Bunco - A Man's Perspective

My wife hosted Bunco at our house the other night. Bunco is a dice game 12 women play under the guise of playing a dice game. What it really is is an excuse to get together. And eat. And talk. And talk. And talk. If some dice get thrown during this 3-4 hour event, well, you know, sometimes that's gonna happen. It's really about having a good time - if you're a woman. If you're a man, it's basically the 5th inner circle of hell.

Don't get me wrong - I love women. Especially my wife. But no one ("no one" being code for: man) wants 12 women in their house at once without their accompanying spouses. Said spouses are required to constantly distract their women by doing normal ("normal" being code for: disgusting) men things, such as groin-scratching, burping and even more odorous and odious bodily functions. Without the husbands there, 12 women will focus on the one guy there, and you don't want it to be you. It's kind of like the interns following the doctor around on rounds to your room: "Here's Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith thought it would be a good idea to operate a chainsaw while chugging a case of beer. How's the groin feeling today, Mr. Smith? Which one of you would like to change his dressing?".

I'll go into a detailed explanation of the rules of Bunco for you: there aren't any. At least not that I could discern. Oh, I'm sure there are official rules, somewhere, but I couldn't figure out what they were. A lot of time seemed to be spent getting the ladies to move from one table to another, signaled by the ringing of a bell, which is totally ignored. You see, there's 3 tables set up with 4 ladies at each table. After a round of Bunco is completed (we just don't have enough space here to explain THAT), some of the ladies from each table are supposed to move to one of the other tables, while others remain at their present table, but have to move to a different seat at that table. It's much like musical chairs, except everyone's on crack. And deaf.

If one of the ladies can't make it to a Bunco night, the other players can either play a "ghost" at the missing chair, or better yet, get a substitute player. Sometimes, the extremely gullible husband of the woman hosting Bunco will be invited to play. Don't do it. Make up an excuse - changing the oil on the car, re-siding the house, shaving your head with a cheese grater - anything. I'm joking, of course - it wasn't that bad. But it does now rank lower than the cheese grater. And they call you a "dice monkey". I'm serious.

The scoring in Bunco is interesting and seems to depend upon the phase of the moon, the average speed of an English swallow in flight and pi. There can be ties, which are settled by swordplay. Just kidding - if there was swordplay involved, men would be playing this. Depending on your definition of the term "swordplay", dice may not even be needed. (You'll have to Google this if that doesn't make sense to you - don't make me go there.) The game ends when all the food is gone, or the number of Bunco's scored is greater than the square root of of dessert, whichever comes first. Peace.

Jimmy's Facebook guidelines

Okay, moving away from the cancer theme.

I'm on Facebook. A LOT. Also, as part of my job responsibilities, I teach social media to our real estate agents, so I've done quite a bit of research on this to be able to sound lucid, and I think I have a pretty good handle on good practices. The following is NOT part of what I normally teach, just my observations on some some things people (at least those over the age of 25) should stop doing on Facebook, IMHO.

Do NOT like your own post, comment, or uploaded pic/video. We know you like it, because, duh, you posted it, didn't you?. Liking any of the aforementioned makes you a tool. It's like complimenting yourself, which is narcissistic, unless you're a member of Congress; then it's okay. I'm smart enough to know that. See? That was me, being a tool. Don't be a tool. Develop some tool-radar.

Drama posts - just say no. You know what these are; those cryptic, vague cries for attention. They're easy to spot: "I'm having the worst day", or "Something terrible just happened", or "Nobody will ever love me", or some variant. Don't post them, and whatever you do, don't ever respond to them - that's what they want, and you're just enabling that behavior. Well-meaning responses are typically: "Oh, no, what happened?", "Oh please call me", "I'm here for you", etc. Warning: if you keep responding this way, they will keep posting these types of desperate, attention-begging posts. If you must respond, please do so in a way that makes them stop. Here's some suggested responses: "You know you still owe me money, right?", "Call me, the test results are back and we need to tell your wife to get tested", or "I have an investment opportunity you can't afford to miss, but only for the first 100 people who private message me". Those may sound callous, but trust me, the sooner we get these people to stop posting drama posts, the happier we'll all be. Trust me.

