The Nose Knows Nothing

I had to wait a while before I could write about our New Year’s Eve celebration. Not because I drank so much that I was still hung over. Not because I had so much fun that I am only now sending out thank you notes and finishing up my photo books.

No, it’s so I could get a solid hold on what reality I was living that weekend and when I told you, I wanted to get it exactly right.

My husband had a nosebleed in the middle of December. He suffered in silence, as it started in the middle of the night and all evidence of it was gone by the morning. It was no more than a footnote over our morning coffee.

That weekend he had another. I raise an eyebrow and wash a load of towels.

Still, only two nosebleeds. Not a huge deal but certainly strange because I haven’t seen a nosebleed from him since his sinus surgery five years ago, which will live on in infamy. Because I will never forget what a nightmare it was and I want to ensure he doesn’t either.

Christmas Eve comes, and my husband’s schnozzle decides it has had enough of its quiet lifestyle and erupts like a volcano. This one has my attention. It’s everywhere, it’s never-ending, and most importantly, it’s getting our clean, ready-for-company house all dirty. Time to deploy the big girl panties.

We finish cleaning for the party and I wash my hands eleven times (get it? Eleven? Nosebleeds?) and our Christmas Eve celebration continues.

That night, we agree he probably should talk to the doctor after the holidays about the nosebleeds. Someone who drives almost 3000 miles a month for work does NOT want to get that type of nosebleed while driving.

During the week, I boil water and run a vaporizer until our walls are dripping so I can put moisture in the air. He not only has been dealing with the nosebleeds but also got the same illness I had and has been coughing up a lung for the past two nights. It’s the dreaded man cold and I mentally gird my loins.

The moist air doesn’t help. That Saturday I hear him skittering down the hall to the bathroom and just know it’s happening again. A half hour doesn’t seem like a very long time but when it looks like he’s losing what looks like a gallon of blood, it’s an eternity. We’re getting to be experts at managing them but definitely not happy about it. Plans to call the doctor have been moved out of “maybe” into talks of Immediate Care instead, but it stops and doesn’t come back so the talks stall.

New Years’ Eve dawns and over morning coffee, Joe decides to celebrate early by having a party in his nose, with lots of streamers. It’s made worse because he’s coughing so much but finally this one stops too. I suggest a quick care visit but it’s vetoed. The nosebleed stops…

…only to start up again around seven that night and this time, we don’t even need to discuss it before piling into the car to go to the ER. We can’t get it stopped.

They put a sexy plastic ring on his nose that pinches his nostrils shut but that doesn’t work. He graduates to level two; a nurse fashions another one out of two tongue depressors which does the trick but pinches his nose so tightly that he feels like he’s choking. He is, actually, because since he can’t breathe through his nose, he’s got to breathe through his mouth but guess what’s starting to clog his airway? Our friend, the helpful blood clot, trying valiantly to stop the nosebleed.

Joe, being NOT HAPPY

I’m going to pause here to confide that Joe doesn’t do well with swallowing vitamins in the morning. One multivitamin and he’s choking and gagging on it and can barely get it down. The sounds he makes are unlike anything heard in nature, and they’re coupled with his bare foot pounding the kitchen floor as if that will help. I’m pretty sure our neighbors hear this morning routine. It cracks me up because I’m evil like that.

There are four ER nurses in the room with us now, all telling my darling Pookie Pants to stay calm but when Joe feels the gigantic choking blob in the back of his throat, despite the instructions, he most certainly does not stay calm.

To my untrained eye, it appears our room has become the site of a horrible butchering but boy howdy, does that get us ushered immediately and with all due haste into an exam room. I realize that I’m going to have to burn my clothes and Joe’s, but at least I know where all the antibacterial gel is in the emergency room.

Long story short, we were there four hours. For three of those hours, Joe’s nose was pinched shut and he still felt as if he were suffocating. He paced. He griped. He paced. He fretted. He bled. However, all his blood work is fine and the doctor finally comes in and numbs his offending nostril so she can insert this long tampon cigarette-looking thing into his nose. Once inserted, she is able to pump air into it and it conforms into the shape of his nose voila, end of nosebleed. He’s much happier and we get to leave. However, by this time it’s 10:30 p.m. and I don’t feel like cooking but we stop at two different places and nothing’s open. Because it’s New Year’s Eve.

He's such a good sport that he let me use this picture. That's TRUE LOVE, folks.

I am so crabby. Sulky. I’m starving and at 10:45 p.m. I heat up beef for sandwiches. We eat in relative silence and stonily clink glasses at midnight.

The next day is January 1, which is the day my side of the family celebrates Christmas. Joe has, up until now, said he was going to go (even with that…thing in his nose) but now he has changed his mind because he’s not “breathing” right.

This brings back horrid memories and PTSD flashbacks of his deviated septum surgery. It was a truly dark week in history in the Cacciatore household.

Still, I go through the motions of preparing for the ninety minute trek into town. I make the jambalaya I am supposed to bring. I have all the presents I’m supposed to bring all wrapped and organized, so I go take a long bath while having a hot cup of tea. But I know what’s coming.

