Super Bowl Sunday: WTF: What The Fiasco!

 

Super Bowl Sunday: WTF: What The Fiasco!

​I woke up early, ready to hustle. The plan? Knock out as many deliveries as possible before the Super Bowl madness started. It had snowed two nights prior, and my car was still wearing a thick white coat because, well, I hadn’t gotten around to cleaning it. Typical.

​I had my breakfast and hopped in the shower. Things were going smooth. Too smooth. That should have been my first warning.

​Suddenly, the fire alarms start screaming. I whip open the bathroom door, mid-shower, and find our newest resident, Larry, in the kitchen. Now, Larry either likes his eggs blackened or that’s just the only way he knows how to make them. Either way, Larry seems to be a little deaf, because he’s just standing there while the alarm is trying to wake the dead. I retreated to my room to get dressed, figuring if I’m going to meet the fire department, I should probably be wearing pants.

​The real kicker? Every other resident completely ignored the sirens. The Fire Department didn’t even show up until I was fully dressed and ready to go. WTF: What The Fiasco #1.

​I finally head out to work, and my hip immediately reminds me it’s still on strike. I’m navigating the supermarket in a mobility cart, dodging last-minute Super Bowl shoppers who are acting like it’s the end of the world. I finally get to the register with a mountain of food, only for the cashier to tell me they are out of bags.

​Out of bags? On Super Bowl Sunday? In a grocery store?! WTF: What The Fiasco #2.

​I scavenged some random boxes, loaded the groceries, and headed to the delivery address. The instructions said: "Feel free to park in the driveway." My ADHD brain heard "convenience" and didn't process "danger." I pulled right in.

​The driveway was a steep, snowy downhill slope. As soon as I realized my mistake, my stomach dropped faster than my car did. WTF: What The Fiasco #3.

​I spent a half-hour spinning my wheels, going nowhere. Then I spent another half-hour—me and my cane—digging through ice and snow before I finally broke free. By the time I was out, my body hurt so bad I called it a day. One delivery. On the busiest day of the year.

​I headed to the bar early to watch the game—not that I knew who was playing, or cared. I just wanted my version of a painkiller. I told the bartender: "One Bourbon, no Scotch, and a Beer!"

​I ordered dinner and settled in. But when halftime hit, the entire bar suddenly emptied out. WTF: What The Fiasco #4. Apparently, the party was elsewhere. I gave up, went home, couldn't find the game on my free Roku, and went to bed.

​To this day, I still have no idea who won that Super Bowl. And frankly, I’m too busy dealing with the fiasco to look it up.

WTF: What The Fiasco

WTF: What The Fiasco! (The ADHD Edition)

​As I sit here in my EZ chair, daydreaming about winning the lottery—which is exactly what one should be doing on a lazy Saturday—reality decides to crash the party. I have to get dressed. I have to go to work. 

WTF: What The Fiasco!

​Maybe I’ll just take a nap first...

​Here’s the real fiasco: Adult ADHD. My mind is like a browser with 47 tabs open, three of them are frozen, and I have no idea where the music is coming from. It takes zero effort for my brain to ditch a "priority" and sprint toward a shiny new distraction.

​For instance, right now I’m half-dressed in my room, supposed to be getting ready for work. Instead, I’m writing notes for this blog while watching a TV special on retirement. Naturally, I’m now Googling retirement homes. My actual concerns? Fixing my car and fixing my hip pain so I can actually keep working.

​But wait! The real boss level of this fiasco is proving my income to NYS Health so they don’t yank my insurance. I have six weeks. If I can't work, how do I prove I’m not making money? WTF: What The Fiasco! I’ve never asked for public help before, but my hip is currently voting for early retirement whether I like it or not.

​Hold on—have to shut the damn TV off so I can focus! Now people are talking in the hall! Hey! There’s a guy with ADHD in here! I NEED QUIET!

