Update: Police Report

All right, now I have the police report in hand.

The “febrile old coot” driving the other car (a 1978 Chevy Caprice 4-door, by the way) is certainly old. The guy will turn 85 this year.

His excuse for the accident filled me with rage as soon as I read it. The report reads: “Driver #1 said that the lights from oncoming traffic made it difficult for him to see the small scooter.”

Now, you’re taking a left turn. You don’t have a left arrow, just a green light. So the rules of the road dictate that you give right-of-way to all drivers going straight through the intersection before you turn left. So if you’re DAZZLED by the lights of oncoming traffic, doesn’t that mean you would have to YIELD RIGHT-OF-WAY to those DAZZLING oncoming vehicles? Sweet jebus!

The coot was ticketed for “R/W Left Turn.” I’m guessing R/W is “right-of-way.”

Now I need to call the good Samaritan who tucked the scooter in a safe place.

Oh, what a night!

A night at the emergency room

On every other day, my esteemed other half gets home somewhere between 5:20 and 5:30 in the evening. Last night, I had to leave for a rehearsal at 5:40 and he still wasn’t home. I was starting to be concerned, but there were plenty of reasons for his lateness — maybe he needed to stop for gas, or he hit the grocery store, or perhaps he got a late start and was stuck in some rush-hour traffic. But being the pessimist I am, and always with a head full of doom-and-gloom, the first thought to cross my mind was that someone had hit him as he was riding his scooter.

Drove to rehearsal, got there at 6pm. I called home, no answer. Called his cell phone, and also no answer. I’m really unsettled at this point, and generally on red alert just because I don’t know what’s going on. We start working on a scene, and I don’t get a chance to call again until 7pm. Again, no answer at home, no answer on the cell, and no messages on the voicemail at home. I’m moving quickly into genuine concern and worry. We go back into working on the scene, and around 8pm we finish up with notes and get a break. I asked the director if I could take off, explaining to her my concerns of the missing husband. She’s cool with it, so off I go.

All the way home, about a 15-minute drive, I’m going over scenarios in my head. There were three options: death, hospitalization, or he’d scooted home, grabbed his car and gone off on some errand. So of course, as I’m nearing our street, the thing I want to see the most is his scooter parked next to mine.

I pull up and see his car first. So he’s not anywhere in the car. I park, get out, and come around the corner to our street.

Only one scooter. Cue full freak-out mode.

I rushed upstairs to the apartment. No sign that he’s been home at all. My first stop was the caller ID box, which told me there were 8 new calls. I wasn’t entirely sure how many times I’d called, so I started paging through them. Missy’s Cell. Missy’s Cell. Missy’s Cell. Missy’s Cell. Harborview Medical Center.

Oh, did I think I was in freak-out mode before? Now it’s freak-freak-freak-out mode.

I call the number on the caller ID, trying to convince myself that if he were dead, it would have been the police calling. So if it’s the hospital, he must still be alive … right?

I get the emergency room, and tell the woman on the other end that I suspect my husband may have been in an accident. I give her his name, and she goes to check. She comes back (she had a lovely soothing British accent) and tells me, “He’s in the emergency room, I’ll try to get the phone to him.”

This tells me that he’s most likely awake and aware and able to talk on the phone, but I just need to be sure. The only way I can think to ask is, “He’s not hurt real bad, is he?”

“A couple of broken bones, but he’s all right.” She puts me back on hold to try to get a phone near Scott. Shortly she comes back on the line and tells me, “Here he is.”

The next thing I hear is Scott’s voice with his usual greeting for me, “Hey baby.” I was already full of tears, but that commenced me to some full-fledged blubbering. We talked for about five minutes, starting mostly with me just telling him how damned glad I was that he was still alive, and him reassuring me that he was generally OK. He ended off passing the phone to a nurse who gave me the address of the hospital. I’d been to Harborview before, but it always seems like there’s 80 hospitals up on First Hill, and I didn’t want to have to drive around searching for the ER.

I called my boss to tell her I wouldn’t be in on Wednesday, made sure the kitties had plenty of water and kibble, and then grabbed Scott’s flannel pants and a sweater, since I hadn’t asked if they’d had to cut anything off of him. I got to the hospital, made note of the location of the emergency room (I’d actually been there only once before, while on a ride-along with my cop buddy Kyle), parked in the pay garage (I hate you, Capitol Hill!) and made my way to the ER. They let me in, and I finally got to see my poor hurt Scott.