Joe is still not feeling well. He isn't going and he doesn’t want me to go. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights at the thought of me leaving for the day.

I will refrain from comment here because sometimes time does not heal all wounds, and I was super upset because CHRISTMAS WITH MY FAMILY and I’m missing it.

However, I know a panic attack when I see one, and Joe is having a big one. The look in my poor honey’s eyes when I say I’m leaving him all day long is pure terror. I wouldn’t do this to an enemy; I certainly wouldn’t do it to my husband. Whom I love. It’s a three hour round trip and my husband, my true love, is convinced that he doesn’t have enough air.

NOTE:  HE DOES. HE DOES HAVE ENOUGH AIR. HE REALLY, REALLY DOES.

He just thinks he doesn’t because we can’t take out the packing from his right nostril, and his left is congested. For all of the soothing, understanding sounds I make, I don’t get why he can’t OPEN HIS MOUTH AND BREATHE THAT WAY LIKE EVERYONE ELSE DOES WHEN THEY HAVE A COLD.

However, see:  panic attack. I get it. I stay home.

I also pout and cry that day. I am miserable because I work so hard to get just the perfect gifts, the funniest things, the most thoughtful; and I have to send my jambalaya and my gifts into Joliet with my girls.

I miss seeing my brother open his “favorite child” pin, and don’t get to see his kids open presents that were on their Toys r Us wish list. I miss my sister and her kids opening carefully chosen silly mugs. I miss sitting and joking around with my other five siblings because I just don’t see them nearly enough and I like to be snarky in person, not just on Facebook.

But I do what any good wife would do. I take my husband’s concerns seriously and hold his hand while we sit on the reclining loveseat so he can relax enough to sleep because did I forget to mention? It’s Monday afternoon, and Joe has not slept in about five days between his terrible cough and the inability to breath. He hasn’t slept, like, at all. He can’t fall asleep because he’s certain that the second he does, he’s going to stop breathing altogether.

I think of all the soothing things I can do to calm the panic attack he’s having. I give him ONE of my TWO XANAX which as anyone knows is a terrible second only to missing Christmas. I pour him a lavender scented bath and put on soothing music which helps for approximately seven seconds. He’s back to panic mode before he’s even dried off and has his jammies on.

I find my blog on his deviated septum surgery, reread it, and cannot believe the similarities between then and now. Folks, this is a nightmare.

EXCEPT IT GETS SO MUCH WORSE.

Monday at bedtime, the most horrible night of all, I put on an ocean waves soundtrack, hoping that it will soothe his panic and allow him (and me) to sleep. Joe sleeps for ten minutes at a time, waking up in a panic every single time. He’s convinced that the ocean waves are sending him subliminal messages so I have to turn that off. I warn caution him that I have to work on Tuesday and that if he doesn’t let me sleep, I won’t be able to function. I make him swear he’s going to let me sleep. He goes out onto the couch.

I get two hours of sleep before he shakes me awake. “I’m not sure how I should be breathing.” It’s 1:30 a.m. and we’re both exhausted and one of us is very angry. He won’t take a shot of liquor to help him sleep. The Xanax has done nothing and he’s pacing like a caged animal so I wrestle him down and force feed him a double dose of Nyquil, which has absolutely no effect and as a matter of fact, seems to wind him up even more.

The only thing keeping us going is the fact that we’re going to the doctor’s in the morning so that he can take the packing out. The rest of the night is ghastly. We’re both hallucinating from lack of sleep.

Tuesday morning, after a refreshing three hour rest, I dress for work, (I think?) shove him in the car and drive to his doctor’s office where we park our butts.

When the doctor finally is able to see him, they chat, Joe is prescribed some cough syrup with codeine for the cough, and then—blessedly—Doctor takes out the packing. (look away if you’re squeamish, but gawd, I didn’t think he’d EVER finish pulling that thing out of Joe’s nose. It was about the size of a rolling pin and about as big around.

The effect on my husband is galvanizing. It’s as if someone literally has flipped a switch. His color comes back almost immediately and he’s showing more clarity than I’ve seen in a week. I take him back home to drop him off because although he’s going to take a sick day so that he can sleep, I myself cannot call in sick. Despite trying to keep a brave face, I’m so tired I can barely see straight. I mainline coffee on the way to work.

Five hours later, I’m uneasy because I haven’t heard from him despite a few texts and a quick voicemail. Has he had another nosebleed? Is he even now face down, head in a towel, in the hallway? DID HE GET BLOOD ON OUR NEW COUCH?

The last one spurs me into action and I call him again. A different man answers the phone. He sounds—dare I say—perky. Happy. “Boy, I feel so much better,” he crows. “I was able to sleep.” I repress the urge to tell him he’s had more sleep in the past few hours than I got all night. Good thing I’m at work because I’m rolling my eyes.

“I don’t feel like I’m gasping for air anymore,” he continues happily. “Of course, the doctor did say my airway was probably compromised because of my cough." Of course he did, I think. His doctor is a man so he is a little more likely to empathize with the man cold.

But here’s what matters; there’s no more panic in his voice. While still hoarse, his voice sounds hopeful, like there’s an end to the past couple weeks of wheezing, coughing, phlegm, and let’s not forget, nosebleeds.

