My Odd Sock

I decided to rerun this particular column when last week, I faced this daunting task once again.  Enjoy.

When you have Multiple Sclerosis everything takes longer.  Longer to get dressed.  Longer to go to the bathroom.  Hell, I can’t change my mind without a delay in my function-junction.

So when you put me “on the clock,” it is like telling someone with Parkinson’s not to spill.

A good example  took place this past weekend.  I thought the tires of my car could use some air so I went to my neighborhood gas station.

There before me, stood my challenge………

Wholesome air.  Clean, tube-inflating air.  Two minutes worth for a mere fifty cents.

I can just see it.  In big letters…..”Keep your feet planted firmly on the ground!”…. “Made from Issac Newton’s original recipe.”  And I’ll have a picture of an astronaut saying “Gravity is an important part of my day, I outta know.”

Just how many quarters do you suppose I could amass?

Two minutes to fill four tires.  No problem right?  Maybe for you.  But for me these two minutes would seem like a NASCAR pit stop.

First, I circled my car and removed the valve stem cover from each tire.  (My first stroke of genius since elementary school.)

Then I crammed my 50 cents into the machine and was off like a swift gazelle…….with Polio.  Or MS in my case.

The first tire…done.  Second tire…done.

Now to the other side.

Third tire…done.  And on to the last tire.

My heart was swelling with pride as I had plenty of my “two minutes” remaining.  I wanted to “high-five” everyone around.  I squatted like a catcher to fill my final Goodyear Radial.

Struggling to get  the air hose on the stem (my life story), I lost my balance and rolled backwards onto my butt and continued rolling onto my back.

I'm a turtle on its back.

All the while my “two minutes” were counting down.

(Does anyone else have the “Mission Impossible” theme running in their head?)

I fought my way to my feet, only to “Tumblelina” onto my back once again.

Finally, with the strength of “ten Grinches plus two,” I reclaimed my squat, put the hose to the stem…..And the compressor shut off.

(Bleep, bleep, bleepidy, bleep-bleep)

Now I had to spend another

I finished filling my tire.  Then, I stood defiantly squeezing the hose, letting the remainingtwo minutes of air escape into the atmosphere.  I wasn’t about to let “the man” take my 50 cents without getting my fair share.

Do you remember that breeze of fresh air you felt last Saturday morning?—-that was MY  50 cents.  You can thank me another time.

Huddle Up!

This weekend is the crown jewel of American sporting events!  The Tiffany competition between the two finest teams who have victoriously survived a long, grueling season of weekly battles.

You know what game I am referring to.  I don’t even need to tell you.  And if I did say, I could be arrested, be imposed heavy fines, even face imprisonment.  All because I would be breaking the National Football League’s copyright infringement policies.

Not familiar with the terms?  Here are a few words & phrases you cannot legally say or print:

“Super Bowl”

“Super Sunday”

The Super Bowl Logo

“NFL”, “AFC”, or “NFC”

Any team name (e.g., “Steelers” or “Cowboys”)

Therefore, My Odd Sock will take no chances when it comes to writing about this Sunday’s professional football championship game between the team of young filly’s from the city hosting an annual 500 mile auto race every May…versus…the exceptionally virtuous team, officially recognized and venerated for having attained heaven after an exceptionally holy life from the town practically wiped out under the oppressive power of Hurricane Katrina.

Cripes, it’s just easier to say the “Colts vs, the Saints.”  (So I’ll be some one’s “prison bitch” for the next 3 to 5.)

Sorry to spill the dip, Dip!

Are YOU hosting a big game party?

Easy with the party trays Martha Stewart–you may be in violation yourself!

Did you know it is unlawful to TiVo the big game?  It’s true.  But why would you anyway—the commercials are often the best part of the broadcast!

How many people have you invited to your shin-dig?  It is also against the NFL’s regulations if you are showing the game to “too many” people.  Funny, the esteamed league office doesn’t specify the number they feel is “too many.”

Nice console Ward Cleaver!

Finally, did you know you may be breaking the law if you are watching the game on a screen larger than 55 inches?

That’s another strange-but-true factoid.

Is all of this ridiculous?  Of course it is.  But without all of this, it wouldn’t be the United States’ legal system, right?

Whatever your plans, just enjoy the weekend and let’s look forward to a good game, The Who’s halftime show and some funny commercials!

