April 3, 2016 at 12:05pm marked the start of #MusclewalkSTL 2016. Team Steve met its donation goal this year. We even got a MDA Bringing Strength To Life T-shirt.
The turnout was impressive. It took over 5 minutes for all the walkers to cross the starting line.
It was a lovely day to get out for sun, fresh air and a walk. Team Steve finished the course in 22 minutes. I led the cheer squad. I didn’t walk. Hey, it took me almost 22 minutes to make it to the toilet and back ;-)>>>
I watched the walkers. I like people watching but all the women in Spandex pants made it very enjoyable. I know I’m a Dirty Ol Man. I wear the badge proudly.
There were also lots of friendly dogs around, including a peanut eating bulldog.
One of the wenches sent me a text asking when to we put our clocks forward.
WE? There ain’t no freaking we, silly wench! I live in the real world. I don’t believe in the delusion that believe you can cut one end off a blanket and sew it onto the other end and get a longer blanket. I’m crazy but I ain’t delusional.
My clocks don’t fall forward or spring back. They always say it’s Noon when Grandfather Sun is at his highest. I don’t do Delusional Saving Time.
When I’m forced to leave the real world and enter the delusional world, I humour the crazies and show up an hour early.
Yesterday I got groceries. I picked up a bag of marshmallows. I left the bag in the grocery bag on my table. This morning the bag was on the floor, chewed open with a number partially eaten and the rest gooey from humidity. I know it was Pixel. What I don’t understand is a cat that eats marshmallows.
Pixel likes to lick the cheez coating off Cheetos. I can understand that. But she never tries to get in the bag on her own. She waits until I eat them and begs. But a bag of marshmallows I have to hide? WTF? And cats aren’t supposed to like sweet stuff.
Pixel isn’t the first cat owning me that has unusual tastes. Duchess Daisy like Nacho Cheese Doritos, raw potatoes and corn on the cob. No she wasn’t after the butter on the corn. She ate corn cooked or raw. Leave ears unattended and she would get past the husk and chow down. She was sneaky. The ears would look undisturbed until you peeled the husk off to find only half an ear.
This week I didn’t shoot the whole day down, but I came pretty close.
Mondays don’t mean as much when you can’t work any more. My dislike of Monday is just a tradition now. Not working does sometimes lead to confusion about what day it is, like this week.
Two days ago I got up. The grounds crew were cutting grass. That told me it was a Monday. Still, somehow I fast forwarded and got the idea it was Tuesday. I got ready to visit Dr. Detroit for an adjustment. I left a little early because of construction. I didn’t mean to leave a whole day early.
It wasn’t till I was laying on the table I realized it wasn’t Tuesday. Dr. Detroit asked what I was doing out & about on Monday. After a few moments of confusion, I realized why he was asking the question. I was a day early. So my Monday didn’t start until after 2 PM this week.
6 August was wiggle your toes day. I don’t, actually can’t, celebrate. I can’t wiggle my toes any more.
I had an appointment with my Neuroquack?. He wanted me to wiggle my toes for him. I had a good laugh over that.
It was more like an enhanced interrogation day for me, complete with electric shocks and painful needles. Like the government they have innocuous sounding names for their torture methods. They call them Electromyogram & Nerve Conduction Study.
I had these done a couple of years ago but I don’t recall the pain levels being as high. The last nerve conduction study had a couple of severe shocks. This time they kept turning up the voltage until my body jerked strongly. That was followed by the EMG where they stick a needle in you. The neuroquack? seemed a bit sadistic in his needle application.
But I didn’t talk. Well, except for a “FUCK THIS SHIT!”, near the end of the test.
The tests were at De Paul. The worst pain was getting to and from the appointment. It took me 20 freakin minutes to gimp in from the closest gimp parking spot I could find. It took as long to gimp back to my car after. Fuck De Paul, never going near there again.
I was pissed when I was told during enhanced interrogation that they had free valet parking for the disabled. I saw the valet parking sign with a prominent price tag. No signs saying it was free if you had a gimp tag or plates. You’re supposed to mead minds to find out about it. I guess they think gimps grow a psychic sense as compensation for mobility loss.