His optimistic tone buoys me, much to my surprise. Sounds like sleep is on the horizon for me too. My eyes well up in gratitude. I tell Joe to try to get another nap in and turn on that ocean waves soundtrack—maybe it will tell him to sweep the floor and do the dishes before I get home from work.

*not a man cold, though. No one can be as sick as a man.

PPS...also published on Love, Lust and Laptops today.

About the author:

Christine Cacciatore is a multi-published author who lives—and loves—to write. Together with her sister, Jennifer Starkman, she has published the magical novels Baylyn, Bewitched and Cat, Charmed, with the third book Elise, Evermore coming out soon. On her own, she has written Noah Cane’s Candy, a sassy holiday short romance and Knew You’d Come, a spicy paranormal romance novella. Also, Chris ventured into the Kindle Worlds Mary O’Reilly paranormal series and has written Trouble Lake and Grave Injury. They’re the perfect books to curl up with any time of year but especially Halloween…because they’re chock full of ghosts!

 Chris is a member of the In Print Professional Writer’s Group in Rockford, IL and the Chicago Writer’s Association. In her spare time, Chris enjoys writing, reading, and coloring in her grandchildren’s coloring books with the good crayons. Chris is married to a devastatingly handsome man she met on eHarmony, has three children and a gigantic black dog who helps her pack lunches in the morning. She also has four of the most beautiful, intelligent grandchildren in the world, and their antics keep her in stitches.

Pregnant Women Just Gotta Deal

 

A local father-to-be is honored for the hard work he did around the house on Saturday, while his wife “just puked all day”.

Jon Rhett goes on to say, “I mean, the dishes weren’t going to do themselves, right? Some of the bowls had cereal stuck on them so they were very hard to wash. I learned you have to let those soak because I cut myself on a sharp Frosted Flake that had adhered to the side of the bowl.” He then held up his middle finger which was indeed bandaged.

It wasn’t just the dishes that he helped with, though. Jon also vacuumed the living room (“I ate the cereal in there; I dropped a couple pieces”) and also used a hand towel to wipe off the sink in the bathroom. “After I did that, I threw it on the bathroom floor and did a little foot mopping. My wife spends almost three hours a day, every day, in here doing the Technicolor yawn. You’d think she would have gotten all of the ick off the floor, at least. But no, there was still a spot or two behind the toilet. Or maybe just a misfire from the old piss-cannon. Either way, our bathroom hasn’t looked this good in months,” he said. “I just threw the hand towel I used on the floor back up on the rack. Didn’t want to make extra laundry.”

The two are expecting their first child in a few months. Jon said his wife, Sega, claims to be suffering from “hyperemesis gravitadarum” almost since the day she got pregnant. “Oh, sure I Googled it,” he relates. “And of course some pregnant ladies throw up a lot. But that’s usually only for the first couple of months. My wife seems to really be drawing this out—I’m starting to think it’s intentional so she can get out of housework. I mean, I get it, though. Sometimes my stomach is a little upset. Every single Saturday morning, I feel exactly the same way. I’m hungover after Friday nights with my bros. But as you can clearly see, I was still able to do some housework even though I didn’t feel well. It really is just mind over matter. Take some Pepto, am I right? Some preggos run marathons clear up until their ninth month, I read somewhere. We all just gotta deal.”

When asked if he attends obstetrician appointments with his wife, Jon laughingly shook his head. “The last time we went together, we took my new pickup. Do you know how hard it is to clean puke out of floor mats? She had to buy me new ones because even though she used toothpicks on the grooves, some things just don’t come out. It still smells in there.”

One of Jon’s bros, Charlie Pratt, submitted his name and a small story describing his momentous aid and personal sacrifice to an online contest on “Everyday Husbands”, a small Facebook group of newly married men. When the admins of Everyday Husbands called Jon to let him know he won the prize (limo service to a local steakhouse and $100 gift card to the restaurant), no one was more surprised than his wife.

Jon said, “It’s almost as if she wasn’t excited that I won something.” When asked when he planned on using the winning limo ride and dinner prize with her, he told our reporter, “You know, I’m not really sure she’s going to be up for going out to dinner anytime soon. I’ll probably invite my friend Charlie from the group; his wife is expecting triplets and I imagine he’s probably going stir crazy,” he chuckled. “We could both use a night out from our respective ball-and-chains. Besides, this is a treat for my wife too. Now she won’t have to make me dinner whatever night Charlie and I decide to go. Plus she’d probably throw it up anyway. And now she won’t have to do dishes that night either.”

We tried to reach Jon’s wife for comment on his prize, but our calls were not returned.

Poopwa Foley's Series of Unfortunate Hangry Injuries

I blame the enormous bruise on my arm on a coworker.

I listened to him when he suggested getting a full body examination at the dermatologist. There are three good reasons I should. One, I had never had one in the past. Two, I have extremely fair Irish skin. Three, I have had a mole on my back for years that needs to be checked, and a pink dot on my temple that had been burned off in the past.

