My high school girlfriend

If you know me, or follow this blog regularly—and if you do someone really should show you what a library looks like—you know once I get hold of a joke I like I hang on tight and ride it straight into the ground.

Now normally, after that last sentence, I'd follow it up with "Just like my high school girlfriend." It's my version of “That’s what she said” —an easy joke I've used numerous times in more posts than I can count. And I'm sure more posts than you wanted.

The good news is I'll be retiring that joke for awhile. The bad news is the reason why.

Yesterday I happened to be thinking about my actual high school girlfriend Sandy. She was never the one I referred to in the joke. In fact I never had a specific person in mind—it was just a funny line I could use over and over. And over.

Anyway, when I went to the Google to look up Sandy, what came up wasn't her Facebook profile or her Twitter account. The first thing I saw was her obituary. Turns out she passed away unexpectedly back in October. And even though I hadn't spoken with her in decades, it was still a gut punch that hit me like a ton of bricks.

I remember a few years after we broke up, we wound up getting together for a mini-reunion to catch up with each other's lives. What I found out was that Sandy had a very tough go of it in the years since I'd seen her. She'd had problems with drugs, which I knew she'd dabbled with in high school. She'd gotten married, but her husband was in prison for armed robbery, caught by undercover cops in the middle of a drug deal. And, while she was trying to figure her life out, she was back working at the same dead end data entry job for a car leasing company she'd had in high school.

According to the obituary, she moved to Florida in 2006, and had been working in the mortgage industry for Bank of America. Apparently she was a fairly high-ranking banking officer there. She’d also become a hardcore animal rights activist, and had eight dogs, a snake and an iguana—all of them rescues.

It was nice to read that in the years in between, Sandy seemed to have turned her life around and become an accomplished professional. I hope she was a happy one.

So again, I'm retiring the "high school girlfriend" joke for awhile. While it was never about her, now I can’t say it without thinking of her, even though I know she'd appreciate it. Hey, funny then, funny now.

Besides, that line's not the real joke. The real joke is thinking people who were once special to you will always be around. The punchline is they won't.

God bless you Sandy. You meant the world to me and you'll be in my heart forever. Rest in peace.

God nose, it could be worse

This week hasn't gotten off to a great start.

As you'll recall from an earlier post - and there will be a test - I mentioned I had a rather volcanic nosebleed about a week ago. But I saw my ear/nose/throat doctor, decided to buy some stock in saline gel and spray, and let it go at that.

And I didn't have another nosebleed. Until yesterday.

I was leaving the house for a gig at an agency I work at frequently, and I let the dogs out (guess that answers that question) one last time. While I was in the yard, I bent over to pick something up and blew a gasket. Like they say in the movies, it was a gusher.

The creative director at the agency I was supposed to start at has been great, and after having my nose cauterized (this post just gets better and better doesn't it?) today, I should be back on track Friday.

It all got me thinking about people who have it much worse than I do when it comes to nose issues. If there's anywhere size does matter, it's the schnoz, especially when it comes to colds, allergies or, for the overachievers in the audience, fire-hose nosebleeds.

I don't have a large nose or a small nose. I'd place it right in the middle. However, when I was in junior high school, Eddie Petroff decided to place it off to the side.

I was on the bus home from Bancroft Jr. High School in Hollywood. The bus was jammed with kids, and was pulling away from the stop when I saw Eddie walking with his girlfriend Dorinda, who I was friends with. Eddie saw me looking at Dorinda and said something to me, and I said something back. I figured I was fine since the bus was moving.

Well, besides being in a gang called the Diablos (so quaint, they used fists instead of guns), old Eddie was quite the little runner. He ran alongside the bus, and got the driver to stop and let him on. In slow motion, I saw Eddie parting the Red Sea of students, storming down the middle aisle making his way to me.

All together now: Oh shit.

Eddie got to me, grabbed me by the collar, said something stupid that made me wonder, again, why Dorinda was with him, then punched me in the nose and broke it. My friend Sandy was in the seat behind me, and years later, when I asked him why he didn't do anything to help me, he gave me a disarmingly honest answer. He said, "I figured why should I get killed."

Anyway, ever since having my nose broken by Eddie, I've had problems. I've had surgery twice to correct a deviated septum (Septum? Damn near killed 'em!). Apparently during one of those surgeries, my septum was perforated so I now have a small hole in between airways. Sometimes late at night, when the moon is full and the sky is clear, if the air's cold or I'm breathing hard enough, like from walking to the kitchen to stare into the open refrigerator, or looking for the remote, if you listen carefully you can hear my nose whistle.

I'm thinking about taking it on America's Got Talent. Still undecided.

The point, and yes there is one, is despite my nasal distress since junior high and this past week, it could've been worse. Thankfully, it's all manageable.

If someone were to ask me what I think of this post, I'd have to say snot the best I've ever done, but at least it doesn't blow. Sorry, couldn't help myself.

I'll take my leave now with my favorite big nose joke of all time. Pay attention, it happens early around the :47 second mark. Please to enjoy.