My wife discovers my blog

Everything is temporary. Especially secrets.

After 3 years, 4 months, 383 posts, 2,733 comments, and rarely publicizing my blog, my wife discovered it. The gig is up, done, over. Goodbye to my secret. It’s kaput. ARGGGHHHH!

So, how did this happen and who is to blame?

Congratulations to my wife for her discovery. Well done. (I love you a ton, honey. Now find the next one. :-) ) © iQoncept - Fotolia.com

Congratulations to my wife for her discovery. Well done. (I love you a ton, hot mama. Now find the next one. ūüôā )
© iQoncept РFotolia.com

Google. Yes, Google.

Bang. Done. Over with.

But did the little detective tell me right away when she found it? No. She read a bunch of the posts first.

However, unlike me, she’s the worst when it comes to keeping secrets and couldn’t help but confess, though I give her style points for her method of choice: she wrote a comment for a post, used her silly Disney alias, Dakota, and sent it with an email address I’d recognize.

I walked the 50 feet to her home office. And that was it. I got the low down on how she found it.

One of my blogging friends emailed me a CF question about marriage and I copied and pasted the text to my wife to get her opinion. She Googled my friend’s name and it came up attached to my blog, which she clicked on. It didn’t take her long to put 7 and 10 together (Denver Broncos, Fox, McGriddles) and realize it was me. (BTW, Josh, she really likes the header you created. Thank you.)

Somehow, my wife finding it feels like an ending. 

So, what do I do now? Do I continue to write this blog? Do I quit it and start another, bury it deeper in the internet?

Or, do I hand it over to her and let her write it for a while? (You found it, it’s your responsibility now, Honey.)

I don’t know. We’ll see. To be continued. Or not.

Man Musk

“What’s that smell?” my wife asked, as I stood there, sweating, after working outside on a hot day.

Now this was a few years ago and I probably had my manly tool belt strapped on and was looking pretty studly, or as studly as I can possibly look without a bag on my head.

“It’s my Man Musk,” I said. “Would you like some?”

Hey, it's my Skuncle Joe.

Hey, it’s my Skuncle Joe.

“No, I don’t want some. You smell ripe.”

This confused me because don’t we eat fruit when it’s ripe? So, I smelled good enough to eat?

Nope, wrong, not good enough to eat, as I chased her around the kitchen trying to hug her and cover her face with my armpit. But she’s quick like a rabbit, and I couldn’t catch my baby mama.

So, “man musk” is our term now for me working up a nice musky smell. And, after eight days in the hospital and my last shower the day of my jailing, I’ve brewed a nice healthy batch.

It may be my imagination, but while I was outside building a gate today I noticed a number of attractive female joggers running by my house Рsome more than once. I told my wife, who rolled her eyes, but reminded her that man musk is high in protein and pheromones. It makes me irresistible, romance-novel desirable.  And there was a breeze today, so it all makes sense.

Man musk has a quite a history, dating back 100s of years. Check out this lesser-known Robert Frost poem:

Oh, Man Musk, how I love ya,
My eyes burn, my nose runs,
Watch me work and saw,
And flex me mighty guns.

Ladies stop and stare,
Nose up in the wind,
Take a deep sniff if you dare,
Soon, you’ll say, “I sinned.”
Oh, the power of Man Musk,
Rhino horn mixed with beaver tusk.

Yeah, I’m ripe and tart,
Smelling worse than a fart.
I’m too stupid to know,
Not as smart as your average Joe.

Day 5 in Captivity

20130519-185146.jpg

It’s as if the hand of God – Monty Python’s God – reached down and plucked me, kicking and screaming, from my life, my wife, and my daughter.

Ye shall not finish the gates for the picket fence this weekend.

Ye shall not attend the concert in Topanga on Friday.

But ye shall be locked in a small room and chained to a machine for 21 hours a day. Ha, ha, ha.

If given the choice between two weeks in jail or two weeks in a hospital, I’d have a hard time choosing. Would I have a private cell? I can’t imagine the food varies much, though if it were Mayberry and Aunt Bee were cooking, jail might look even better.

No one needs to listen to my breath signs six times a day behind bars, but I don’t worry about a shiv to the gut in the hospital, though there are infections, blood clots and other painful add-ons during the stay. Hard choice.

For the first time, we exotic animals have our own floor at the zoo, and a gym to ourselves. Huge kudos to the CF team here for making stays better for us hospital lifers.