I called to make the appointment for the full body scan but they had nothing available because they were booked for the next six months for the full body scan. I start to make the appointment for just checking the one, then, when she interrupted, “Hey, wait a minute! Here’s a full body scan appointment for two days from now because someone cancelled. Do you want that?”

It’s a sign. I took the appointment.

At the dermatologists, she thoroughly looked all over my body, up and down unshaven legs and pale arms. She looked like a giant bug with her lit up magnifying monocle.

who doesn't love snapchat?

I have moles of every shape, size, and color on my back, and I’m concerned about every one of them. She looked at them carefully but pronounced them all ok. However, that pink dot on my temple? She numbed it for a biopsy. “I don’t like this one. Don’t get worried, I’m not saying it’s basal cell carcinoma…,” she trails off. She and the assistant then took turns explaining to me that if caught quick enough basal cell carcinoma is not deadly.

Long story not made shorter, it was basal cell carcinoma. A week later, I found myself flat on a table getting that sucker cut out. (editor’s note: there are clear margins and it’s ok now.)

I stayed at work even though I looked like this and no one even said anything.

At home that night, I have a ton of groceries in the house but plan on milking the painful stitches in my face for every bit of non-cooking pity I can get. Joe fell neatly into my trap and agreed, then said the words every woman longs to hear. “Why don’t you call Portillo’s?”

Why don’t I indeed? I couldn’t call fast enough and Joe left to pick it up.

Question: If you’re picking up an order to bring home, don’t you normally look in the bag prior to leaving the restaurant? Answer: Yes, you do. Every time. Apparently my romper wearing husband didn’t get that memo.

he's all mine.

Through my pain, I managed to athletically leap off the chair and open the bag when he gets home. At the bottom of the bag, there are two beef sandwiches and two tiny fries. Not bags of fries. Not orders of fries. Just two short individual fries.

I looked at Joe. “This is not what I meant when I ordered two small fries.”

He looked in the bag too, and says, “Well, that’s okay. We don’t really need them, do we?”

We’ve been married for ten years and he doesn’t even know me.

“Well, no, we don’t need them,” I said. “But I want them. We paid for them.” I NEED them. I seethed internally. I just had surgery for crying out loud and deserve some poor poor baby fries.

“But we had a $5 coupon,” he said. “It’s not like we paid for them, not really.” There’s no fight in his eyes, though.

The voice that issued from my throat sounds only vaguely like mine. “I’m calling the manager and going back to get the fries.” Joe knows he has been beaten. He’s crestfallen because he’s not going to get to eat that sandwich until we have the complete meal we paid for.

I spoke to a lovely manager who was suitably upset that we didn’t get our order and if we came back she’d have the fries ready. 

Joe offered to go back, but I told him I’d go. I didn’t want to admit I didn’t want him to go because what if he didn’t check the bag AGAIN and I end up with no post-surgery fries? Again?

A guy at Portillo’s opened the door for me, then a second door, and I thanked him and rushed through. Fries, I think. Fries.

It was then I cracked my left arm on the handle of the second door.

In my rush to get my promised fries, it did not really register how bad I hit my arm. I was so excited about the fact that the manager threw in two free pieces of chocolate cake that the pain barely registered. 

I got home and we wolfed down every morsel.

Although my arm had a little lump on it, it wasn’t really red. A few minutes later, though, my arm started throbbing. The tempo matched the throbbing in the stitches in my left temple and the toothache on the right. (whole separate story.)

The next day, and several subsequent days, the bruise started to look like a paint sample card from Menards.

ow. ow. ow. this pic doesn't do it justice.

It reminded me of last October, when I submitted an order for pizza at a local pizza place and when I got there, they didn’t have my order and claimed I submitted it to our Janesville location. “But if you want to wait for twenty minutes, I’ll get a new order ready for you.” *

I was hungry, and I was angry, and when I got into the car, I slammed my fingers in the car door. The fingers on my left hand. I’m still not sure how I did that, because if I am driving, I shut the door with my left hand.

ow. part 2.

 

So twice now, this is what happened when I was hungry, in a hurry, and our food order was messed up. This is what happens when you’re hangry. **

Angry plus hungry. Hangry. As far as I’m concerned, hangry equals injury. My left arm and fingers told me so.


my little scar. it looks much better now.

*the manager called me back and said that the kid behind the counter lied. He comped me the entire meal.

**I'm aware this might be a symptom of a weight problem.

 

Babies and Books

Babies and Books

 

To say it was a busy year would be putting it mildly. My youngest daughter got married to her fiancé Steven, and had her second baby, Sophia Iris, at the end of January. I got to be there when she was born. Alyssa, three, is now a big sister!

 

the newlyweds.
 

Sophia & Alyssa

If that wasn’t enough, my middle daughter also had a baby! I got to see Shawn Michael make his red-face, squalling way into the world as well, on July 10. I went from one granddaughter at the beginning of the year to spoiling three grandchildren by the middle of July. Ask anyone; it’s my absolute favorite thing in the world, being a grandma.

 

Daddy Tristan, Annie, & baby Shawn

One of my other favorite things, however, is writing. I finished writing Knew You’d Come back in October. However, I edited and changed, reworked and fine-tuned, and sent it to my sister Jenny for her valuable input and editing suggestions. She can be brutal but most of the time she’s right. After I input those changes, it was sent to several beta readers for their input, then we changed even more things.