He told me the tale, and here it is: He was scooting home, and made it to the base of Queen Anne. He was stopped at the red light at 3rd and Mercer, waiting to cross Mercer. The light turned green, so he started across. Coming the other way on 3rd was a feeble old man in a big land yacht. The old man had his left turn signal on, and inched slowly forward as would be expected for someone who was going to make a left turn but needed to wait for the straight-through traffic to go first. And then, the old man whipped his car into the left turn directly in front of Scott. He put on the scooter’s brakes as hard as possible, but he was probably less than 5 feet away from the car. Scott ended up smashing into the passenger side of the car, and his body rolled along the passenger side. He ended up on the ground behind the car.

There were several witnesses who all helped him out. One woman who lived on that block offered to park the scooter in her driveway. Everyone offered Scott their information as witnesses. He apparently never hit his head and never lost consciousness — his left side took the impact of hitting the car and the fall to the ground. The police and paramedics came, took statements from Scott and the old man driver and all the witnesses, and cited the old man for something like “inattentive driving” (I’ll go get the police report today and find out the full charge). Then the paramedics loaded Scott up and asked him which hospital he wanted to go to, to which his answer was, “The best one.”

So there was my poor buddy, lying in a cruddy hospital bed with a broken clavicle (collarbone) and fibula (the smaller of the two bones in the lower leg). He also had some nasty bruises growing here and there, as well as some road rash on his left knee. He wasn’t too heavily drugged, as they’d tried morphine but it made him clammy and lightheaded. So we sat and chatted for a couple of hours. It turned out he didn’t need the extra clothes — the only thing they’d cut was the strap of his messenger bag. He admitted his disappointment — if you gotta be in the ER, the least they can do is cut off your pants, or yell “clear,” or shout at you, “LIVE, DAMN YOU, LIVE!”

Lots of adventure was going on in the ER. In the next bed over, they carted in a guy in what looked like a bright red prison jumpsuit. They talked to the guy, and he’d apparently taken “20 Tylenol and about 40 ibuprofen for my headache.” I don’t know about you guys, but that seems a bit … excessive. So we got to hear the thrilling sounds of someone’s stomach being pumped. Plus, they must have given him something to make him throw up, and throw up he did. All over the floor. The curtains were pulled, so all I could hear was the ocasional heaving noise accompanied by the splash of water on the floor. Makes sense that he would be throwing up mostly water — to take that many pills, I would have had to guzzle gallons.

Scott got a feeling-up from one of the doctors (all of our doctors and nurses were chicks, which was cool) to make sure it was just his leg and not his knee that was injured. Later, she brought in a leg brace and an arm sling. We braced up his leg and slowly worked on getting him from a lying-down position to a sitting position. It took a while, since sitting up made him lightheaded. The doctor brought in some pop and graham crackers — it was around 10pm by this time, and the poor guy hadn’t eaten anything since noon. More resting, more testing, and then it was time to pull the car around. We ended up leaving the hospital at about 11:15pm, and the first order of business was to go straight up Broadway to the 24-hour Jack in the Box.

We made it home a little before midnight. I dropped Scott off at the front door of the building, and he started his slow hike up to the 3rd floor while I parked the car and got his big orange hospital bag full of stuff. I caught up with him on the last set of stairs, so he was making pretty good time. We got him in the apartment, he settled in on the bed, and then we proceeded to pull sticky things off of him. They’d left on the little circular things for monitoring various body functions as well as a couple of other sticky items, since they weren’t able to find a razor and so stuck them all to his plentiful chest hair. So pulling off the stickies was fun.

We settled him in and hunkered down for a restless night of sleep. Of course, the kitties were a problem — Trouble thought it would be a good idea to climb Mount Daddy, and tromped up his shoulder. Then Commie wanted to do his standard “stand on Daddy’s legs” before settling in to lie on Scott’s butt. Neither of us slept much, so there will be much napping today. Plus I need to see if I can go get the scooter and also go get a copy of the police report.

What amazes me is that there’s no cast on his broken leg. As for the collarbone, I know there’s no way to cast that. But not only does he not have a cast, he’s encouraged to put as much weight as he can on the leg — the doctor said activity would actually help the break heal.

I’ll update when I have full police report details and/or information on the fate of the scooter. But no matter what, that old man’s insurance will be paying for repairs or a new scooter. And the medical bills. And lost work. And pain and suffering and such. I don’t know if it’s a good thing or not, but the old man is insured through Allstate, which is also our automobile and rental insurer. Maybe it will make it easier, and they’ll be more willing to make it easy for us. We’ll see.

We joked about the fact that it’s now my turn again for a car accident. Damn it, I didn’t think my turn would come again so soon!

Oy Vey.

Got in to work to find out that our store was burglarized last night. And the retail store guy keeps referring to it as a “robbery,” which pains me in a semantics way.