This floor is quiet like a library, day and night. No 2 a.m. hallway conversations. No liver transplant teams clogging the way. No unpleasant smells that penetrate your mask and make you lose your appetite.

My room is gigantic and begs for a party. It’s a negative pressure room with a space-lock entry room. The main door is hard to open and makes a whoosh sound like opening a walk-in freezer. I thought the 100-year-old PCT was going to have a heart attack wrangling the scale through the double-door system.

I have a great view. And best of all I can see and hear the trains, which I love. I just added, “hop a train and ride it to Arizona,” to my bucket list because that’s what I think of when I watch them.

Run, Unknown, run.

Could I run fast enough to catch one? Doubtful, but if I could I would. I’d have my wife and daughter in a chase car, as I rode along listening to the sound of the wheels on the rails, breathing the fresh air (once we got out of LA). Destination: Phoenix hotel with a large pool and water slide.

Before I checked into this sterile bed and breakfast, I told the doctor I thought I had a thyroid or auto-immune problem. The blood tests came back and it looks like its door number two. More to come on this development.

Knock on wood that I all have to report is what I just wrote. They haven’t killed me yet, but I’ll let you know when they do.

Cystic Fibrosis: The Musical

20130516-201851.jpg

[Written on day two of my current hospital stay]

Sitting at the dinner table with my wife and daughter the night before my hospitalization, I came up with what is either the best or worst idea I’ve ever had: CF: The Musical.

I ran the idea past both of them, hoping to lighten the mood. But first I had to explain “irony” to my daughter. Then I broke into song (BTW, I can’t sing):

(In a super-happy Broadway show-tune style)
I’m going in the hospital.
I can’t wait. Yeah, yeah.
I am going in with one ailment,
but coming out with three or four,
oh joy, how nice – what a gift.
My lungs feel better, but now I can’t pee or see.

It went something like that.

Then I sang “The Phlebotomist” for her, after explaining its definition.

(Pretending to whip open the door and flick on the lights)
It’s 4:30 in the morning. Did I wake you? Were you sleeping?
I’m the Phlebotomist, and I’m here to draw your blood.
Did I wake you? Were you sleeping?
Nothing a dozen cans of Red Bull won’t cure.
Give me your arm, I’m going to poke another hole in it.
Did I wake you? Were you sleeping?
This will hurt but I’ll blame your vein if I screw up.
Mr. Wilson, I presume?
No? Oops, sorry. Wrong room.

Yeah, it went like that with my daughter and wife joining in. We sang about the weekend doctors who come to the door and ask you how you’re doing, but don’t want complicated answers and are there just to collect $300. And we sang about respiratory therapists.

And we had a laugh.

I know CF doesn’t feel like a laughing matter most days, or at all for many, but somedays there is no choice but to laugh away the darkness that hangs there, waiting.

CF: The Musical felt like a victory of the moment.

Addendum to yesterday’s post

If I could really shape shift, I would look like Don Draper, but a lot happier.

If I could really shape shift, I would look like Don Draper, but a lot happier.

INT. Today’s CF Clinic appointment – morning

Nurse: Hi.

Unknown (wearing a yellow hospital mask): Hello.

Nurse: You’re looking good. So tan.

Unknown: Thank you.

Nurse: You’re not feeling well, huh?

Unknown: Nope.

Nurse pauses, looks at Unknown again.

Nurse: You look good. Your hair looks different, short. It’s nice.

Unknown: Thanks.

Nurse: I must have caught you after a haircut, huh?

Unknown: Yep

Nurses takes another look at Unknown.

Nurse: Are those new glasses?

Unknown: Yep.

Nurse: They look good. Very stylish.

Unknown: Thank you.

Yes, after writing yesterday’s post, this happened. A gift from the blogging gods!

I’m not sure I nailed the exact quotes, but I’m close. The nurse is super nice. And everything she said was complimentary. I could, however, detect that there was something about my appearance she couldn’t put her finger on. She just kept looking at me over and over. Kind of like I was . . . wait for it . . . a person she didn’t recognize. I am, after all, a master shape shifter.

And then I blew the lowest PFT I’ve ever blown in my life. HUGE FAIL. Tomorrow I go to jail for a dose of IV antibiotics and the most hated drug I’ve ever taken – oral steroids. Hello,¬†hallucinations. Soon, I’ll really believe I can shape shift.

Happy, happy, joy, joy, it’s off to jail I go, where I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow . . . nothing down.

I’m a shape shifter (be thankful you’re not)

Ah, my favorite self-portait photograph. I look the same each time you see me.