 

Knew You’d Come is an erotic romance. It’s the story of Tansy Reynolds, a paranormal investigator, who gets way more than she bargains for when she does a paranormal investigation of an old saloon under renovation. Whip Daniels has been waiting for her for a hundred years, and only has three days to show her that they belong together.

My newest baby.

Before I could get it formatted to put on Amazon, I was asked to be a contributor to the Kindle Worlds Mary O’Reilly Paranormal Mysteries. I set aside Knew You’d Come in order to be a part of her Mary O’Reilly World launch. It was a challenge to write a novella in six weeks; it included editing, formatting, and finding someone to do a cover in a hurry.** It all worked, though, and Trouble Lake was born. I so enjoyed being a part of that launch, including the Facebook launch party, where I met so many new friends and readers. I enjoyed that so much.

Spooky, funny, mysterious ghost story.

Trouble Lake was great fun to write. I hate when people say “this book practically wrote itself”, but I swear, I actually had characters talk to me and tell me what was happening in their world.  It was awesome (and a little scary, because dude, I was hearing VOICES) but it went so smoothly. I decided I will be contributing more novellas to this particular Kindle World because Mary O’Reilly’s playground is a great place to play! Plus, it would be a perfect time to recount more of my character Holly Martin’s adventures. Does she continue with her faux psychic practice? Does she continue seeing ghosts? What other escapades will she drag Mary O’Reilly into? Poor Mary. I don’t know that she’s going to get any rest. No wonder Terri Reid loves to write about her!

Right now, I’m promoting Knew You’d Come and Trouble Lake. It’s fun to see some of the people who purchase these two books are also purchasing the books from our Whitfield Witch series; Baylyn,Bewitched and Cat, Charmed. I wrote another erotic romance novella last year (largely in the Meg’s Coffee Shop in Rockford, across from six elderly women who were playing some card game…if they only knew!) and will have that edited and formatted for distribution later this year. I have it tentatively titled Halloween in Handcuffs. Right now it’s a working title; however, it should give you some sort of idea what it’s about. (wiggles eyebrows) Also, there will be a companion story to Knew You’d Come called Handyman for Hire.

If that wasn’t enough, we have the third book in the Whitfield Witch series, Elise, Evermore, almost completed! So many people have asked and we so appreciate the interest. Even I want to know how it ends! I have to admit that although I love writing the saucy romances, I will really enjoy giving Elise Travers the happy ending she deserves. Elise recently learned that her husband Charles, who had been presumed dead for thirty years might be alive after all, but trapped in another century. Making things a little more difficult, someone from his past has cast a spell on him to make him forget all about Elise. We’ll document her successes—and failures—along the way. Who knows what she might get into; after all, she’s Baylyn’s mother!

Although it seems like we are going to be releasing a lot of books within the next year—and we are—keep in mind that most of these stories have been sitting idle, completed. However, due to our combined six kids, and grandchildren, and pets, and spouses, and oh, let’s not forget, both of us working full time…sometimes things get written, and sit patiently, waiting to be published.

Maybe the literary fiscal year starts in July. I’m going to go with that. It’s going to be a good year!

 **Here’s where I’d like to give a shout out to Nick Block, who did a great job on the cover for Trouble Lake. If you ever need someone to do a great cover for your ebook, please seek him out. His website is here.



Well, I'll be! (a winner, that is!)

So a super fun thing happened Monday night.

I had entered a sportsy thing at work involving brackets and teams playing basketball and guess what, guess what, I came in second place!

pretty much.

When our office runs a contest such as March Madness, I’m almost always asked to help draw names.  I think it’s mostly because I know nothing about what seed a team might be, or which team has the best chance of “taking it all”.

We drew names at work, with two people on a conference call reading off the name, then me and my supervisor pulling a team out of a hat.  (Okay, fine, it was an envelope.  Work with me.)   My four teams were Dayton, Miami Florida, Oklahoma, and North Carolina. I took an unusual amount of ribbing because “you picked the names and you just RANDOMLY got those teams?”  If it wasn’t for my supervisor standing directly behind me the entire time, witnessing me pull names randomly, no one would ever believe it was a fair drawing.*

When I got home and told my husband who I had, he was REALLY excited for some reason.

An Excel chart was then created and slowly, as March progressed, more and more teams were out but I still had Oklahoma and North Carolina in the Final Four.  By then, even I understood they were really good teams.  I may not understand how they “seed” the teams but hey, I won some jellybeans, didn’t I?  Most of the time when I participate in these things I tend to donate far more than I win.

It was nice to be on the other side of that for once.

The final game was Monday night and although I abhor watching basketball, I did watch the game between Villanova and North Carolina.  Thanks to them I have no fingernails left because I gnawed them all off watching the game, which I have to admit was really exciting.  I mean, REALLY.  

I screamed a little too.

And even though my team lost (losing me fifty jellybeans, so thanks, Villanova) watching a college kid hit a 3 pointer at the buzzer is exciting, no matter who you are. 

