Alberty's Blah Blah Blog

So, my wife said last night, “I feel like I have a man-cold.” That’s right. It’s that bad.

Our house over the last few weeks has become a plague house: the kind of place that the London Authorities of the late 16^th century would have boarded up until everyone was dead.

If you read my previous post, you know that my wife contracted MRSA, which led to a medically caused allergic reaction and full body rash. Well, the kid contracted his first pink-eye/cold, and gave me a major cold (sinus and chest), which then gave my wife the cold.

This has been a hell of a two weeks. Everyone was miserable and crabby.

And for my wife … it turned into the dreaded man-cold. She defines a man-cold as follows: utterly succumbing to a normal, run-of-the-mill cold, such that you become a whining, sniveling puddle of pathetic and loathsome complaining.

Check out this video for clarification.

So how bad did she let herself get? Let’s just say that she searched for a video on sinus message. Yes, I did perform it for her.

But as a consummate man-cold wallower I really don’t have any room to judge.

But we at the Albercainty household have decided that come February 1^st, the green-gilled January will be but a faint ether induced memory.

We are calling February Health Month!

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Okay, so every once in a while I ask my wife to give me a topic when I feel like I need a little help with posting ideas.

Would you believe that she suggested Uggs? I mean, seriously? I couldn’t care less. I eschew fashion. I’m sure I heard a few of you just snort. I’m pretty sure I heard one of you say, “You also eschew irons and color sense.”

True. True.

Back to my UGG rant.

Honestly, I think they just look silly. And I am, as I’m sure you can expect, an important arbiter of fashion. And they are $160 worth of silly. I know that I just probably pissed off some of my friends, and I’m sorry for that. But they also know that they can ding me for myriad foibles and stupidities. And I’m okay with that. That’s part of what makes friends.

Also you need to remember the source. Look, I hate paying $20 for a pair of jeans. I just think people too willingly pay for brand over product. And I hate that kind of zombie commercialism. Mostly because I sometimes fall into that mindset — after all I am an American. But I hate that feeling of being controlled by something so inane and useless as fashion.

However, I did discover some funky things about Uggs.

First, and I think most interesting, is that Ugg Australia, the manufacturer of Uggs worldwide is actually owned by Decker, an American company. And guess what? Their Uggs are made in China. Also, Decker is working to tie up the trademark of the word Ugg.

Now, what makes this interesting to me is that in Australia and New Zealand where Uggs originated, the term is generic, which means that legally it cannot be trademarked. This, of course, feeds into my overwhelming belief that most American corporations are heartless cashdevils with no sense of moral shame.

Having said that, the Ugg, this symbol of fashion insanity (I mean I have seen people wearing these things in the summer. You aren’t going to see me sporting a pair of mukluks in the middle of July just because they are trendy. And imagine the smell cooking off in those things?) were originally used by aviators in WWI. Yeah, they are that old. And there is evidence that back then they were called “Fugs.”

Tangent: As a fan of the novel The Naked and the Dead by Norman Mailer, this little tidbit made my most fun facts list. To get his seminal WWII novel published, Mailer had to change all the “F-words” to “fug,” which is pretty fuggin’ stupid. Which also leads to one of my (probably apocryphal) favorite literary cocktail party stories.

Apparently, just after The Naked and Dead had been optioned into a movie, Mailer met Tallulah Bankead at some party. She supposedly said to him, “Yes, Norman Mailer. You’re the young man who can’t spell the word ‘fuck’.”

I love that story.

Anyway, these things have been around for a century now, so I guess I have to get used to it. I never understand fashion, because, as I’ve said before, I couldn’t really care less. I’ve stopped trying to impress people, I guess.

But I hear that fashion is cyclical. And I am ready for the next trend. I still those pair of spats that got me beaten up during my junior prom sitting in my closet. They are bleached white and read to go.

I wonder if they’ll fit over my Earth shoes.

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I’m not usually one for cutting breaks. I generally think that people make their own breaks. But my recent history has really tested that general philosophy.

Some of you may know that my wife lost her leg to a flesh-eating bacteria that she contracted in a dirty surgical suite about six years ago.

She was a runner, swimmer, hiker, a very active woman. And, as you might imagine, it really hit her hard.

But she put her head down and bounced back better that most anyone could. She’s been through a lot, and she’s handled it with patience and grace.