Ah, my favorite self-portait photograph. I look the same each time you see me.

If there is anything I don’t understand about human nature, it’s the propensity or desire to comment on a person’s looks when you greet them. I’m not talking about a “hey, you look great,” or other generic comment. I’m talking about something more specific – a detailed analysis or critical review of the way the person looks.

It’s happened to me most of my life.

I would understand if I gained 500 pounds thanks to a bacon-chocolate and Cheetos addiction, and it came as a surprise to the other person. Yes, I get it. Comment on how I look. I understand. I’m giant now, a man-sized Oreo. I have a problem. I’m quite different from the last time you saw me. Critique away. You have my blessing.

Or, what if I shaved my head and had a bright red target tattooed on my noggin? I might receive, and deserve, a comment or two. I get it.

But what I don’t understand are the people who comment on subtle differences in one’s looks – the proofreaders of human appearance.

“You look fantastic,” my business colleague said to me after an extended break from bumping into each other.

Now I’ve established that that’s a nice way to greet someone. Nothing wrong with it. Nice, perfectly delightful.

But he didn’t stop there, adding the tagline: “Yeah, the last time I saw you, you didn’t look so hot.”

Okay, rule number one after saying, “you look fantastic”: stop there. That’s a winning line. Nothing more need be said. You can only get in trouble if you add anything (especially if you’re a man speaking to a woman at work, which can only lead to a possible dismissal based on sexual¬†harassment¬†charges). ¬†Again, you can only screw it up after the first compliment.

And this was dude to dude. Do we guys ever comment on each other’s looks when we meet – other than maybe a, “looking good, man.” “Yeah, thanks, man. Been hitting the weights hard, eating lean.”

The most recent comment: “You don’t look like the same person,” the carpenter helping me build my picket fence said to me after not seeing each other for 5 months, and for only the second time ever!

How is that possible? Not the same person? I guess it’s the 10K I spent in Argentina on a face transplant. And to think I thought no one would notice.¬†

Now, most normal people might ask for more detail: “Hey, what do you mean by that? Is that good or bad?”¬†Not me.I don’t want to know because I either look bad now or at some point in the past. So, I don’t want to spend the day fretting about how I’m deteriorated since you saw me last, or how I looked like crap the last time.

I guess it’s just part of my life and the sign on my forehead that reads: Tell me how I look. Win a pony.

My daughter borrows my story

I used this photo a year or two ago. Sorry. I’m tired and couldn’t find the one I wanted to post. I’ve been so busy lately and want to get a blog post out.

“Did you see her essay?” my wife asked. It was first thing in the morning.

“Essay? What essay?”

“You’re in it.”

“Really? Can’t wait to see it then.”

I found a draft on the computer. ¬†I was mentioned along with my pal, cystic fibrosis. Great. Let’s tell the world.

It’s my secret and one I’ve done my best to keep on the down-low throughout my life. And my wife has done a good job supporting that, though it’s hard to hide it from your friends when you’re in the hospital three times a year.

And then there is my daughter.

I’ve been able to control my story over the years, but I can’t control hers. My story of CF becomes her unique story of CF. I can’t censor that.

So, here’s the essay. As a writer, I have to qualify it a bit: it’s a 5th grader’s draft on a tough subject, and I’m going to be in big trouble one day for posting it here, if she finds out before I’m dust in the wind.

“Prayer is Powerful”

            I believe prayer is powerful.  God does listen to us when we have a problem and comforts us.  I think that because I had an experience with prayer where I was very worried.

            My dad has Cystic Fibrosis and sometimes he has to go to the hospital.  I always feel sad and worried when he is there because my mom and I don’t know when he will come back.  Often I pray for a cure for his sickness.  God doesn’t always do things the way you think He will though.

            Once when he was in the hospital, they said he had to have a sinus surgery.  I was  a little scared for him because I didn’t know what would happen.  My mom and I went to the hospital so we could be there when they finished the surgery.  I prayed for my dad that the surgery would help him.  When they finished, they let us see him, and he was fine!  I was so happy that he was ok.  About a few days later, they let him come home.  He still has to go to the hospital sometimes, but he always comes back healthy.

            I think that prayer does help.  God might not do what you prayed for, but He always helps in some way.  Prayer also comforts me because I feel like someone does care up there.  If you trust in God and pray, good things will happen.

            Prayer really helps me when my dad is away.  I think prayer is spiritually and physically refreshing.  It’s good to know there is always someone watching over you and listening.  Even if you aren’t religious, it never hurts to pray.