Even if it’s a non sportser like me. 

*mostly because when it was all over, OUR TWO TEAMS played each other in the championship game.  He had Villanova.

A big career change for me (or is it?)

I am in charge of putting out our newsletter at work.  Sometimes we have a little extra space in the newsletter, as was the case this month.  My boss knows I love to write and often will let me submit a piece for filler...and for fun.  This was my latest submission for the newsletter that went out on April 1, aka April Fool's Day.

It reads as follows:

Those who are used to calling the corporate office and talking to Chris Cacciatore will have to do without her for the next several months, as she is taking an extended leave of absence to fulfill a dream she has had since she was young—to be a WWE wrestler.

“I grew up with a brother and several uncles, who were more like older brothers.  My formative years were spent fighting off offers of ‘Hertz Donuts’ and twisty Indian burns, among other things.  I also learned that the suggestion of ‘let’s see who can hit the softest’ was clearly not to see, in fact, who hit the softest.  Brother Joe, I'm looking at you.

“I grew tired of being pummeled.  I began working out in the gym and eventually honed my body into a fighting machine.  Soon, a trainer approached me about getting into the ring to do some professional wrestling and I thought, why not?”

Squishing little sister Jen, in preparation for later domination in the ring.

Chris spent ten years in the wrestling circuit, learning famous moves such as the “Tombstone”, the “Flying Headbutt”, and perfecting “the People’s Eyebrow”. 

“I stole that last one from The Rock after I beat him in a cage match,” Chris snickered.  “I also have a new move that I plan on debuting later:  “The Reverse Dog Lay”.  It’s adapted from the “Downward Facing Dog” pose used in yoga.  It lulls your opponent into a false sense of security before you steamroll them completely.”

Chris’ husband, Joe, supports her sabbatical completely.  “I pretty much have to,” he confided, watching for her over his shoulder.    “You don’t want to mess with her.”

 

Lucky Juror Number 13

Jury Duty! How Fun!

Recently, I was able to see our legal system at work. And I’m not talking about having to write a big fat check for a speeding ticket from Wisconsin. Not that I have ever had one.
  
No, I got a juror questionnaire in the mail. Hot damn! I filled it out immediately, sent it in, and waited anxiously. Approximately 4 seconds later, the county called me for jury duty. So fast! I marveled. All the other juror prospects must be either rearranging their sock drawers or washing their hair. Well, they wouldn’t know what they were missing. I felt so lucky and excited and chosen. My husband just gave me funny looks.

The day of my new legal career dawned bright and sunny. I had a whole extra half hour that morning, so that was exciting. I dallied around the house, petting the dog, drinking extra coffee to get my brain ready for all the legal puzzles I would surely be solving, and lining up an extra word find book in case I finished the first one, what with all that delicious free time.

After I reached the downtown area, I realized a much smarter way of using that half hour would have been to spend it looking for a parking spot, as it seemed every citizen in town--and a couple hundred from out of town--had business down at the courthouse.

If the parking deck was any indication, I estimated that there must have been approximately 700 people who had been called for jury duty that same Tuesday who actually showed up. I ended up parking somewhere in south Detroit.

We were all crammed into a area the size of a fitting room at a department store, except it was a little smaller and didn’t have mirrors. There were, however, some televisions, and we got to watch a stimulating movie about the justice system. I took meticulous notes until I saw I was the only nerd doing so.

However, I was excited because a) there was free coffee, b) I knew that I would get a big whopping check for $13 and daydreamed of how I would spend it and c) I got to do some serious people watching. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I got in enough people watching to last me a very long time, which means that I wouldn’t have to travel to Wal-Mart to get my fix.

After a couple of hours of swilling free coffee and getting lost find the ladies’, my name was called and I was taken with about 50 other people into a courtroom for possible inclusion as a juror in a criminal case. Name after name was called and once they had questioned and accepted 12 jurors, I was smugly packing up my books and magazines, cerain that I would be excused. I would go home to go online and spend my $13 on Amazon.
 
It was not to be. Would that I had this sort of luck in the lottery! In a room with approximately 35 other prospective jurors, guess whose name got called next. As an ALTERNATE. Not even a real juror, but an ALTERNATE, lucky juror number 13.

The jury questioning was very interesting. Here’s a sample of what they asked the REAL jurors:

Lawyer: What is your name? Where do you live? What’s the biggest problem facing this area? Are you related to any law enforcement people? Do you have pets? Are you a citizen of the United Sates? Can you breathe on your own? Are you human?

Here’s a sample of what they asked ME:

Lawyer: What is your name? How many hours do you sleep at night? Ever had a charley horse? Do you believe in aliens? Ever flush a goldfish? Are you regular? Do you suffer from tennis elbow? What is your favorite color? 
 
Of course, I drew the line at that last one. Even I have my dignity and the whole color issue…well, that was just WAY too personal.

For those of you who don’t know, the alternate juror is like the pale, skinny kid in gym class who gets picked last for basketball or softball. It’s the punishment juror. You are forced to stay in the courtroom all day long, listen to all the same testimony as the actual jurors, take the same breaks and yawning the same yawns, but when the state and the defense have both rested and if the jury of twelve is ready, willing, and able to go into the jury room and begin the REAL jury work, YOU would go home.

