“OOOOOHMMMMMMM.......”
******-**** ******, my aquatic-therapy coach at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool, in a semi-fetal crouch, was ending our class with yoga. I stood speechless, almost laughing. “Sorry ******-****,” I thought. “I can’t do this. It’s my honky values.”
Another lady laughed when I said “real men don’t eat quiche.” She mentioned “quiche” as a way to remember her name. I was gonna tell her my sushi story, but she was busy.
My values are sorta Terry Bradshaw. Bradshaw goes into a restaurant with Doug Flutie. Flutie orders sushi. Their waitress brings out Flutie’s sushi. “Waitress, ya forgot to cook this,” Bradshaw says.
A while ago my supermarket was passing out free sushi samples. An employee tried to get me to try one. “Where I come from that stuff is called ‘bait,’” I said. That’s stolen from Bradshaw. The poor store-employee was utterly flummoxed.
******-**** and I have come a long way. I used to feel my balance was dreadful; now it’s questionable. I still can’t balance on one foot, and both feet are challenging. But it’s no longer as bad as it was. That’s partly ******-****, and is despite my torrent of useless texts, many of which I later regret; e.g. “Get off yer high-horse, Hughes.”
I text her because I can. It’s my means of avoiding verbal contact, which for me as a stroke-survivor can be messy. It’s called “aphasia;” a stroke-effect. In my case it’s only slight; it can be so bad the stroke-victim can’t talk.
“You talk just fine,” most say. But my brothers hear it. “You talk just fine” is people that never heard me before my stroke. I know I have it. Some stroke-victims don’t know they have it, and get angry if I point it out. I’ve learned to not say anything.
Sure, just talk to ******-****, except I know text will be easier; since I know writing works extremely well, although I write too much.
Same thing with phonecalls; I hafta warn my contacts in advance -a) I may have difficulty getting words out, and/or -b) I may hafta have them repeat. If I don’t warn in advance I get anger.
I also had a difficult childhood. My parents, in cahoots with my neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent, convinced me at an early age I was utterly disgusting. I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right-hand of Jesus, which made me rebellious and Of-the-Devil.
******-**** became aware of that because I got so easily frustrated with my condition, like I was doomed to fail. I.e. I had a negative self-perception. She encouraged me to be more positive.
“Oh get over it, Hughes,” a friend says. “Your parents and neighbor are long-gone.”
Easier-said-than-done! You don’t just flip-flop 70+ years of negatory self-perception successfully delivered by adult authority-figures.
Only recently have I discovered I can talk to pretty girls. (Cue Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor here: “No pretty girl will ever wanna talk to you.”)
No doubt that Sunday-School Superintendent is spinning in her grave, 14,000 RPM. Harness her and my parents, and south FL could go green.
So give ******-**** a break. My tub-thumping Republican Conservative sister, deceased six years ago, labeled me a “bleeding-heart liberial”. —And that’s not a typo. Bellicose Conservatives loudly tell me that’s how “liberal” is spelled.
My guess is I’ve been ******-****’s most challenging student. She’ll tell me otherwise. I ain’t her ex-Marine husband, who unlike me is probably normal. Plus I have a penchant for blurting things I later regret.
People tell me I’m rebellious when I convey my tortured childhood. Couldna been that bad.
But I can’t handle “OOOOOHMMMMMMM.......” It just makes me laugh. “Where I come from,” etc, etc. And “Real men don’t do yoga.”
Years ago a fellow Messenger employee dragged out his gigantic 10-pound Quark© software manual when I had a Quark question. He advised I read it.
“Put that manual away, dude. Real men don’t use manuals! Just show me!”
• “QuarkXPress©” was the computer pagination software used by the Messenger newspaper at that time. (Before retirement I worked for the Messenger.)
Another lady laughed when I said “real men don’t eat quiche.” She mentioned “quiche” as a way to remember her name. I was gonna tell her my sushi story, but she was busy.
My values are sorta Terry Bradshaw. Bradshaw goes into a restaurant with Doug Flutie. Flutie orders sushi. Their waitress brings out Flutie’s sushi. “Waitress, ya forgot to cook this,” Bradshaw says.
A while ago my supermarket was passing out free sushi samples. An employee tried to get me to try one. “Where I come from that stuff is called ‘bait,’” I said. That’s stolen from Bradshaw. The poor store-employee was utterly flummoxed.
******-**** and I have come a long way. I used to feel my balance was dreadful; now it’s questionable. I still can’t balance on one foot, and both feet are challenging. But it’s no longer as bad as it was. That’s partly ******-****, and is despite my torrent of useless texts, many of which I later regret; e.g. “Get off yer high-horse, Hughes.”
I text her because I can. It’s my means of avoiding verbal contact, which for me as a stroke-survivor can be messy. It’s called “aphasia;” a stroke-effect. In my case it’s only slight; it can be so bad the stroke-victim can’t talk.
“You talk just fine,” most say. But my brothers hear it. “You talk just fine” is people that never heard me before my stroke. I know I have it. Some stroke-victims don’t know they have it, and get angry if I point it out. I’ve learned to not say anything.
Sure, just talk to ******-****, except I know text will be easier; since I know writing works extremely well, although I write too much.
Same thing with phonecalls; I hafta warn my contacts in advance -a) I may have difficulty getting words out, and/or -b) I may hafta have them repeat. If I don’t warn in advance I get anger.
I also had a difficult childhood. My parents, in cahoots with my neighbor Sunday-School Superintendent, convinced me at an early age I was utterly disgusting. I couldn’t worship my father as worthy of the right-hand of Jesus, which made me rebellious and Of-the-Devil.
******-**** became aware of that because I got so easily frustrated with my condition, like I was doomed to fail. I.e. I had a negative self-perception. She encouraged me to be more positive.
“Oh get over it, Hughes,” a friend says. “Your parents and neighbor are long-gone.”
Easier-said-than-done! You don’t just flip-flop 70+ years of negatory self-perception successfully delivered by adult authority-figures.
Only recently have I discovered I can talk to pretty girls. (Cue Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor here: “No pretty girl will ever wanna talk to you.”)
No doubt that Sunday-School Superintendent is spinning in her grave, 14,000 RPM. Harness her and my parents, and south FL could go green.
So give ******-**** a break. My tub-thumping Republican Conservative sister, deceased six years ago, labeled me a “bleeding-heart liberial”. —And that’s not a typo. Bellicose Conservatives loudly tell me that’s how “liberal” is spelled.
My guess is I’ve been ******-****’s most challenging student. She’ll tell me otherwise. I ain’t her ex-Marine husband, who unlike me is probably normal. Plus I have a penchant for blurting things I later regret.
People tell me I’m rebellious when I convey my tortured childhood. Couldna been that bad.
But I can’t handle “OOOOOHMMMMMMM.......” It just makes me laugh. “Where I come from,” etc, etc. And “Real men don’t do yoga.”
Years ago a fellow Messenger employee dragged out his gigantic 10-pound Quark© software manual when I had a Quark question. He advised I read it.
“Put that manual away, dude. Real men don’t use manuals! Just show me!”
• “QuarkXPress©” was the computer pagination software used by the Messenger newspaper at that time. (Before retirement I worked for the Messenger.)
posted by BobbaLew at 10:52 AM
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