Anyhoo, they broke the lock on the front door and stole the cash drawer from the register. They also took some batteries from the display, two pair of socks, and some very cheap hats and gloves. Despite the fact that much more valuable and expensive merchandise lines the walls.

Retail Guy tells me he’s already been reamed because he doesn’t take the cash drawer out and put it in the safe every night. His excuse is that when we brought on another P/T retail guy, they stopped doing that because “there’s only one key to the safe.” (Of course, it’s not Retail Guy’s fault. Nothing is ever Retail Guy’s fault.) Never mind the fact that our store is right next to, and on very friendly terms with, a locksmith. Said locksmith is now working on installing a new lock for the front door and making us a second key for the safe.

Oh, and did I mention that the beauty salon two doors down got burglarized in the exact same manner less than a week ago? And we “improved” our lock by putting this little extra ring of metal around it. Never mind doing something like taking one of these cable bike locks that never sell and wrapping it through the door handles. No, that little ring was supposed to save us from the same fate. *sigh*

Only Retail Guy and I are here for the day shift, since the other two who should have been in were up all night dealing with the police and such. I guess they were called by the alarm company around 3am. What a pain in the ass. At least there isn’t any broken glass, and in the grand scheme of things the burglars didn’t get that much. But it’s just a nasty little disruption into our usually orderly work life.

A Tale of Some Poker

All rightie. So last night Scott and I went up to the Swinomish Casino (located near Anacortes, a little over an hour north of Seattle). Scott was doing his comedy thang, and just like last time he performed there, I accompanied to take part in the 7pm Hold’em tournament ($10 buy in, no rebuys). This time, since we knew from previous experience that the tourney takes less than two hours to complete, Scott played too. So then, for your enjoyment…

We decided to head out early and have dinner on the road. Traffic was heavyish through Everett, which it almost always is. We got to the casino at around 6:10pm, so we decided to just eat there. We went to the poker room first and signed up — out of 55 seats, there were less than 10 left. Last time I played this tourney (about 4 months ago), when I signed up a little after 6pm I was the third person on the list. So it’s good to see that the tourney is growing in popularity.

We cruised over to “The Salmon Cafe” and were seated. Our waitress came by to ask what we’d like, to which we responded, “um … menus?” She seemed surprised that the hostess hadn’t given them to us, and declared that she’d have to go to the front of the restaurant to get some. Mind you, this waitress was stumping around in a walking cast, so everything she did took twice as long as normal. Which wouldn’t have been a problem, except for the fact that we needed to be quick-ish.

We ordered, and fortunately the waitress asked if we were playing the big bingo game. That gave us a chance to let her know that we were in the 7pm poker tournament, so that we were on a tight schedule. We finally ordered burgers and sat to wait. There was a buffet going on, with crab legs galore. A guy at the table next to us left his crab cracking pliers on the table and instead cracked the crab with his teeth. Sexy!

The waitress clomped out with our burgers, delivered mine, then looked long and hard at Scott’s. “I’m not sure this is right, let me go back and check,” she said. So away she went with his food, finally bringing it back a couple of minutes later. “It was right!” We had about 8 minutes to eat and pay, so we dug in. The burgers were pretty darned tasty, actually. And they gave me pickle chips instead of a big spear, which earned them points. We settled up, grabbed our jackets, and headed over to the “poker room” at around 2 minutes to 7.

Now when they say “poker room,” it’s not really a room. It’s just a corner of the casino with five tables. Though perhaps if poker does well enough there, they’ll put up some walls. We got there, and most of the tables were full — they pack us in 11 to a table for the tournaments (55 players total). I grabbed my seat (table 1, seat #2) and Scott found his (table 5, also seat #2). I could see him from where I sat, which was cool.

My table consisted almost entirely of old men (and by old men I mean 50 and above). There was also one young kid and one older lady who looked very uptight and high maintenance. I think the old coot to my right was flirting with me, while the two to my left were just loudmouthed boobs.

The game started about a minute after I sat down. We started out with $1000 in tournament chips: nine $100 pinks and four $25 greens. Play started at $50/$100, so the blinds were $25 and $50 (the blinds went up every 10 minutes). We drew for deal and began to play.

I caught one hand at the first level – A5 suited, flop came JK5, turn came another 5. Otherwise, I didn’t play a single hand the first level. Likewise the second level, I only played one hand, but it was the winner. My pockets were 8J diamonds. Flop came JJ5, so of course I bet. Three people called me, including the gruff guy to my left. The turn was a 3, so I bet again, and again all three called me. The river came … another Jack. Giving me four of a kind. I’m proud to say I didn’t make a sound or a move, and I tossed in my bet with the same speed as the others. And again, all three of them called me. I flipped over my cards, and the guy next to me groaned. He turned to his chucklehead buddy and started telling him about how excited he was to see that last Jack fall, because it gave him a full house (guy had A5). HA! Eat it, old man! It was a sizeable pot, over $2000, so that held me through the next dry streak.