Today, the 12 real jurors were all ready, willing, and able to deliberate. To make matters worse, now after listening to all that testimony and forming opinions, I was not even able to find out who they were going to vote off the island, because I was DISMISSED. Like an attorney’s used Kleenex or a judge’s broken shoelace.

At any rate, after being thanked profusely by the court, I was excused and free to go. I was given two days’ worth of jury pay, minus the cost of the paper used to print the check.
  
However, I was gifted with a lovely certificate, suitable for framing, congratulating me on serving. My eyes filled with tears as I swear I heard the song God Bless America. I was so honored that it took some of the sting out of the fact that I wasn’t even able to find out if the defendant was guilty or not guilty.

Never one to let things go, however, I found out through some tricky internet sleuthing that the jury ended up voting exactly the way I would have…not guilty.

John Grisham would have been proud.

(originally printed here:  http://www.examiner.com/article/lucky-juror-number-13)

Cold Sores and Dry Shampoo

It began innocently enough.  A minor itch.  A slight twinge.  A little tingle.  I started to fret.  But maybe it wouldn’t happen this time.  After all, I had gotten through other bouts of illness without developing one—maybe this would be one of those times.  

 

Dream on. 

 

It was not to be.  At work, I felt the no-mistaking-it tingle heralding the new arrival, and a look in my compact mirror confirmed what I already knew:  I was witnessing the birth of the world’s worst cold sore.  

 

Fever Blister.  Herpes simplex.  It all sounds different to the ear but in the end, they are all the same—a gigantic cootie cluster on my lower lip, half an inch from dead center.

 

Maybe it wasn’t so much a birth as a coming home, however.  After all, the only place I ever, ever get cold sores is in that very same spot.  Same lip.  Every time.  What skeeves me out even more is the fact that despite my OCD antibacterial hand gel application efforts, despite wiping every touchable hard surface at home and at work with antibacterial wipes, despite bathing in Lysol and gargling with bleach, I got one anyway.  

 

Remembering backward, I realized that I had seen a coworker sporting a fever blister a week or two before.  The "ewww" factor has been racketed up a notch.

 

Typically, the day before the spot actually makes its debut there is also quite a bit of pain, especially on the Chris Cacciatore unique pain scale.  I'm not saying I'm a big baby but even a hangnail will wake me up at night.  Throw a cold sore at me and it’s grounds for calling in sick.

 

The last time I got a massive cold sore was during a…you guessed it…cold.  My defenses were down; I should have seen it coming.  I had felt crappy all day at work, and suddenly, my entire bottom lip looked as if a chorus line of bees had stung it in unison.  That night at home, the pain was so intense that I was forced to start my obituary.  

 

The next morning, surprised to find myself still alive, I realized that due to all the tossing and turning I did the night during the world’s worst night’s sleep, I had overslept.

 

For those who have no time for a quick shower, it’s dry shampoo to the rescue.  Or so I thought.

I had picked it up on a whim, this Tresemme dry shampoo.  I had overheard a conversation while sitting at McDonald's writing one afternoon.  It's normally a great place to write because you can tune everything out except this time, when two young women were talking about their hair, it caught my attention, mostly because they were actually pronouncing it "her".  That word was accompanied by lots of patting of said "her".  The conversation was animated as they discussed hair products but came to a standstill when one told the other she washed her hair daily.

 

The other said back, "You'll dry your "her" out!  Don't do that, girl.  Use some o' that dry shampoo.  You won’t believe how it perks up your hairstyle on days when you are skipping a day, or maybe you're just too lazy to wash your hair.”  

 

What?  A new way to be stylish while still allowing me to be lazy?  Sign me up.  I actually found some at the store on the way home.  Now, normally, I don't take much advice from people sitting in McDonald's but due to the above referenced illness, I’m game...and since I overslept, what better time to try it?

 

Getting ready for work that morning, squinting through the cloud of agony my lip was causing, I read the directions and applied the dry shampoo to my own "her" accordingly, then brushed it out as instructed.

 

This is a product that I will never, ever buy again.  I have a dreadful feeling it had been moved from the Halloween section of Wal-Mart into the hair section, as it obviously was meant to be used to make white stripes in my hair for a Bride of Frankenstein costume.  Despite vigorous brushing, I couldn't brush the white out and ended up with not only white hair but a very pink scalp.

 

not so fast, Romeo.  This chick is taken.

 

Thanks, random strangers at McDonald's.  Moms always said don't eavesdrop and I should have listened.

 

It worked out in the end, however, because coworkers were too busy trying not to stare at my white streaks to even notice I had a cold sore.

Consequences

...wrote this on September 18, 2012, for Prompt Club. Still effective.

The alarm clock disturbed her dream.  She groaned.  Why did the best dreams always occur in the six minutes between snooze buttons?   McSteamy had just bent his head down to hers.  His breath was warm on her face and his lips were almost touching hers when the buzzing alarm intruded. 

Crap. 

