.

There are places I’ve let my feet wander in the past that I shouldn’t go back to. We are all tempted by something. Whether you are a believer or not, there are actions that are wrong and would cause injury to your health, family, or freedom if you undertook them. I know what tempts me. Fortunately, I have a little more self-control than I did as a young man.

I heard a pastor once say that our greatest weakness can be our curiosity. We know the line we won’t cross, and have a resolute desire to stay away. Yet too often, we draw the line and inch our toes as close as they can possibly be to it, lean in to see what is going on over there, and then act surprised when we fall into the same old sin and self-destructive behavior.

♦

What tempts you? What lines have you drawn and where are your feet? These are not questions to answer in the comments section, just something for you and I to think about as we navigate life’s dog park.

Good for Winston, he just peed on it and walked away. I pray I can treat my temptations with the same indifference.

 

In Praise of the Mom-Traffic Controller

Yesterday was one of those days. It is beyond my man-sized mind how everything fit together. I had nothing to do with its success or organization. But like a giant fuel-guzzling puzzle, the last piece set in perfectly about nine o’clock. Until then, my family ranged in different directions all across the metro area. The amazing thing is that the MTC (Mom-Traffic Controller) was absent for a good portion of it.

I had business on the other side of the city that kept me away until most of the flights were filed and done. If you know Atlanta traffic, you know that being on the other side of it on a weekday means that, while only thirty miles away, I may as well have been in Guatemala in case of an emergency. Sometimes, there is just no getting home. But the MTC needed me not.

The Grandaddy taxi (my kids’ favorite ride because it often stops for a milkshake) had a few trips, she called in a favor from another middle-school parent, my nephew’s girlfriend made a pick-up, and I think there were two dog sleds and a rickshaw involved. Of course, this day involved multiple after school activities for every child that required extra commutes. Here is where I think the MTC was just showing off – she drove an hour north of the city on a college visit and took the only other driver of the house with her. So she wasn’t even around to oversee her masterpiece!

Through some mystery of mother magic, everything worked out. I counted two children when I got home and the other two trudged through the door soon after. They looked haggard but familiar, so I’m fairly certain they are mine.

◊

Men, lest you think you could handle this task, let me recount for you my experience on Saturday (Car Day). I had one assigned job, ONE: pick up dancer daughter at 12:30. The brakes took a little longer than expected, but I finished and went inside to wipe the grime off of my fingertips so I could handle food. While at the sink, my phone lit up with a missed text. Instantly, I had that “Oh Crap!” moment when I saw the digital readout. You guessed it, 12:40. I forgot my one job, along with my daughter who sat waiting twenty minutes away. The forgotten child’s next text went to the MTC, who was at a play. I had planned to bribe my daughter’s silence with ice cream. But on the frantic trip to get her, I received from the MTC saying, “Nice job, Dad.” Exposed.

 

So, all hail the MTC! I don’t know where you received your degree in family flight management, but the entire (and somehow intact) family is glad you have it!

The Real Fiction

I got a fourth email about Portsong. This one came from someone who lives in Georgia and tried to find it on a map. So I thought I needed to come clean. You won’t find it on a map unless you pencil it there. Portsong is fictional, simply the setting for a book. I tried to make it a nice Southern place, full of kind people and ample charm – a front porch with rocking chairs on every home kind of place. There are ideals I added that like to think are real – simplicity, community, trust, faith, friendship, and hard work. It is much easier to write in those ideals than find them sometimes. I used the tagline “Halfway between Savannah and Heaven,” and I suppose it is actually closer to Heaven.

The picture I use is one of those old-fashion postcards I got from a very nice gentleman in Hawaii who owns Ye Olde Postcard Shop. It is actually Main Street in Middletown, CT.

So I won’t trick any newcomers who stumble here, I’ve split my About page into two. Now there is an About Me and an About Portsong.

I am the mayor of nothing but dreams – and sometimes those run roughshod over me. I hate politics and wouldn’t win an election because I would assuredly say something stupid in a debate. In real life, I sell stuff and try to herd my family.

There, my disclosure is complete now. I feel much better.

The Manliest Day of the Year

Cue the Led Zep, let loose some fragrant belches, drag your nose across your sleeve, and get ready to scratch something! It’s Car Day, YES! The manliness day of the year that doesn’t involve a chainsaw. YES! Line ‘em up – three cars, three oil changes and a brake job. YES! Can you just feel the testosterone surging?

I felt it yesterday – a perfect Saturday for Car Day. I drove to the auto parts store to get my supplies and surround myself with other manly men. I didn’t shower, I wanted some manstink. I plopped brake supplies and three jugs of motor oil on the counter, grunted a few times, and swapped tales of bravado with the snaggle-toothed clerk. Yes, a day for men, indeed.

I love working on cars but there are only about four things left I can do on today’s automobiles. If anything else is wrong, I can only raise the hood and say, “hmmmm” before calling a tow truck. But on Car Day, I get to use my limited knowledge (aided by YouTube) to be a master mechanic. I refuse wash my hands after. Even though Car Day plus one is Sunday, I leave the black gunk under my nails. When I shake the preacher’s hand, he’ll know: ‘That’s a car guy.’ Oh yeah.

I started with my truck, affectionately called the Blue Pearl.  After I drained it and changed the filter, I checked three times to make sure the plug was re-installed. I’m very diligent to check ever since the unfortunate day I poured ten quarts straight through the engine and onto the pavement. Yes, the plug was in this time. Car one complete.

Our van, Russell’s oil change went quickly. Next was Kevin, our oldest daughter’s car. I don’t like to drive Kevin, mostly because of the frilly, purple monogram on the back. Not so masculine. This would be my inaugural oil change on Kev. I surveyed the little white car, noticing just how narrow the gap between it and the ground. Man, it was low. All of the sudden, I remembered ramps! I have ramps and rarely get to use them. Car Day just got better.

I set the ramps at the edge of the concrete, inched Kevin up to them, checked their position, and proceeded to roll right over top of them. Uh-oh. Now the ramps lay wedged between Kevin and the ground with his front wheels dangling in the air. That’s bad.

I’ve heard of superhuman strength caused by adrenaline rushes in life-or-death situations. Maybe that would work here. I spit on my hands and rubbed them together before lifting  just because it looks tough when they do it in old movies. Abject humiliation must not qualify as a life-or-death situation because I couldn’t make it budge. I gave up and let it sit there a few hours while I pondered. A neighbor’s garage jack came to the rescue.

My machismo waned mightily. Don’t tell the guys at the auto parts store, but I decided to bag it and go to Quicklube where a young man with a tattoo of Charlie Brown shooting himself in the head changed my oil.

“Nice decal,” he chuckled as he wrote down the license plate number.

“Just change the oil,” I replied gruffly, hoping to salvage a slice of manhood.

He complied and descended to the pit underneath me. “Dude, where’d the yellow come from?” he asked when he discovered scratches left by my ramps.

“Crap,” I mumbled. I hadn’t noticed.

“No, it ain’t crap,” replied Charlie Brown’s killer, wiping at the marks. “That’s like, paint. It ain’t coming off. But how’d it get down here?”

“Just change the oil, Dude…”

Man, I’m sick of cars.