Aggravation (143) Anxiety (94) April Fool (1) Bitchiness (65) Bobby (84) BP (7) Burning in Hell (36) Bush (66) Calme au Blanc (13) Catholic Church (33) Charlotte Cushman (11) Cobalt Blue (26) Confusion (11) Crime (22) Daily Life (145) Dangling Conversations (46) Deep Thoughts (47) Depravity (29) Depression (45) Divertissement (15) Embarrassing Moments (17) Family (44) Friends (110) Frozen (15) Fun (60) Gay (67) Gertrude Stein and a Companion (19) Glass Menagerie (34) Good Things (72) Government (58) Gustav (16) Hate (20) Holidays (36) Hope (37) Hugging the Shoulder (6) Humid City (9) Humor (155) Hurricanes (3) Internets (8) Jesus (5) Justice (6) Katrina (119) Latrine (15) Life in the Quarter (353) Louisiana (12) Mardi Gras (85) Mark Rylance (1) Movie Stars (35) Music (22) Nagin (20) New Orleans (126) News (28) Nighthawks (29) NOLA Partee (1) Obits (12) Our-Leaders-in-Their-Wisdom (111) Outlaw City (126) Personal (405) Photography (532) Pity Post (11) Politics (79) R I P (12) Religion (20) Retirement (11) Righteous Shit (24) Sadness (37) Saints (19) Search-Engine Crap (20) Sex (34) Sick Humor (61) Silly Stuff (151) Southern Decadence (22) Striking Words (23) Stupid Shit (217) Take Me Out (41) Tattoos (18) Tennessee Williams (65) The End (1) The Human Comedy (15) Theatre (510) Thinking Blogger Award (1) Thrill Me (37) Treme (7) Valhalla (42) War (28) Weekly Photo Challenge (41) Weird Shit (9)
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
I'm never satisfied.
For the past three weeks I've been nursing Bob through cataract surgeries, one in each eye, his latest "enthusiasm". After each, his ophthalmologist prescribed Diamox twice a day. Have you ever taken Diamox or known anyone who was taking it? It's one of those medicines like the glamor drugs you see advertised on television. You know the ones. The ones that have these side effects like projectile diarrhea, loss of body hair, heart attack, stroke, or death.
Well, one of the side effects of Diamox is "confusion".
And Bobby had it bad. He's been sitting around the house like a little old gnome with Alzheimer's, subdued, passive, but given to sudden outbursts like "Get that horse out of the bathroom. He's tearing up the tiles!" Or "Why did you send me away to Topeka in this Volkswagen? I want to come home."
Thankfully, he had a moment of lucidity yesterday and came to realize something was happening that he didn't like and decided to stop taking the medicine. Now he's back to being boring old Bob again.
I need some excitement.
Oh, wait. My big brother Jimmy is coming to New Orleans to have lunch with me today. Doesn't sound like much, but Jimmy lives doesn't live around here. He will be driving three hours to come to New Orleans to meet me for lunch then driving back home - "before dark" - after coffee and dessert.
Every so many years, Jimmy, a devout Baptist deacon, takes it into his head that he should check up on me to make sure I am not dying - or worse - from my degenerate lifestyle. You see, some time back, he converted from Catholicism and was born again into a religion that condemns more people to hell than all the popes and ayatollahs combined.
He finds them positively delightful, these damnations. He chortles when he pronounces them.
He worries about my soul, Jimmy does. I don't know why. Does he think we'll visit each other more often in heaven? He worries about my body, as well, being a former coach and a lifelong health buff.
I'm not too worried, though. When he sees me, he'll see I'm still fat and pink.
He'll say, "You're looking good. Have you lost a few pounds?"
I'll say, "I'm trying."
And he'll say, "Where are you going to take us for lunch? You know, I have to get out of this town before your heathen killers come out."
I love my big brother. He makes me feel young again. Real young.
Like five or six.