Recently she contracted MRSA in her stump. I think she got it from a hospital we had recently been in, but, as our doctor said, it’s now everywhere. If you havn’t heard, MRSA is the scary infection du jour. Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus is, as its name says, resistant to a wide variety of antibiotics.

Well, she also happens to be pregnant right now, which means they have to be careful with what they give her. And they have to give her something particularly powerful.

So they gave her this antibiotic, and guess what? Total, body-wide rash. She looks awful and feels worse. She’s freezing on the inside, but her skin is on fire. Today she broke down and took a cold oatmeal bath, but I don’t think it really helped.

I mean, this woman has gone through skin scraping, skin-grafts, burn-unit baths, hyperbaric chambers, phantom pain, natural childbirth, and nearly six years of marriage to me, and I have never seen her in so much discomfort as she is now.

If anyone deserves a break, it’s her.

So, if anyone knows the customer service number for getting a break, please do send it my way. It would make a great early Valentine’s Day gift.

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We have a dog; you may have read in an earlier post, that we saved him from his own base dogness. His name is Fenway mac Cumhaill. He’s named after both Fenway park — we originally got him as a companion dog to our previous dog, Wrigley — and the great Irish hero.

You may also remember, from previous posts, that Fenway eats anything he can, and that he recently had surgery because he eats anything he can. He had three feet of small intestine removed because a little three inch stuffed magnetic monkey turned those three feet of intestine into mush.

Well, well. We love the dog. Obviously. If we didn’t, he wouldn’t be with us today. He is great with our intrepid and sometimes aggressively loving son. Fenway acts as horsy, bulldogging steer, pillow, step-stool, unwilling dancing partner, and sometimes what looks disturbingly like a Japanese love doll. Not that I’ve actually seen one in action … I’m only imagining … which could of course be worse.

None-the less, the decision to do everything we could to help Fenway get past his last serious indiscretion was a difficult one, both emotionally and financially. But he is now home with us, and we are happy. Mostly happy.

We did not think about what removing three feet of his intestines might do him and, ultimately, us.

Think Bhopal. Yes, hyperbolic, I know. Sorry. And perhaps it is callous. But, I … swear … to … God: I have not been overcome by such an horrific miasma of distilled hellfunk since that summer I was forced to ride in the back of my grandfather’s truck camper to keep his five buckets of rotting shad-bait from tipping over.

It makes my eyes water.

And, what may perhaps be the best part, you can hear it.

Don’t get me wrong, the dog farted before the surgery, and it was not a pleasant odor. But the smell that follows from these new little leaf-whistles will bring you to your knees.

We thought Walter the Farting Dog was a pretty cute little children’s book. But it’s not so funny now.

We are actually nervous when people come over now.

I have seen people, tears welling in their eyes, say, “It’s not that bad.” Kind, generous people.

He likes to lie on our bed before we turn in. I know he’s there because I smell him when I enter the hallway. I have to light candles and open the window before we turn in. Remember that it was -2° on Saturday, and I was damn glad I had a window to open.

I’ve have also found myself petting him less. Which has made him, I think, more aggressively attention needy, which then just becomes a vicious cycle.

I was going to type “it’s not his fault,” but it is. He just doesn’t know any better. And I’m pretty sure this is something that is not going to “work itself out,” if I may use that phrase.

I just have to remember that we’re all part of a family, and that he has to deal with our foibles … and our son — that his smell is in some disturbing way, a sign of how much we love him. That, and I should probably pet him more. For as long as I can hold my breath.

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Sometimes I am just in a foul mood. I usually don’t know how or even when it happens. But, boy, do I know when I’m in it. Like today.

There is just an edginess to my reactions. I actually feel like there is a thin layer of energy between my skin and my muscles. And any little thing will create a crack to let that energy fly out like lightning.

The dogs are too suffocating, roaming around me like sharks. The kid is always standing on chairs, climbing on things, doing things on purpose that he knows I don’t like.

Or, my favorite: I’m finishing up the clothes. I have a bunch of socks in my arms and I’m taking them to the bedroom. I drop one of the socks. Oh, the irritation flares. Certainly the fateful god Asspimple has been watching, waiting for this moment to taunt me. Or I drop a pen and think I’m an idiot for dropping the pen.

Or how about this. I’m in a foul mood, perhaps because I am running late. I am trying to print something from my computer, and my printer takes this moment to run out of ink. It has clearly been sitting there in the corner of the room plotting for this very moment. Why? Because it is a sentient, devious machine. And it hates me.