Selfies - those photos you take of yourself with your phone, usually in a mirror, to be used, in theory, as a sexy profile pic. Couple of tips on this one, starting with turning off the flash - that's just distracting. Let's try not to do this in the bathroom (yes, I know, that's where the BIG mirror is), but if you must, let's keep the shots of the toilet in the background to a minimum. More critically, let's keep it to zero if someone's actually using it. Nobody wants to see that, although there are entire websites devoted to just those kind of selfies. Making a duck face (excessively pursing your lips) is fine. If you're 13. And have low self-esteem. Otherwise, you just look silly (see: above). They do, too, but they're 13, so, you know, it's okay.

Take a decent photo if you're going to post it, for Pete's sake. I shouldn't have to figure out if that's a picture of your kid at the waterpark or a three-toed sloth giving birth. Tag it with who's in it and a location - don't make us guess, it's awkward: "Oh that's a lovely shot of possibly your child whose name I can't remember in some place I don't recognize". And if your camera does not take good pictures in low-light situations, stop posting them. I've seen people post pics that seemed to be taken in a black hole, only darker. You may know that it's a shot of your wife in the movie theatre, but to us, it's just a unfocused, disembodied head, floating, apparition-like, in an even darker room. That's just spooky.

Food photos. Stop. Just stop. Seriously. Nobody cares anymore. If it's a remarkably exotic meal with an outstanding presentation - fine. That's not something most of have seen/will see, so that makes it interesting. I've seen about a billion pictures of burgers and fries - I believe we all know what they look like by now - we got it, thanks, no more visual aids are necessary. Same thing with shots of soup, chili  and/or meth cooking on the stove - I try scratching my screen, but, nothing, no aroma at all. Maybe it works on the new iPad Air, but on a laptop, nothing. It's frustrating, so stop it. It's almost like you're saying, "Look at this delicious food I'm making that you can't have". The people who comment that it "looks so good"? They're just your friends humoring you, but they're thinking what I'm thinking.

I trust you liked this latest blog post. I think it's excellent.

Hope your tool-radar went off. Peace.

Road to Recovery

Part of my recovery is to walk - basically as much as I can, and I do. I walk all around my small town, which allows me to see things you normally don't see while driving. Interesting things. Confusing things. Scary things.

What's scary? The things people do while driving. Can't tell you how many people are using their cell phones while driving, but that's no surprise. Some are blatant about it, holding their phones right on top of the steering wheel; some keep it in their laps, because someone driving while smiling at their crotch fools...well, no one, really. I've seen people eating, drinking, even shaving. How that woman got her leg up on the dashboard, I'll never know. Maybe I don't want to. And the eating - really? Soup? You're eating soup while driving? Cereal? Seriously? What's next - barbecuing while driving? I'm actually surprised Keurig hasn't come out with an automotive one-cup coffee machine yet. My favorite is when they do all these at the same time. Usually I see this from my vantage point of hiding behind a telephone pole or sturdy tree for safety, because these people are really scary, and I refuse to die by someone else's stupidity; I insist I die by my own stupidity (and I've come close).

What's confusing? Why the high school kids suddenly lose the learned skill of crossing the street safely. I mean, some of them look like insurance scam artists hoping for a payday. They don't even look before crossing, often from between parked cars, or even better giant SUV's (crosswalk? what's a crosswalk?); it's like they're TRYING to get hit. I mean, c'mon, kids, your SAT scores can't be THAT bad. You have so much to look forward to; crushing college loan debts, a position in the fast food industry, living with your parents until you're 40, the latest release of HALO, etc.. I've talked to my daughter, who is a senior, and she's equally perplexed. Personally, I blame the Pythagorean theorem; I remember it causing some suicidal thoughts in high school. I even think we lost a kid to calculus one year. Math kills.

What's interesting? Basically, people, again. I find people fascinating. I've seen people, on my walks, who refuse to make eye contact, clutch their bag a little tighter, even cross the street (of course, that only makes me want to cross the street to see what happens next) as I approach them. I mean, I'm mid-50's, gray hair, wear glasses, 5' 7" tall, usually have a smile on my face - I don't believe I offer that an intimidating a presence. And this was even happening immediately after my surgery, where I was shuffling along at a blistering pace of possibly 10 yards an hour, basically slow enough for the old school zombies to catch and devour me (remember, I'm now prostate-free, so, you know, less calories). The current zombies move much faster, something I'm not happy about as your ability to run fast is inversely proportional to your aging process. But I'm not worried about the zombies getting me because I'm a realist. I'm pretty sure it'll be the shaving, cereal-eating, texting and mascara-applying driver in the weapons-grade Hummer.
Peace.

