Running that two inch needle in and out of my neck trying to find the nerve plexus was trying my patience. I asked him afterwards why he did that, and he said it was because the readings he was getting on the scope weren't what he expected, so he had to keep probing. I asked him if he ever found the place where the readings were right, and he said he didn't so he finally gave up. In a slightly raised voice, I asked him if the wonky readings might be because something in my neck is messed up, and he gave me that look like the lightbulb suddenly popped on, then he says "Oh". I was just glad enough it was over with that I didn't have anything more to say, other than "Thanks".

My guts can take whiskey only in small doses. So I sip a bit. I have an apron I wear at hunting camp that says "Mr. Camp [censored]" across the front of it. That's to remind everyone that even though I am the cook, I am still the biggest SOB in camp. I do enjoy cooking at camp, though. I think everything tastes better with a little wood smoke and the smell of rain in the air, while sitting on a stump watching the flames flicker about.