​I’m 63+. Can I limp across the finish line to 65 for Medicare? Maybe I'll take Social Security and work part-time. I’d like to survive long enough for my 50th high school reunion, but every delivery gig is a gamble. I could trip on an uneven walkway, crack my head open, and call it a day! A coworker of mine did exactly that. WTF: What The Fiasco!

​And Now... An ADHD Moment

​(Not a Senior Moment. Not yet, anyway.)

​What is the deal with broken steps and uneven walkways? And why are people building new homes without railings? Is this a conspiracy to keep elderly parents from visiting?

​And don't get me started on the Hidden House Numbers:

1. ​GPS is a Liar: It says I’ve arrived, but I’m actually three houses away.
2. ​The Scavenger Hunt: I’m looking for a number on the door or mailbox, not on a plaque hidden in your overgrown jungle of a garden.
3. ​The Interrogation Light: Don't put a bright light directly over the numbers. The glare makes them invisible.
4. ​The Challenge: Before you yell at the delivery driver, try finding your own house using GPS in the dark.

​Anyway, back to my original thought! ...Wait. What was I saying? I don’t remember.

​Taxes. Right. I need to do them to prove my income. I haven't done them in a while, and I'm not even scared of what I owe—I'm scared of what it’ll cost to hire someone to find all the W2s I’ve scattered like confetti. Finding tax papers when you have ADHD is like finding a needle in a haystack, except the haystack is also on fire. 

WTF: What The Fiasco!

​If you want to help me retire before my hip gives out, stop by my Shirt Shop, my eBay Store, or just Buy me a Cup of Coffee.

​Thanks,

E.A. (ALAN) Kogward

​P.S. I keep bottled water in my car. This morning, I grabbed it for a quick sip. I forgot it was 32 degrees last night. One gulp in and—BRAIN FREEZE!

WTF: What The Fiasco!

​"What The Fiasco: A Day of Stolen Mail, Roommate Wars, and the Laundry Cart from Hell"

 

​At what point is it okay to put me out of my misery? Seriously. I’m living in a giant grandfather clock of a house, and most of the gears inside are cuckoos.

​My morning starts late because sleep is a ghost I can’t catch. First move: slide the heating pad under the backside. My body stiffens up like concrete the second I lie down. After fifteen minutes of "heat and stretch," I can finally sit up, grab the cane, and hobble to the head.

​Back in my room, I check the news. I pay $80 a month for "free" Roku internet—the minimum price for a digital life. Cable would be $200, so I let the neighbors share the Wi-Fi to claw back a few bucks. I eat at my "mini-kitchen"—a table for one with a coffee maker and a basket for dirty silver. I use paper plates so I only have to face the dishes once a week. I eat, I swallow a half-dozen-plus pills, and then I usually pass out in the easy chair again.

​By 10:00 AM, I’m hobbling to the shower with my caddy and a towel to use as a mat. I need that hot water to melt my muscles. While I’m lathering up, the room keeps flickering—light, dark, light, dark. I peer out, thinking someone’s breaking in. It’s just sunlight blasting under the door five or six times.

​I step out to a war zone. Lenny is screaming at Sal. Sal left the front door wide open to sort the mail, and Lenny’s room is catching a draft.

"Block it with towels!" Sal yells.

"Keep the door SHUT!" Lenny screams back. "And stop touching everyone’s packages!"

Finally, Lenny treats Sal like a toddler: "Go to your room! You aren't allowed out anymore!"

​I’m 63. My kids are grown. Yet here I am, living in a daycare for grumpy seniors. When is euthanasia considered okay?

​The day didn't improve. I drove some of the guys to the laundromat. I’d procrastinated until I was literally out of underwear because I was busy working through the holiday aches. I can't carry hampers anymore, so I used a collapsible luggage rack.

​The laundromat was wet with melting snow. I had three hampers, so I used one of their big wheeled baskets to get to the car. Everything was fine until I hit the downhill slope of the driveway. The car<t caught a mind of its own, pulled away from me, and tipped. My clean, fresh laundry dived headfirst into a giant slushy puddle.

​WTF: What The Fiasco.

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