Leakage? I don't have no stinkin' leakage...

When they remove your catheter, 7-14 days after surgery (9 days for me), they send you home. In. A. Diaper. Thaaat's right - a diaper. I can't imagine why some men equate this surgery with losing your manhood. There's absolutely nothing emasculating about having to wear a diaper. Except there is. Totally.

Them: Here, put this on.
Me: What is it?
Them: It's a diaper.
Me: I know. I'm just trying to determine if I'm hallucinating. Do I really need to wear this?
Them: Well, you've been catheterized for 9 days, and you'll need to relearn bladder control. These will help you get home without ruining your car seat.
Me: That's very thoughtful.. Can I have a pair without Hello Kitty on them?
Them: Man up, cowboy. Here's take some of these, as well.
Me: What the hell are these?
Them: They're sanitary pads. Do you know how to use them?
Me: You may have noticed, since you just removed my catheter, that I'm not female. So, no.
Them: My apologies.
Me: S'okay, the thong probably threw you.
Them: Yes...thongs and sanitary pads are probably not the most efficient combination.
Me: Understood. I don't often get to show my junk to others while my wife is present, so I saw this happening completely different in my mind. Wrong again. Say, these things look like giant Swiffer wet mop pads. Surely I don't wear these WITH the diaper - seems like major overkill...
Them: No, the diaper is just to get you home and are recommended for sleep  periods. You can use the sanitary pads during the day - if you find you're not leaking too much, you may even want to try using one of your wife's pads since they're smaller and more comfortable. (this last part said with a smile)
Me: So my goal is to go from diapers, to sanitary pads, to my wife's female-parts pads? I actually buy those for my wife at BJ's - do I want wings or non-wings, flexi, regular or super, scented or unscented, etc...
Them: Are you being serious?
Me: I'm standing here in a diaper and thong. I'm shocked you're still paying attention to me at all.
Them: This isn't the worst I have seen.
Me: I'm not sure what you're paid, but I'm certain it's not enough.
Them: Thank you. Perhaps you could put some pants on now.
Me: We're talking about me wearing diapers and using my wife's monthly pads. We are well past the point where either of us should be embarrassed, wouldn't you say?
Them: True. But I do find the Hello Kitty print distracting.
Me: Touche'.
Peace.

I'm catheter-free!! (and no longer allowed on the couch)

Yes indeedy, the catheter has been removed. I'm thrilled, but also feeling somewhat vulnerable. How could this make me feel vulnerable, you ask? Picture this - I'm taking one of my recuperative walks. I get accosted by a bad guy. I'm still weak, stomach still distended and sore, and I'm not supposed to be exerting any force that exceeds lifting anything heavier than 5 pounds. I'm pretty much helpless.

But, had I still had my catheter and accompanying bag, I could swiftly detach the bag from my leg and smack my assailant across the face with it. It would likely burst when it strikes him. That's right, he's now covered in someone else's urine. He doesn't recover from that, he doesn't continue the fight - basically, he'll have to set himself on fire to ever feel clean again. There's really no other option.

Think of how society could benefit from this - instead of tasers, police would have catheter bags. Instead of tear gas - urine mist. Instead of nuclear payloads, fit a missile with several hundred gallons of urine. Tea party members of Congress acting like adolescents - well, you get the idea. We could even rate the strengths - vegan would be mild, asparagus eaters would be moderate, those not hydrating enough: commercial strength. Labeling them shouldn't be an issue since Monsanto's not involved.

This could trickle (sorry) into so many areas of our lives. At a sporting event? Maybe a MLB game, but dreading the incredibly long lines at the restrooms (not to mention the unsanitary conditions), and also not wanting to miss any of the game? Problem solved. What about tailgating? Now you won't have to miss one of your buddies vomiting into the back of someone else's pickup truck before the game even starts. It's all good. When I think of all the money parents spend on karate lessons for their kids, when a simple catheter solves so many problems - self defense, bed-wetting, having to stop every 30 minutes on car trips, hell, just the amount of time saved cleaning bathroom toilets (for families with boys) would be worth it. I can't believe no one has thought of this before. You're welcome. Peace.

Post Surgery Post (see what I did there?)

The ninjas have been officially evicted. Pathology results in early next week, but all looked good and went well. For those with lower TMI limits, now might be a good time to stop reading, although I have spared the rest of you accompanying pics.

