God, Please Don’t Let Me Lose my Sense of Humor

I had a heart attack last July; which quite frankly should have scared the shit out of me at the time.. but didn’t. Instead, it hit me like a ton of bricks later.
I do need to tell you about the wild ambulance ride that night, but I’ll reserve that for another time. Instead, it’s time you knew my brain has taken on a new level of oddness since that time that even I can’t explain.
I’ve been thinking about things to write, but I’ve been plagued with ideas such as these and I can’t make up my mind about any of them.

1. An all-American boy loses his faith on the open ocean while a mystical shaman takes a wrong turn at Disneyland.
2. A happy widow has three days to pay the orphanage’s tax bill and a Catholic priest uses his powers to protect the helpless on a cruise.
3. A deranged Fauci has 24 hours to save his family from kidnappers, while a renegade politician tries to destroy the Earth.

I’ll let you decide.

Please Don’t Sit On The Body Bags

NOTE: until my brain decides to work on all cylinders again, and I get rid of this writer’s block, I’ll be posting select pieces from our old blog. Hope you enjoy them the second time around.

Looking back on it, I’ve had an interesting job history. Ad agencies, clothing manufacturers, hospital, hair salons, marketing firms…and that’s not counting the jobs when I was in high school and college. Today, I’ll revisit The Hospital. (disclosure: it’s no longer in existence)

The Hospital was an inner-city hospital that after two weeks of working there, I made all those near and dear to me promise not to take me there unless I was already dead. It wasn’t the greatest job, but it was a paycheck. I worked in Corporate Purchasing, which meant I was responsible for procuring everything from radioactive isotopes for the Nuclear Medicine Department to rental cars for executives. Every purchase order had to be signed by the head of the department requesting the purchase, so this entailed a lot of running around. Including the Morgue.
Now I’m not a squeamish kind of person (except for eyes, but that’s another story) so I had no problem going to the lower level of the hospital to find Dr. Peterson and have him sign off; and occasionally I had to hunt him down. I mean, the man needed his bone blades, right?
One day being in a hurry, I banged on the door where the autopsies took place and upon hearing a bellowed, “Come in!” I went in….to a man on the table, flayed open like a butterflied shrimp. Three medical students were there, and by the looks of things, one was either going to pass out or puke, whichever came first.
Me: “Dr. Peterson, I need you to sign these PO’s if you want your supplies by Monday.”
Him: “Come here. Do you have a pen?”
Now I know this breaks about 87 laws, but it was in the days before HIPA, and I couldn’t see the guy’s face anyway, because his scalp had been cut and pulled down over it. Lucky, right? At this point, one of the medical students starts doing the pass-out weave, and I shoved a chair under his ass so he wouldn’t hit the floor.
Bloody gloves were snapped off, papers signed, and I went on my merry way.
The following week the head of HR asked to see me. I didn’t think I was in trouble, but with me, who knows? Turns out that Dr. Peterson was impressed by my lack of squeamishness; to the point that he put in a request to see if I wanted to work in the Morgue.
It’s nice to be wanted, but I declined.
Work with those stiffs?
Hell no.

That’s No Lady, It’s Sparky

From the time I could talk, my grandmother at every turn instilled in me to be in all situations ladylike. Cross your legs when wearing a dress, please and thank you to your elders, no white shoes after Labor Day, don’t burp out loud in public and always wear a hat to church on Sunday.

Suddenly I was sixteen. Much to Mom’s chagrin, I was a petulant sixteen. I hated high school, failed nearly every course; most of the male population were being shipped off to Vietnam, and I had a 25-year old boyfriend. So, my mother enrolled me in “Beauty School”.  She told me in no uncertain terms that if I couldn’t cut it in school I could start earning my way.

At the time it was the best thing that could have happened to me. In later years I was a star. I was respected in a world of men whose shit had no smell on it. I was a “Company Platform Artist” in a sea of testosterone.  Who knew “That girl from Tennessee” would make a name for herself?

It was during a hair show in the seventies at a Dallas hotel filled to the brim by a Baptist convention when my pal Eddie and I approached an elevator to embark upon one of many of the company’s festivities. (the bar) As the doors opened at the main floor, there they were. The perfect churchy couple; in every way, model citizens. Her hair couldn’t have been nearer to Jesus, and his ass couldn’t have been more puckered if he thought they might run into a hooker in the banquet room.

Ever the gentleman, Eddie held the open elevator door, encouraging them to step out.
“No, ya’ll step on in; I got the button”, replied the pompadoured silver haired devil.
“No Sir, I have the door. If you and your lovely lady would just step out we can all be on our way.”
“Step it up, son! I got the damned button!”, Hizzhonor blared.

By now Eddie’s patience has worn thin. He’d up to then imbibed a boatload of tequila, smoked at least three joints in the course of two hours, and was ready for the next party. Relenting to the whims of the loudly perfumed dandy, Eddie guided me into the elevator; resulting in his releasing the door.

The two fairly jumped out of the thing as the doors began closing amid cries from the pompous old fart. “You sir, are the height of rudeness!”

Just before the doors mercifully came together, in my best Southern belle voice, I resonantly replied, “And you sir, are a motherfucker!”