Skip to main content

Chowing down at Ken's

Ron had a physical several weeks ago and was given a piece of paper to submit to a lab for a blood test.  We went together yesterday, with plans for him to have blood drawn and for us to then go pig out at Ken's Pancake House.  He gets up at 3:30 a.m. to work, so to stay awake, he drank a cup of coffee.  The rules said that was OK.  BLACK coffee.  Unfortunately, he added creamer.  Even non-dairy creamer, they say, will screw up the results.  So, they turned him away to try again another day.  Not drinking any beer at all after 8:00 p.m. was so hard for him this time that I don't know when I'll get him to do it again any time soon.  Plus, I think he's worried about the cholesterol results, figuring he will be forced to give up his woeful eating habits.  So, in his mind, no results means no problem.  I'll keep on it.  It's gotta be done.

We ate at Ken's anyway, a place that's always pretty OK and from which nobody ever leaves hungry.  It was the first time we've eaten out in ages and the first time we've found a parking spot at Ken's on our first pass through the parking lot.  Times are lean.

My poor Hoppsy had been limping and gimping around a lot lately.  Poor baby.  I'm pretty sure it's just arthritis, and the vet suggested that as much last visit, but we'll return for an official diagnosis tomorrow anyway.  I don't want to be treating for chronic arthritis and walking her ever day if she's actually injured in some way.  So we'll whip out the old credit card and make sure.

I went to the gym late yesterday afternoon.  There were people there, which is unusual and a bit irritating, since most of time I have the place to myself.  I've come to think of it as my own private fitness center.  So there I am on the stair stepper, with a woman on my left and a man on might right, also trudging away to some tunes tunneling through wires from iPods to their earbuds.  I am sweating like the proverbial pig.  It's dripping off my nose and into my eyes.  The skin on my arms and legs are beading like freshly waxed car fenders in the rain.  I glance left, then right.  No sweat.  A little glistening, maybe, but no dripping, no pouring, no gushing.  Maybe I was working harder, at a higher level on the machine?  I had been on the thing longer than either of them.  Still, I think I'm just a sweater.  Not a cable knit sweater, or marino wool, but a sweater, the verb, not the noun.  Sheesh!  

Gotta get to work.  I've decided that my most recently written story will read better in the first person than third and since I've written the whole thing in third, it will take some time to revise.  Gotta go.  Hele on.  Wiki wiki. Chop chop. 

A hui hou.  Aloha!




Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Born and bred

The creature stared at me, wide-eyed through the florescent glare, Saran Wrap stretched tight across its broad back. Alone in the seafood cooler, he was the only one of his kind, there among the farmed, color-added Atlantic salmon and mud-flavored tilapia, perched on a blue foam tray, legs tucked 'round him like a comfy kitten. He didn't blink. He was dead, red, cooked and chilled, ready to eat. Such a find is rare in the City Market fish department in Gunnison, Colorado. What if nobody takes him home? I thought. This beautiful animal will have died needlessly, ripped from his home, family and friends (Dory, Nemo, Crush and Gill?) only to be tossed in the trash when his expiration date came and went. I lifted him for closer inspection, checked that date, felt the heft of him, scanned his surface for cracks and blemishes. The creature was perfect. I lowered him back into the cooler, nodded farewell, turned to walk away, took one step, and stopped. Shoppers strolled past, stud

General goofiness

I was driving home from an abbreviated shift at work last night when I turned on the radio and heard Bob Dylan singing Everybody Must Get Stoned .  I was reminded of a placard I once saw at a Dairy Queen in Colorado that read, Everybody Must Get Coned .  So it occurred to me, there navigating through the misty darkness, that with a slight modification, this could be a great slogan for a number if different businesses.  Here's my list. Telecommunications company: Everybody must get phoned . Cutlery shop and knife sharpening services: Everybody must get honed . Credit Union: Everybody must get loaned . Brothel: Everybody must get moaned. Winery: Everybody must get Rhoned . Fitness Center: Everybody must get toned . Local planning commission: Everybody must get zoned . Bio-research company: Everybody must get cloned. Doggy daycare: Everybody must get boned. Manufacturer of modern, unmanned spy planes: Everybody must get droned . Reader of corny mottoes and slogans listed on a chees

Re-writing Twain: Adendum

The best thing about rants, at least among the civilized, is that someone smart always makes a valid point to the contrary. My fellow University of Alaska Anchorage classmate, Wendy, directed me to this column, written recently for the New York Times by a writer I admire, Lorrie Moore . She's on both sides of editing Twain issue, and for good reason, posing the notion that maybe Mark Twain was never intended to be children's literature and that that is the problem. Give it a read, then tell me what you think, if you're so inclined. It was Flannery O'Connor who said, "The fact is that anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information to last him the rest of his days."  No matter how idyllic one's childhood, no matter how hard grown ups try to protect their young charges, trauma happens, sometimes the likes of which no child should endure. Stories that reflect this are often the fodder for great literature, stories not necessarily suitable for y