“So, Bubba, you want the top bunk or the bottom bunk?”

“Stand up!” a male voice shouts.

“Stand up straight I said!”

Who said that?  A voice of reason?  My inner conscience?

Nah, it’s my bee-sting partner shouting at me to stand up straight.

You see, I’ve developed a hitch in my giddy-up….I’m beginning to stoop!

It’s like the gravitational pull of the earth is forcing me to bend slightly forward at the waist.  Like I am walking uphill.  Constantly.

O-K, very funny smartypants.  I’m not quite that bad!  Besides, this guy is bent the wrong way.

I’m just not sure how my “stoop” developed.

Has multiple sclerosis weakened my “core”, my stomach & hips, so much so that my body compensates with a forward lean?

When I lift my shirt, my abs look fit & trim.  I mean, I do get up from my recliner 2 or 3 times a day–even more when I can’t find the flicker and have to change the channel by hand!

Maybe my stoop developed when I began walking with a cane?  I could be leaning a bit too much on my thin friend.

I even went so far as to consult an evolutionary scale.  I seem to be pegged somewhere between the 2nd and 3rd figure from the right.

While modern man is evolving from left to right, I seem to be moving in the opposite direction!  This also explains my fascination with fire.

If any positives can be drawn from my forward lean–one can surmise it IS easier to find loose change on the ground.

As you can see, a recent My Odd Sock research study has determined that a progressive “stoop” can lead to improved financial gains!

Your results may vary.

Is your multiple sclerosis pulling you forward?

My advice–fight back!  Don’t let it pull you down!

Stand or sit-up tall.  Head up.  Shoulders back.

It takes a concerted effort & constant focus, I know.  But it can be done.  Or else I could send my bee-sting buddy over to your house…”STAND UP STRAIGHT!…YOU’RE SLOUCHING!”

Kids, it’s time to pull the plug on the old abdullah oblongata (your brain, not a terrorist) and let out all those strange thoughts.

That’s right, time once again for “Brain Drain.”

Let’s get this party started…….

Sibling Rivalry

First we had the straight-laced, sedate, button-down image of the original Rice Krispies.

Thenalong comes the wild, off-the-chart Cocoa Krispies.  Woo, all the thrill of a Rice Krispie in a chocolate flavor?  I am so there!  This is gonna be great!

But when you add milk, just the opposite happens.

Cocoa Krispies just sit there in your bowl.  Chillin.  You get an occasional noise or two, but it’s like the Cocoa Krispies are just too cool to “snap, crackle & pop.”

Rice Krispies on the other hand, come to life the instant you add 2 percent.  Rice Krispies are like your obnoxious brother-in-law (without the alcohol & fireworks)!  The redneck of breakfast cereals.

Look closely at the picture.  Cocoa Krispies just lay there like they are bored.  Yawn, when is lunch?  But Rice Krispies explode with an exclamation point behind every SNAP! CRACKLE! POP!

By the way, since when have Cocoa Krispies helped support your immune system?  Hell, who needs penicillin when you have “chocolately, sweetened rice!”

Separated At Birth

You’ve seen this before.  Two unrelated people who look strikingly similar.  At My Odd Sock, the crack research team (me) has uncovered a couple of our own.

First up, ESPN and Monday Night Football announcer, Ron Jaworski…..

Ron Jaworski

And from Comedy Central, comedian Lewis Black……

Lewis Black

Lastly, speaking of Rice Krispies, the dark-haired “Pop”……..

"Pop"

…bears an uncanny resemblance to the daytime TV personality, Dr Oz…..

Dr. Oz

 I swear you give Dr. Oz pointed ears and a hat and he could be one of Santa’s elves!

Stupid Packaging

Leaving one final ring around this brain drain is the rather dumb idea behind this jar of Welch’s Grape Jelly…..

Sure, it seems innocent enough.

But beware of the jelly collecting “grab-bars” on the backside of the bottle!

Jelly "grab-bars"

How am I going to get the jelly from all those nooks, crannies & crevices?

Cripes, I’m wasting half a jar of jelly!

I don’t need “grab-bars” on my jelly jar.  Grab-bars are useful only if you are handling ANY of the items listed below….

Plutonium

Crate of live rattlesnakes

Blasting Caps.

