Thursday, March 6, 2025
Thursday, March 6, 2025
Good morning, all.
Walking, Chewing Gum, and Nearly Dying—Again It’s well established that my walking is, let’s say, challenged, and swallowing isn’t exactly my strong suit either. On Tuesday, while prepping taxes, a couple sat down, and the wife offered me a stick of gum. Naturally, the first thought in my head: Is my breath bad? But no, she was just being nice.
So, I pop the gum in, take a couple of chews, and—bam—instant juiciness overload. I swallow wrong, and just like that, my airway is blocked. I try to inhale—nothing. Try again—still nothing. I’ve got no air to cough, and I’m thinking, Okay, get up and head to the bathroom.
I start to stand up…and immediately fall back into the chair. Brilliant move. That would’ve been Ball Ground, GA all over again—you know, where I almost asphyxiated myself back in October.
The woman across from me grabs my water bottle (reasonable response), but I wave her off. After a few more desperate attempts, I finally get just enough air to cough. That’s all I need to clear things out, and by the end, I’ve got tears streaming down my face.
I look around—everyone is still buried in their work. No one noticed. Whew! Or… maybe not whew? What happens next time if I actually need help? So, it’s official—I can’t walk, I can’t chew gum, and I definitely can’t do them simultaneously. Oh, and honey, I forgot to tell you this the other day. Sorry.
Taxes, a Blind Man, and the Handicap Spot Vigilante Yesterday, I had two appointments. First stop: taxes.
I met Pierre, a blind man, years ago when I was driving seniors to appointments. We hit it off, and I’ve been doing his taxes ever since. He’s a great guy, and I genuinely enjoy helping him. We usually have a beer together, but I’m starting to realize that 11:30 a.m. might be a little too early for that. We get to talking about life, his blindness, and my ALS. Then the conversation shifts to handicap parking abuse. Pierre, despite not seeing it (literally), knows it’s a problem. I’ve always noticed it too, but in the past, I’d just shake my head and move on. Well, not anymore. Now, I’m out here taking pictures and videos, reporting offenders to the Secretary of State like I’m the Parking Police.
We finish his taxes, print and file them with the IRS. As I say goodbye, I let him know where he should go next year for tax prep, it’s unlikely I’ll be doing them again. It’s a heavy moment, but for once, I hold it together. I holds out his hand, I grab it ( he says “strong handshake” (that’s good) and then pulls me in for a hug. That felt good.,No voice cracking, no tears. That’s a win. And then I say goodbye.
The “Messy” Haircut and Mary’s…Dry Balls? Next stop: my 1:30 p.m. haircut with Mary. She’s the stylist who convinced me to embrace the “messy look” last summer. Since she washes my hair, I don’t even bother styling it beforehand. I just roll out of bed and go. It wasn’t like Pierre’s going to judge me.
I sit in the chair, and Mary says my hair looks great. “It’s just my bedhead,” I tell her. She nods approvingly—perfect.
Hold on. So, on the days I do my hair, I have to load it up with product, blow-dry, and spray it into submission—just to achieve the same “I just woke up” look? I think I’m being scammed.
We chat. Well, Mary chats—I listen. It reminds me of when Alex, at eight years old, once summed up his sister: “Nicole talks, and we listen.” Kid was spot on. Then, out of nowhere, Mary says, “My balls are dry.” I pause. Did I hear that right? She sees my face and clarifies—“My eyeballs!” We both crack up, and suddenly she’s on a roll—itchy balls, sweaty balls, tight balls. It’s comedy gold. I tell her about my blog and thank her for the material. She makes me promise not to name the shop. Deal. But if someone asks where I get my hair cut, muscle memory will probably betray her. Sorry, Mary.
On my way out, I grab a mini chocolate bar, pop the whole thing in my mouth, and—bam—choking again. Mary panics, offers me water. I wave her off, manage to clear it, and she sighs in relief. Then she admits this kind of thing really freaks her out and that she was about to flee the room. Honestly? I get it. I feel the same way.
At this rate, I’m playing Russian roulette with my throat. One of these times, this could be the time. Cindy is not going to be happy with me…I didn’t tell her about this episode. Sorry…I forgot.
To Wash or Not to Wash? Today is tax day. Do I wash my hair or leave it as-is? Haven’t decided yet. Maybe Cindy can weigh in and tell me.
Have a great day. Love you guys! ❤️