Seriously?

I mean that’s ridiculous. I don’t understand it at all. And sometimes it feels like even knowing how silly my reaction is, it doesn’t help me get out of this foul funk.

I can be swimming in this foulness and think, “This isn’t me. This isn’t who I am.” But the funk goes on.

And then, as mysteriously as it began, it’s over.

Seems like a bit of mental illness to me. But as I understand it, it is simply a human thing.

I know my wife gets foul. I have seen other friends in inexplicable foul moods. And yet, I have the tendency to bash myself up when I slip into this state. And then I hate that. And that hate becomes some perceived weakness, and it spirals all higgledy-piggledy until I’m clearly the least stable most ridiculous human being in the history of humanity.

Crazy.

Crazy?

Or just human?

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I don’t know when I started to feel so decrepit. I used to think that I felt old, but I’ve come to the understanding that feeling old is more of a mindset.

I don’t feel old. I still feel, mentally, like I’m somewhere between 18 and 25. Some of you might suggest that I am closer to 12. I get that. Sometimes I say things that make me wonder, too.

But these days there is nearly an ache for every move. And I have to tell you, I am starting to feel regret.

There are really about three, maybe four things in my past that I really regret — to the point of revisiting from time to time. You know, the way a relationship went down, a choie, a lost opportunity — that kind of thing.

But this regret spans decades. I have not treated my body very well. I don’t regret the food, mostly. I have garnered great pleasure from food. And I’m also cool with most of the other “ingestibles.”

My main regret really comes from my physical apathy. Now, I don’t think I was a log-toad. I mean, I did hike across Scotland. I do kayak … have kayaked.

I just don’t think I eat a lot, so it’s got to be a lack of movement, right? And I’m not necessarily talking about my weight issue either. Although I’m sure that doesn’t help.

I just think if I got into a physical regimen that it might have delayed this feeling of decrepitude.

For example: right now, I feel okay. Not great, but okay. My left elbow really hurts when I extend it (in fact I remember when I hurt it… weeks ago). But I’m typing right now, so not much need for arm extension. But I’m going to get up in a minute and grab another cup of tea. That’s gonna hurt.

Well, not really hurt. But it will ache. I will make an embarrassing sound when I stand up. The first few steps will look like I’ve pooped myself and am trying to keep it from falling down my pant-leg. My feet will feel like I’m walking barefoot on a rocky beach. I will probably blaspheme…a little. I will walk up the stairs a man on his way to the gallows.

But here is the thing. After a bit of movement I will feel, generally, okay. In fact, I will probably hop down the stairs on my way back. I don’t get that.

My dad calls it “Getting lubricated,” which, if you know my dad, is infinitely disturbing.

I don’t know. Is it too late to get better lubrication going through my system? I have that Total Body Gym, which I actually like. I just need the drill sergeant to kick my ass every day.

Anyone want to help me lube up?

That was uncalled for. Sorry.

But only a little.

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Okay, so I walked into Sears the other day to purchase a new water filter for our Kenmore Cool-o-matic refrigerator. That’s all I wanted. I had my kid on my shoulders. We were both in our steamy winter-wear. Just an in-n-outer, you know.

I find the overpriced water filter, with the help of a Sears Appliance Specialist (which is a whole other posting), and we go to check out.

“Would you like to use your Sears card?”

“No.”

“Would you like to apply for a Sears card today?”

“No.”

“You could save ten percent on your purchase today.”

“No, thank you.”

“You don’t want to save ten percent today?”

“Oh, well when you word it that way… um, still no, sorry.”

“Well, it seems a little silly not to sign up if you can save some money today.”

“I save some money today so your company can attempt to rape me with a whole cast of hidden fees and interest? That seems fun. Let’s do it!”

I did not actually say that. I wanted to say that, but some corporate mofo whom she has never met has decided that she needs to say that. She is simply now — as I have been in the past — a shill. I wanted to take it out on her, but that is not how I work. So I said,

“Um… no, I’m sorry I’m not interested in adding another credit card to my interest-bearing menagerie. Thanks though.”

I thought interest-bearing menagerie was a little funny. Defuse some of my sudden frustration. All I wanted to do was pay for my overpriced water filter and leave.

“I understand,” she smiled.

“Thank you,” I said, truly grateful.