The game would pause every now and again as players were shuffled between tables. We had a couple knocked out, and those seats were promptly filled. I kept an eye on Scott’s table, noting that he’d won a hand by the larger stack of chips in front of him. But I looked again a couple of hands after my four Jacks, and his seat was empty. He’d been knocked out after going all-in with pocket kings, and the caller caught a straight on the river. Tough beat, but it’s a seven card game and all that blah blah.

One by one the older folks got knocked out. I didn’t catch much for the rest of my time at table one. Finally we were all given seat assignments at one of the two remaining tables, so I moved over to table 3, seat #6. We were down to 20 players at two tables, and my stack wasn’t that tall. We were about 50 minutes into the tournament at that point. I noticed that the loudmouthed trash-talker who’d won the tournament last time I was there was at my table. And it was a pleasure to see him knocked out.

Blinds were coming around, and my stack was pretty short, and the cards just weren’t coming that powerfully. I was dealt an 89 of hearts and decided to push in. Two others called me, one of them also all-in. We all flipped our cards over. One guy had QK offsuit, the other Ax (can’t remember his other card, but it was something middling like a 7 or 8). Flop had two hearts. Turn didn’t help me, then the river gave me my fifth heart. I tripled up with a flush on the river, which left some people at the table grumbling. More players were knocked out, blinds went up, and once again I was dealt connected hearts, this time TJ. The guy next to me went all-in, had one other caller, and I pushed my still-short stack all-in as well. We flipped, and once again it was two face cards, Ax, and me. And once again, I caught my heart flush on the river. More grumbling ensued.

The game paused, and we all got up from my table and sat down over at table two, the final table. Ten of us were left out of the original 55, and I made my goal of beating my previous ranking of #11. I could be knocked out happily at that point. The bulk of the players at the final table were all young men. There was only one other woman, the high-maintenance lady from my first table. I asked the kid next to me where all the young men came from — he said he only came with one other buddy, but they all know each other since they’re all from the Mount Vernon area and went to school together.

A few hands were dealt which I threw away. Two players were knocked out, bringing us down to eight. I caught an AJ suited and went all-in. Two players called, both with taller stacks than mine. Flop came QK4 rainbow. I knew the only thing that could save me was a ten. I wasn’t involved in the betting, being all-in. I just got to sit there and watch the cards turn. The two other players both checked after the flop. The turn came 8, and both other players checked again. The river came, and it was a glorious ten. Both of them checked again, and I flipped over my cards showing my straight to the ace. Of course, more grumbling ensued because of my now historical tendencies to make a great hand on the river.

I asked Scott to find out where the money started. He reported back that the top five places were paid. I folded diligently as we whittled from 8 players down to 7 down to 6. It wasn’t that hard, because the cards weren’t that great. Finally, player number six was knocked out, leaving us at five. My stack was again the shortest at the table, since I hadn’t been knocking anyone out and the blinds were up to $2000/$4000. One of the tournament operators came over with one of those zippered plastic bank bags and the clipboard on which we’d all signed up.

The second hand as a five-player table gave me pocket 7s. I moved all-in and was called by one of the young men. I flipped my cards, he flipped his — he had pocket 8s. The table came A46, 2, K. Nothing to help either one of us, so his eights held up. I was knocked out of the tournament in 5th place, earning $33. Whew!

They paid me with a $20 bill, two red $5 chips and three white $1 chips. I kept one of the white $1 chips, cleaned it up at home, and it will be framed as part of my first real tournament winnings ever.

As far as Scott’s comedy show: usually the show is in the “Cabaret” space, which is a nice big separate room. However, the Cabaret was rented out for a private party last night, so the comedy show had to be in the “Starlite Lounge” in the corner of the casino. The bar was packed to capacity, but it was hard to hear Scott over the casino noises. He made the best of it, and had a very good show.


I love the musical The Fantasticks.

However, I now have to wash the taste of the movie version out of my mouth.

They deleted songs. They rewrote songs. They hacked chunks out of songs. The acting was so-so at best, as was the singing. Joey McIntyre as the boy-in-love was atrocious. Not only is his voice reedy and weak, he looks like the dumbest person ever to crawl the earth. All of the simplicity, the beauty, the magic of this play have been sucked out.

I’ve seen the play several times, own the soundtrack on CD and on original vinyl, and know all of the songs by heart. And I can honestly say the 1995 movie version of this musical sucks ass.