BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I’m a little odd, but I guess we already knew that, didn’t we?

But, my “half a bubble offedness” aside, I’m also a bit of a medical anomaly at times. Just ask my buddy Gina. I say ask her because she’s one of those folks who packs initials around behind her name. As in MD, which as we all know stands for, “Me Doctor.” So, Virginia Witt MD, can tell you I’m an odd duck. Take for instance that she recently suggested that I try Zyrtec for my allergies. Non-drowsy, 24 hour relief, and I can still manage to function and work… Yeah… Uh-huh… Right. I was comatose for 36 hours. But, I don’t blame Gina. It’s all because I’m not quite right in the body chemistry department.

Just for grins I’ll give you another example, and it will even be far more relative to this story… (How’s that for a ham handed segue? Okay… Well, more of a rump roast handed segue then? Good.)

Anyway, yeah… Chicken Pox. The itchy, bitchy scourge of kids everywhere. Well, except for those who have had the vaccination, of course. My point is, I had them. Like every other kid on the block back in 19-koff-koff, I had the speckledy spots, annoying itch, fever, and general crabbiness o’ the pox. Good thing I got that out of the way, right? I thought so. Until I was 21, that is. I was working at Videoconcepts (as I’ve noted in other nostalgic blogs) and one of our customers came in with her kid to rent a movie. The next day she called us to let us know that her kid had broken out in the Pox, so beware. Well, no biggie for me. I’d already had them. I was safe.

Not.

I contracted them again. I’m here to tell you, Chicken Pox as an adult is just as bad, if not worse, than as a child.

Okay, so all good. I’ve now had Chicken Pox twice. If the antibodies didn’t build up in my system the first time around, surely they must have on the second go. I am now invincible against all things Chicken Pox related.

Then I met E K. Now, before you go to emailing the Evil Redhead and telling her that I’m blaming her for something, just hold on a sec. You see, it’s not her fault. As outlined in the “Mahwage” blogs, I “lell in fuve” and courted her. We were married. And then the Chicken Pox came… But, not right away.

You see, upon our getting hitched, I gained a couple of nieces. However, due to them living in a distant land called Washington State, it was a good bit before I ever met them. However, in the interest of not waxing ridiculous about the one or two years between the wedding and meeting the nieces, I’ll skip forward to the summer of the Chicken Pox.

These new additions to my extended family were a bounding, energetic pair of girls aged 4 and 5 as I recall. Or, maybe it was 3 and 5… Either way, they were pint-sized munchkins with more energy than humanly possible, and they were an absolute joy to be around. We did the sightseeing, BBQ’ing, and all that stuff that goes on when family visits from out of town. Our nieces took a shine to me, for what reason I will never know, and before long I became “Uncle Murk.” Soon, the favorite game became “Toss Puppy Patch.” Puppy Patch, you see, was a small, stuffed dog. I think it had something to do with a cross between Cabbage Patch Kids and Pound Puppies, which were the toys of the day. At any rate, “Toss Puppy Patch” eventually morphed into games of keep away and catch involving a Koosh Ball… Puppy Patch, it seems, was starting to get a little airsick. Still, we had a blast for several days, and “Uncle Murk” was binked on the Brainpan by a Koosh Ball on several occasions. Yet another reason I’m a bit addled, I suppose…

However, as with all good things, the visit came to an end. Brother-in-Law, Sister-in-Law, nieces, and even Puppy Patch had to return to the Pacific Northwest. Tearful goodbyes were said, and we all went back to our daily grinds.

Then, came the phone call. Niece one has full blown Chicken Pox, and niece two is coming down with them fast. No worries. I’ve had it twice now. I’m invincible!

Not.

A week later I was running a fever that pushed over the 104 barrier. My back was killing me, and tiny red dots were appearing everywhere. And, I do mean everywhere. The bottoms of my feet, inside my nose, and all manner of other places we won’t talk about. The Pox had come to kill me for the third time. The doctor (Not Gina) told me that I was in possession of the absolute worst case of Chicken Pox he had ever seen during his entire practice. In fact, I came very close to ending up in the hospital. Fortunately, I didn’t…

I did, however, spend quite a bit of time delirious. One day when E K came home from work during lunch to check on me, she found me literally laying in the middle of the floor babbling to myself. What’s worse, I was so delirious that when I opened my eyes and saw the stilettos and gams in front of me, I was scared to death of her. Not because of her EKayishness as one would  normally surmise, but because I thought she was going to have me “put to sleep.” (We just a few days before had needed to euthanize one of our felines, so my overheated brain was making some very odd connections.)