“Would you like sign up for our Sears Rewards card.”

Seriously?

“Um… no on that, too.”

“You can build up rewards toward a really nice purchase.”

“No, thank you. I don’t shop here for pleasure.”

That one, I actually did say. And at that moment, boy, did I mean it.

That shut it down for a moment, and I was feeling kind of bad. I am a little more sensitive than I care to be. But whatever.

Then out from the thermal receipt printer came a receipt that could have contained the contents of the Oxford English Dictionary … at lest from F to U. It kept coming and coming and coming.

Please remember that I purchased a single item.

I’ve been in the store now for a good fifteen minutes. My son is now leaning his head over my left shoulder reaching toward the ground like Indy reaching for that holy grail, saying, “Down! Down!”

I wanted to reach toward the door and say, “Out! Out!” But alas, I am the adult.

She handed me the toilet paper roll of a receipt and circled a url on the thing then said,

“If you go to this website and take the survey you can register to win $3000 from Sears.”

“Okay.”

“And Sears takes customer service seriously,” she said with a straight face. “That’s why they only accept 9s and 10s as passing scores. So when you answer questions about my service for you today please do keep that in mind. I really need a 9 or 10 for this transaction.”

Tangent: I have a friend who likes to push my buttons. He can tell when he’s hit one because I have this thing that happens. My face turns red, starting at the neck and filling up like a pitcher of cherry Kool-Aid. I can feel it happening, too. I’ve sort of gotten to a place where I can control it a little if the situation is building up to it.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t control it on this one.

Now, here is the problem for me. There is nothing for me to find good in this situation. Because here are the options:

1) Sears is so myopically stupid that they really do think 9s and 10s are the only passing score on these ridiculous surveys that only people who want to spend time online for a $3000 shopping trip will fill out. Surveys that I refuse to believe have any statistical validity, and must be outrageously skewed toward the volatilely angry, the time-free random gamblers, or people who desperately need the money.

or

2) She’s a lying sack of moose scat.

Neither of those options made me feel happy being human.

I was also fresh off purchasing a vehicle (on a 1-5 survey rating) that was easily a 3 if not lower.

Our salesman gave us the same spiel. Only a 5 is passing. Well, either way, a 5 experience it was not. So …

Let me put this in a teacher perspective. That is like a student coming to me and saying,

“My parents are only accepting A and A+ work. So if you could keep that in mind when you grade my paper, that would be great.”

Either the parents are grade-fascists exerting unneeded pressure on their kid, or the kid is, as I said earlier, a lying sack of moose scat. Neither option brings me pleasure. And, yes, I have had that occur in my classroom.

So, there is my rant for the day. It is the tired and now clichéd lament of poor customer service. The old Oh-there-was-a-time-when. I sound like my father.

Anyway, my wife really only accepts 5s on my blog scores, so, if you see her …

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I would like to personally thank all of you who expressed support for the Galadahnia Web Project, especially those who pledged through my Kickstarter.com site.

The Kickstarter grant, alas, has failed.

But, as I mentioned in Monday’s blog, I am not nearly as devastated as I thought I would be. Many positives came from the process.

It really forced me to clarify the project. It also made me focus on the important aspects of the project.

Another thing it did was show me that there was support for such a thing beyond my immediate circle of friends. That was really cool.

Finally, I received support by people offering their talents in a couple of different fields, specifically web coding and site conceptualization, which was very nice.

So, the Galadahnia Web Project will now slip into Plan C.

My illustrator is working feverishly on the frontispieces for each chapter. I am striving to gain a working of knowledge of LogicPro, so I can move through the recording process smoothly for the audio version. I am working on understanding how to convert text into e-books.

I am also slowly working through draft six of the book.

So, there is quite a bit of work going on.

My plan is to launch the site on April 5^th. But I need to have at least two months of serialized chapters ready to go before I will feel comfortable. By that time I should have a pretty sustainable workflow created.

One of my friends also suggested adding a donation option to the web site. That way I can start paying my very patient illustrator. Also, people can give money if they want, but it doesn’t force anyone to have to pay to read my stuff.

Oh, a lot of stuff to work with.

If anyone has suggestions please shoot them to me through the contact page.

If you have already tried the contact page, just know that I have fixed it. It should work now.

Thanks for letting me blather on about this project. I’m hoping that I will now be able to move more scintillating blog posts.

We’ll see.

