Paul's Dead 'n' I Don' Feel So Crunk Myself

A crippling injury suffered proefssionally in the service of others. (Gettin' crunked!)


Paul Newman headed off to the great roundup in the sky today. I think I've seen every one of his movies with the one about Butch and Sundance being my favorite, even though Cool Hand Luke was fabulous as well. It was a bizarre day all the way around, and I'm probably lucky to be here to relate the story!
It all began with a seriously sore throat...whether it originated from too many "Boom!" or "Get that weak stuff outa here!" calls as I announced a UWGB volleyball match last night or something serious like the arrival of the cold and flu season, I'll have to wait to find out. However, like any true professional might, I shrugged it off, purchased some Hall's Mentholyptus and headed out for Kohler on the semi-annual visit to Mother B's house for the fall cleanup. My sweetie felt fine and ready to chat politics: "I can't STAND her voice" and associated frustrations came forth unsolicited. While we agree politically, I rarely get into discussions with like-minded individuals since it would be like hearing myself talk, and I do THAT more than enough anyway (as evidenced by my overuse of parenthetical expressions in blogs).
Arriving in K-Town a full ten minutes early (by the timer that I know is ticking on Mother B's stove), I sat in the car and sent a few text messages reminding students and coaches of homework assignments. I arrived in the sitting room (how many people do you know have one of THOSE?) only two minutes early. Carol and Mother B had already launched into a spirited discussion of the potential of moving to another country entirely is the election goes awry, and I waited patiently (for me) for the "to do" list to be produced following the introductory formalities...and there ARE formalities! Being produced, the list for my tasks included the following:

• Define "crunk" music and the differences between country music and western music. I was not exact on my definition of crunk, but I was spot on about the other two.
• trim the hedges (but no animal shapes this time)
• wash the windows outside where the concrete workers had left residue (though their work was good!)
• clean and vacuum the foyer (again, do YOU have one of those?)
• fix two doors so that both close properly. This was not as easy as one might think, so it took a professional to complete these tasks. The first was agonizingly slow...two women hovering around asking questions like "How long is this going to take? Should I set the timer? Can I sweep up all those wood chunks you've just chiseled out of my door frame?" There were more, but you get the picture. I happened to casually mention that a professional would not need such help, and I think I put them off. I do not use the word lightly, but then I was questioned as to the exact definition of "professional" that I was using. (somebody who works at tasks others cannot do...for free)

Somewhere in the middle of all that was lunch time, and I was treated to an excellent sandwich at a trendy restaurant nearby.

Since the cleanup union was off at an Obama rally today, I had to clean up my own mess ( a definite violation of the chiseler's union code) but did manage to complete both tasks in time to head off to church at 4, during which, as the congregation sang the communion hymn, someone ELSE'S cell phone began ringing. She looked at me, asking, "Is that your phone?" To which I replied, "Uh, no, that's your phone. Turn it off." By this time, rubberneckers had turned around "tsking" to see who the culprit was, and the unnamed "she" was still trying to get the darn thing to shut up. Apparently, the caller was being persistent, and the phone rang, maybe, ten times. I was trying to pray.

It was about this time that I noticed, for the first time, a terrible pain coursing through my right hand. Immediately, the thought of a stigmata came to mind...I mean, I WAS in church and all. It turned out, though, to be just a humongous blister caused by all the manual labor I'd done as a professional that day. (The picture isn't really to scale. That thing dwarfed my hand!)There was some concern about whether I could successfully negotiate the drive back to Green Bay, but in the true professional sense, I vowed to soldier on.

Now, I sit here, having learned all there is to know about crunk music ( I really don't like it much) and other definitions for the word; I'm completing my literary duty with one hand practically in a cast from the grievous injury, checking every 20 seconds to see if my throat is still sore (it is), and negotiating with some person on Craigslist for a Mac Airbook ("cheap, I need the money.")

Seriously, though, I'm still probably better off than Paul is.