She barely had her eyes open as she made her side of the bed and shuffled down the stairs to where her pitiful slice of heaven existed; the coffee pot and the pack of Salem Slim Light 100’s she left in front of the coffee pot the night before.  She stroked the pack of cigarettes.  “Hello, darlings.” She let out a dry, sad chuckle at her own joke.  She shouldn’t feel this crappy in the mornings at just 50 years old. 

Joan poured the coffee that had automatically made itself sometime between the second and third snooze buttons, added cream and then grabbed the ashtray off the counter. 

She sat down with her two vices and lit the first of many cigarettes for the day and inhaled deeply, the acrid smoke nestling into her lungs and making her cough up what her husband would have referred to as lung butter.  She got up and spat it into the garbage can, careful not to look at the sputum. 

She missed her husband. 

Of course, if she wanted to see him again, all she had to do was quit smoking. 

** 

Months earlier, they both had been sitting at this very kitchen table, having the age old fight over smoking. 

Bert had seethed.  “What is it going to take to get you to quit smoking?  Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your body?  I quit twenty years ago.  If I can quit, anyone can.” 

Joan rolled her eyes.  “Don’t be so friggin dramatic, Bert.  I’ll quit when I quit.”  She avoided his eyes, remembering a few days ago when she had coughed blood.  It had actually scared her into not smoking for almost a whole hour.   

Bert rolled his eyes and spoke as if to a child.  “Yes, but I quit.  For you.  But you seem to want to smoke every single cigarette ever made.  When do WE matter?”  At that, Bert had reached over and covered her little dainty hand with his burly one while he looked into her eyes.   

“Joan, I married you for a reason.  And that was to spend my life with you.  I don’t want to see it cut short by these damn things.”  He shook his head sadly.  “Will you at least try to quit?” 

Joan sighed.  After 20 years of marriage, she knew her Bert and he wasn’t going to drop it.   

“Fine.”   It’ll never happen. 

He slapped his hands together and hooted, then skipped over to his coat, withdrawing a brochure.  He waved it at her as he approached. 

“This.  This is going to be the answer for you.  One of the guys at work talked about it; how great this program was for him.”

The slick brochure was colorful.  It showed healthy people cavorting around soccer fields, the obvious message being “look, we’re not short of breath!”  It made vague promises about helping kick the habit for good.  Curiously, only couples could apply.   

“I’ll make the appointment!” chirped Bert, as he ran down the hall to his office. 

** 

The doctor took her weight, height, looked down her throat.  Snapped a chest x-ray and muttered to himself right in front of her as he read it.   

Joan couldn’t take the silence.  “Well?” 

The young, solemn looking doctor patted her knee.  “You can do this.  You have to do this.  You have the lungs of a 70 year old woman.  If you want to make it another 40 years, you will quit today.” 

Geez, don’t beat around the bush, Doctor.  She avoided her husband’s eyes.  

“What do I have to do?” Joan asked. 

The doctor reached over and plucked the pack of cigarettes out of her purse.  “First off, you’re going to leave those with me.  Second, you are not going to smoke again.  Ever.” 

Joan laughed.  “Really.  Just like that.  You wouldn’t know if I smoked, anyway.”  She waved a careless hand in his direction. 

Suddenly, the young, solemn looking doctor leaned forward and grabbed her chin in a cruel vise grip.  “Joan.  Listen to me.  Your husband has just paid me an exorbitant amount of money to help you quit smoking.  You will quit.  And if you smoke even one cigarette, we will know, and there will be consequences.  Do you understand me?”   

Holy crap.  He was serious.  “What consequences?” she squeaked out. 

“Consequences.”

** 

That first night went well, with ghastly cravings from time to time, but she put on a brave face.  I got this. 

The next morning, she got up with her husband, made the bed, and packed his lunch for the workday.   As she handed it to him, he gave her a gentle smile as he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.  “I’m so proud of you.”   

She ran upstairs the second his car pulled out of the driveway.  Did he think she didn’t have a spare pack?  Shaking her head, a smile curved her lips.  Knowing she had a forbidden pack of cigarettes was almost orgasmic.  She stood in the bathroom and inhaled deeply, exhaling out the window.  Just this one.  The nicotine coursing through her system made her feel faint.   

The phone rang.  She gave a guilty start and threw the cigarette in the toilet. 

She recognized the doctor’s voice immediately.  His message was short and sweet.  “Joan, we know.”  The phone went dead.   

Joan’s heart was in her throat.  Gee, he sounded awfully sinister.   

She threw away the rest of the pack and debated telling her husband about her slipup.  I’ll decide when he gets home. 

Several hours later, right about the time she expected him home, she received a blocked, concise text message.  “You smoked.  We have your husband.” 

Consequences. 

She drove as fast as she could back to the smoking cessation clinic.  The sign had been taken down.  No lights were on.  She pressed up against the window and felt fear as she saw the interior was completely empty of furniture.  She banged on the window anyway.   

“Please. It was only half. I threw the rest away.  Bert!  Bert!”  She slid to the ground, sobbing.   

She huddled all night long near the window, ignoring the stares of passers by, only going home, alone, when dawn tinted the sky a light, smoky gray, heralding a new day.