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There are things that happen to us or our friends, or things that we hear about that greatly affect our perspectives. The problem that I have found with these “seminal moments” is that my perspective is changed for a relatively brief period of time. And I think that it true with most people. Because, after all, we are creatures of habit and those habits are pretty well entrenched.

For those of you who know me, you know that I am not always upbeat and positive: a writing teacher might call that statement litotes. I am usually fighting a kind of soft pessimism that I learned well in my youth.

That is to say, I had a lot of bad days.

I don’t have bad days any more. And I hope this new perspective holds strong. I have difficult days, but I recently heard of an experience that helped me gain a real perspective of the obstacles I may run into each day.

My wife’s best friend was pregnant and due around Christmas of this year. Her family was pretty excited about it, as were my wife and I.

My wife came up with a great baby gift. Her friend — I’m going to call her J — gave us one of the best baby gifts ever, and my wife is a sucker for competition. So when she heard J was preggers, the game was on.

Anyway, my wife came up with a board book baby gift. It would be a letter book compiled by J’s friends. Each friend would choose a letter and make a page for baby based on that letter. Brilliant!

J’s brother sent in one of the best pages. It was for the letter O. They are part Hawaiian, and they chose to center their O page around the word “Ohana.” Ohana means family. It’s not just something from Lilo and Stitch. The word has an almost visceral meaning to many Hawaiians.

The page design is pretty simple. At the top of the page is the word: OHANA!. Underneath it is her brother’s family. It is a beautiful family, all smiling. One son, one daughter — J’s 16 year old niece.

J’s niece had been suffering from a chest cold for about a week before Christmas. But Christmas morning she awoke short of breath and pretty scared. Her family drove her to the hospital and they took an x-ray of her lungs. I assume they were expecting pneumonia. What they found was a particularly virulent form of cancer that had wrapped itself around her lungs.

As they intubated her to help her breathe, the pressure in her esophagus caused her blood pressure to rise, and she coded. Her heart stopped. They lost her.

I can’t even imagine the shock, the swirl of emotions, the confusion. The loss.

I don’t know what else to write.

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Well, this is the last few days of The Galadahnia Web Project Launch Plan B. Yes, I have used a previous plan.

I’m pretty sure that the Kickstarter grant is not going to go. The final day is this Thursday.  I need $6000 and only have $2400.

And here is the weird thing: I am totally at peace with it. That’s not where I thought I would be. I kind of thought it would crush me. But I’m now pretty excited about Plan C.

Don’t get me wrong. If the Kickstarter grant magically transpires, I would not be a sad little Sally.

But I have had some people come out of the woodwork to offer support for the project in a variety of ways. That has been both surprising and helpful.

So I think things will be okay. The web site might not be exactly as I hope it will be. But maybe there is providence in yada yada, you know.

Anyway, I’ve asked a few alpha-readers to give me a quote from their reading of Darnan, the first book in the Galadahnia Trilogy. Here they are. They made me feel pretty good.

I have never liked dwarves. Not when they were whistling with Disney and Snow White, not even in Tolkein’s world hording gold and giving a nasty dragon what for. Darnan changed my mind. Dwarves are rarely the hero, but after becoming acquainted with Darnan – his refulgent gift, quiet though brave ways, and love for his friends and the verdant world – I think it’s time for dwarves to be more than the sidekick or comic relief.

—Tara Marsh; illustrator and author

A problem that most writers face when telling a story that involves action and violence is describing action sequences with clarity and detail, keeping the reader excited, while not weighing the scene down. Darnan is not a particularly violent book, but in any story involving a confrontation of good with evil there have to be scenes of battle, of hardship, and sometimes, of torture. Alberty writes these scenes with power to affect the reader deeply. Alberty does this exceptionally well where even great writers often fail. In these scenes you know where the characters are positioned, what they face in the enemy, what strategies they employ, and how the characters act in accord with their personalities and abilities.

— Martin Pearson; teacher

In the grand and expansive tradition of Tolkein and drawn with all of the total world detail of Weiss and Hickman’s classic Dragonlance series comes Alberty’s first installment of his new Galadahnia Trilogy. Darnan is an amazing ride into a fresh new fantasy world filled with unlikely heroes who stay by your side long after you’ve finished book one. This is an amazing story!

— Richard Barker; artist

Thanks for the props, guys. I’m hoping everyone will be able to begin reading Darnan soon.

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