And, once again, before you run off telling my niece(s) that I blame them for this, put a sock in it. They already know. In fact, I joke with niece one about it all the time.

And, besides, niece one is really what this blog is all about.

You see, all of this happened many moons ago. Better than two decades, in fact. The energetic little munchkins have grown up. They are both lovely and brilliant young ladies now. And, when I say brilliant,  I do mean brilliant…

So brilliant, in fact, that niece one is getting herself a hoodie today. Or, at least, that’s what I like to call it, just because I’m silly that way. In case you aren’t getting the joke, by hoodie I mean today is the ceremony for her Doctoral Hooding.

Yep… Niece One is now Doctor Niece One. Professor of American History.

Unfortunately, due to a prior engagement, I am unable to attend this fashion show. But, I’ve already been in touch with her to let her know how proud I am.

Still, I really wanted to be there so I could bink her in the head with a Koosh Ball during the ceremony. You know… Just for old time’s sake…

Congrats, kiddo… Or should I say, Doc?

More to come…

Murv

Please Note: Names have been purposely omitted because I certainly don’t want my nieces to have to deal with the stigma of having me as their uncle. 😉

…is just a cigar.

Several years ago there was this great little sitcom called “Stark Raving Mad,” which starred Tony Shaloub (Wings, Monk) and Neil Patrick Harris (Doogie Howser, Dr. Horrible, How I Met Your Mother.)

The short lived series centered on best-selling (fictional) horror author, Ian Stark. I could go on and on about it, because I absolutely loved the show. Unfortunately, it lasted only one season, and oddly enough was canceled somewhere around one month prior to my own first novel, Harm None: A Rowan Gant Investigation, showing up in bookstores.

But, I’m not here to rant about stupid TV execs… Even though I’m known to do that from time to time. Firefly anyone? Drive anyone? But, I digress…

Nope, not here to rant on TV guys.  I’m here to talk about something else (as usual). However, we know how my brain works and it just so happens a particular episode of “Stark Raving Mad” popped into my head as an illustration of my point…

Episode 17 – THE GRADE: Quick synopsis – A regular character who is a friend of Ian’s, and who works at the bar on the ground floor below his apartment is going to night classes at the local college. She is working extra hours and in her lit class she needs to write an analysis of a book – as it happens, the book she has selected is one of Ian’s. Hilarity ensues, of course… However, the reason it ensues is that she is so busy she manages to talk Ian into writing the book report for her. Her professor, played by John Lithgow (another of my faves) gives her a B. Ian simply can’t stand it, since he wrote the report about a book he had written in the first place.  Upon Ian confronting the prof,  it is explained to him how “Maddie” (Ian’s friend) had completely missed the underlying meaning of the knife used in a murder. Ian tells the professor, “Sometimes a knife is just a knife.” What makes it funnier, however, is that even after the prof discovers that he is talking to Ian Stark himself, the author of the book as well as the paper, he continues to disagree (and if I recall correctly, even drops “Maddie” down to a C.)

And that, my friends, is “what I’m talkin’ about”…

Sometimes a knife is just a knife, a cigar just a cigar, and a redhead just a redhead – although I would prefer you not tell E K (or Felicity for that matter) that I made that last comment.

My point is, I write novels. And believe me, I dearly love the fact that there are people out there who become emotionally invested in the stories. I think we’ve already established in a previous blog entry that I do as well.

However (You saw that coming, correct?) based on some of the “fan mail” I receive I feel compelled to point out a few things…

They are stories. Works of fiction. Not instructional manuals for your Wiccan coven.

Just because you live on a street that has the same name as a street in one of my novels, that doesn’t mean I am writing about you. Really. Seriously. We’ve never even met, so how could I possibly be writing about you… Wait. Don’t answer that. I’m relatively certain I don’t want to know the convoluted logic…

Just because you have red hair it doesn’t mean you are Felicity.

You are not… I repeat NOT… the “reincarnation” of Rowan Gant. (Honestly, I don’t even begin to understand that one. He’s fictional, but even if we discount that fact, he’s not even dead.)

I could go on and on, but I think you get the point. Sometimes a cigar is just that… A cigar.

And a novel, no matter how entertaining, is still a novel…

More to come…

Murv