Rocket Fuel.

Prehistoric artifacts.

Donated organs.

Fragile egos.

Nuclear Warheads.

And, urine samples.

Otherwise, just give me a smooth-sided jar that makes it easy for me to get my jelly.  That’s all.

Thanks you for reading My Odd Sock’s “Brain Drain,” a completely useless column pointing out the absurdities of life.  God, let’s hope you devote your time to more worthwhile causes.

Disclaimer:

My Odd Sock is an expert on nothing, just an idiot on everything.

This column was written in what is called “stream of consciousness”—no particular pattern, just random thoughts bouncing around in my big, empty head.

For years as my multiple sclerosis continued to progress, I was told I should think about disability.

But I didn’t listen.  Stubborn as a mule I guess (and breath just as bad).

So finally I apply.  And was approved.

Well, it has been six months on the gravy train and each day I ask myself…

“OK, now what?”

Really…….Now what?

I almost titled this “OK, now what?” because it sums up my truer feelings.

All my life I’ve been like a little puppy.  Tail wagging.  Charging here and there.  Always eager to ask about the next adventure.

Now, with my MS keeping me on a short leash, I still dribble on the floor like a puppy–but my tail doesn’t wag as eagerly.

My disability has been approved, yet I worry–and wonder–if this is it.

In essence, I ask “What do I do now?”

Maybe it’s cabin fever to the extreme.  I mean I’ve run the sweeper so often I’ve got ruts in the carpet.

I’ve heard MS being described as the “couch potato disease” (I never know if I should spell “potato” with an “e”) because of fatigue issues.  That’s the wrong thing to say to me.  I’ve never been one to sit still for long.  I even freak out playing “freeze-tag.”  I refuse to be labeled as a couch potato.  That’s why this whole disability thing has me flustered.

Do I get a job?

I know I am allowed to work on disability.  Unfortunately, the job market is the worst it has been in a great while.  And honestly, there are so many people looking for work, who is an employer going to hire—a healthy guy or gal—or someone with so many walking aids they should star in the next movie for” Transformers?”  Honestly.

Should I volunteer?  I suppose that is a possibility.  Although volunteering doesn’t add to the bottom line.

Did I warn you I was going to be all over the place with this column?

Maybe I should stay home and write for this goofy website.  It IS therapy to an extent.

The world is my oyster they say.  I just need to figure out which ocean I should leap into for my next move.

If you have MS, or any other disabling disease on the Rick Dees’ Top 40, have you experienced similar feelings of “what now?”  How do you cope?

I would hang and chat, but I’ve got a sweeper to run.

Like a gnarly, California beach dude in search of the perfect wave, I am the Jeff Spicoli of refuse!

Plastics only, please.

It’s my quest to find the perfectly balanced, equilateral triangle, lovingly inscribed with a number within its center.  (Equilateral:  three equal sides & three equal angles.  Each angle being 60 degrees.  I admit I had to look it up, but I knew what I meant!)

Yes, I am a recycling junkie.  And I plan on saving the world—-one Sunny D bottle at a time.

When my trash guy announced “curbside recycling”, I was elated.  I had already been sorting my garbage and taking my recyclables to the drop-off area.  So curbside pick-up would save me a trip—little did I know it would be the “seed-starter” to my blooming obsession.

Now, I’m checking everything for that stupid triangle.

I turn the container over.  Flip it around.  Tilt it this way & that.  Is that a freakin’ 5 or a 6?  Give me a better angle.  More light please. 

My search reminds me of a mother ape preening her baby for fleas & ticks!

As I get older it gets harder and harder to see that silly little number.  I think I need a monocle like Colonel Klink.  Maybe that’s why he wore one, so he could check his recyclables.

My obsession has gotten so bad  I have looked for a number on the back of the triangular roadsigns.  I have even been known to pull junk out of other folks’ garbage and brought it home to be recycled.  Call me the Fred Sanford of the looney (recycling) bin.

I guess I have always been a “tree-hugger” of sorts.  And recycling is just one small way each of us can help save our environment.  So I am willing to do my part.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know that sounds a little corny.  But come on, cut me some slack will ya.  Geez.

Fruits of my labor.

So if you see a dark, lanky figure dragging his foot through your garbage…don’t worry…it’s just me living a triangular obsession.