Possible side effects of the surgery: some swelling in the groin area. That's like saying if you run into a burning house you may experience heat. Holy crap. The boys look like they were on a McDonald's diet for the last 3 years. If your groin could be termed obese, mine is morbidly so. And the color - oh my, you don't find this shade of purple much outside the eggplant display at a farmer's market. It's like the Elephant Man and Barney had a child, and it became my groin. Needless to say, there's discomfort involved, but the good news is that can helped by elevating them. They suggest a rolled towel. I was thinking of a wheelbarrow. I'm exaggerating; I'm sure a softball catcher's mitt would work, and be eminently appropriate.

Let's move north. Anesthesia has a side effect of putting your digestive tract to sleep. It needs to reboot, to start itself back up, otherwise you have a whole new problem to deal with. What it really does is turn you into a 90 year-old man, looking forward to a good bowel movement with the same excitement as a 6 year-old on Christmas morning, who finds out his parents are actually masochists who wrap empty boxes, delighting each time their precocious child registers that look of confusion and disappointment. I was that 90 year-old. I was that 6 year-old.

To help this digestive reboot along, they recommend both small, frequent meals and walking as much as possible. Neither of which I'm in the mood to do. The eating? I have no appetite at all. The walking? You must not have read paragraph 2. But I do both anyway, since I'm a good patient and I know this will help. Someone told me their husband thought they saw me walking the other day; he told her I looked like I was limping. I didn't have the heart to tell her on the phone I was actually waddling, nor why. I imagine in a few more days I'll be looking like the Penguin from Batman. Quack, Quack. Peace.

Buh-bye, Cancer

So this my last day with cancer. I'll be having surgery tomorrow and they're doing it robotically. That's right, robots - which, if you think about it, are just precursors to terminators. True, they're really, really early model terminators: pre-Schwarzenegger versions.

These robots will probably be more like a Sheldon Cooper version of terminators; really smart but not much of a physical threat. But still - robots. How cool is that? Although, robots against cancer - not much of a fight, is it? Poor cancer, you never had a chance. But I will not be sorry to see you go.

You have to appreciate how cancer multiplies recklessly, takes over other systems, destroys everything it can until, if not removed, finally consumes the very host that sustains it. It's like Congress that way, only not as bad. Or evil. Or selfish. 2014's coming up folks...let's not forget the Congressional approval rating is currently below that of... cancer.

But back to me-  it's my last day to use cancer as an excuse. And I have been. Seriously - for everything; at work, at home, during traffic stops, etc. I know that sounds callous, but it works.
"Sorry I'm late, but... I have cancer."
"Oh, did you want that last piece of pizza? I was going to eat it, because, you know... cancer."
"Sorry I was doing 75 mph in the shoulder, but..." well, you get the idea. Even my daughter was jumping on the bandwagon:
Me: "I won't it make to your game today, Sweetie, because..."
Her: "I know... cancer." You have learned well, grasshopper. My eyes well up.

So, day before/of surgery instructions/fun. Eat light - got it, I'll forego the slice of anemic tomato on my triple cheeseburger with bacon. I can sacrifice. Stop taking NSAIDs (Aleve, Motrin, Advil, etc.) because they can cause bleeding. Wouldn't want any bleeding in surgery - got it. I notice marijuana's not on that list. Not that I use it, but - good to know. "No eating or drinking after midnight the night before your surgery." Oh well, so no marijuana and subsequent ravaging of the supermarket's cookie aisle @ 3AM - got it. Again, not that I use it. Marijuana, not the supermarket. Hey, quick digression: here's a tip to let you know if someone knows ANYTHING about what they're talking about (this applies to many things, but especially those things technological): if they put "the" in front of it, they don't know much about it. Witness: "Is she on the drugs?" "Oh yes, I use the Facebook all the time." "I don't like the Obama." You're welcome.

Wait a minute - back up here. No coffee in the morning before surgery? Are you freaking kidding me?!?!? No no no, Memorial Sloan-Kettering - now you've gone too far. I must have my morning java. It's the secret elixir that makes me human each day. My wife tries not to make eye contact with me until that first sip. She's a very wise woman.Without coffee, you shouldn't even be operating on me - a veterinarian should, and only then after having  tranquilized and muzzled me. There better be something caffeinated added to that IV. Just sayin'. Peace.