The Birmingham Macaroni Grill

There are two reasons I've heard for restaurants not accepting my blender (thereby not allowing me to eat). The first reason is because of liability. If the restaurant were to break my Vitamix, then they'd be afraid I could sue them. I can see where they're coming from in today's overly litigious society. No matter how much I reassure them that the Vitamix has an excellent warranty and I'm not the type who goes around suing restaurants, or anyone for that matter, there's still that fear that I'm an asshole. So, let me just say right now, restaurants: Vitamix will replace my blender!!! Feel free to use and abuse it!!

The second reason is that the blender is 'unsanitary.' I heard this at the Chile's here in Knoxville. We took my sister-in-law, Sarah, out to dinner there for her birthday a few weeks ago.

Sarah with Grace and Sarah's adorable daughter, Harper (unfortunately, Sarah's husband was at work)

Harper loves her big cousin, Grace!

I ordered my meal and Betsy gave the waiter the run-down on how I eat and how to handle the Vitamix. The waiter came back a few minutes later and explained that the kitchen needs to be absolutely certain every dish they use is sanitary. They didn't know where my blender had been so they couldn't use it for my dinner. I was bummed out until the waiter told us that if they could run the Vitamix pitcher through their dishwasher before they put the food in, then it would be sanitary enough.

I was left thinking uh...why did you even feel the need to tell me that? I have no problem with any kitchen washing out my pitcher before they use it. Just blend the food up and bring it out. Use the blender as you see fit!

"I want my baby back baby back baby back"

So, maybe that was a case of too much information from the restaurant. At the same time, I appreciate it when the chefs and servers communicate with me to make sure my food comes out the right way. I'm asking restaurants to go a few steps beyond what they'd normally do for my meals. Not only will they need to prepare the food, they also need to blend it properly and bring it out in the pitcher. I'd rather have the server ask me a hundred inane questions about the way I eat than have a situation where there is poor--or a lack of--communication.

Compare my experience at Chile's with the dinner I had at a Macaroni Grill in Birmingham a couple weeks ago. 

This Macaroni Grill, to be precise

We were in Alabama, staying with Betsy's parents, for Christmas, like we do every year. 

"But Brian," you say, "why don't you visit your family for the holidays??" 

That's a good question, devoted-reader-of-my-blog (A.K.A.: 'Mom'); I'm glad you brought it up. In fact, we don't visit my mother and sister for the holidays because they live in Germany. According to some people in this house, Germany is "too far away," "too expensive to get to," and "too cold in December" (Blah Blah Blah). So, I have to spend my Christmas in Alabama, where it never snows and Santa's reindeer get heatstroke (no offense to anyone living in Alabama; at least you're better than Florida, am I right?? (no offense to anyone living in Florida)).

I can't say anything bad about these people because they're my in-laws and I see them All. The. Time.

Sorry, got sidetracked a bit there. So, we all went out to dinner and I took the Vitamix with me. I brought my blender into a Romano's Macaroni Grill in Hawaii this past summer and had no problems, so we didn't think there'd be any issues this time either. I ordered my meal (grilled salmon) and Betsy explained to the waiter how he just needed to put all the food in the blender, add about 12 ounces of water and blend on high for 90 seconds. He nodded, wrote everything down and left, like it was no big deal.

A while later, we still had my blender at the table and I was wondering when he was coming back to get it for my meal. Just then, everyone's meals were brought out to the table, except mine. Betsy asked the server if he needed my Vitamix, but he said they wouldn't take my blender. It was a sanitation issue, so they were mixing the meal at the bar with their own blender. I figured that was fine. It would have been nice if they'd let me know about it before, but I'm sure they use a powerful blender at the bar. Again: no big deal. 

Soon enough, they bring out my meal...in a large bowl. 

"No," Betsy patiently explains, "as I already said, could you please bring the meal in the pitcher so he can pour it?"

"Ok, no problem." They bring my meal back out in their pitcher and I'm given a look at their blender pitcher. Of course, I forgot to take pictures at these crucial moments so I'll do my best to describe it. The pitcher had seen better days. Half of the plastic base the pitcher stands on was broken off so it tilted at a wild angle; nearly toppling over. It was from a normal, store-bought blender, which might be fine for margaritas, but couldn't possibly liquify a serving of broccoli. I tried a few times to push some down my tube, but there were too many chunks. I should've just given up at this point, but they were only blending fish, not steaks. I thought a normal blender would be able to handle it. We called the waiter back, and told him to blend it longer. "Ok, no problem."

The broken pitcher comes back out, but I can still see the chunks in it. Nevertheless, I try pushing it in again--no luck. At this point, the bartender comes over and we explain to her that we need to use the Vitamix for my blend. She says, unfortunately, she can't use a strange blender behind the bar (but a 20 year-old broken blender is just fine) but she was willing to blend up my meal, using our Vitamix, in the small room the servers use to prepare drinks. Ok, that would be fine. We give her the Vitamix, telling her to run it on high for a minute to make sure everything is blended. Moments later, she brings the pitcher out, I try to bolus it yet again, and...no luck. There are still too many chunks. Finally, Betsy goes back in the room and blends up my meal. By the time I start eating, everyone else has finished.

I'm not angry because Macaroni Grill wouldn't take my blender in the kitchen. We've heard it before at other restaurants. My personal feeling is that those places simply aren't willing to go outside their comfort zone to feed a disabled customer, so they use sanitation as an excuse. 95% of the places we've been to have accepted our Vitamix. If they really wanted to make their customer happy, then they could have adapted to meet my needs. It could only be beneficial to them: I always leave a great tip and I give them a 'shout-out' on here. Just clean my pitcher if it's not sanitary enough. But that's not why I won't go back to that Macaroni Grill.

Unlike the Chile's here in Knoxville, they failed to communicate with us. The waiter didn't explain until after the fact that they would be using their own blender. He didn't listen, or try to clarify, how I wanted my food blended. He brought the meal out in a bowl after we told him to bring it in the pitcher. The restaurant wasn't crowded that night; it's not like our server had more pressing matters to attend. If he'd taken the time to really listen to how I eat, he could've understood that the food needed to be thin enough to fit through a narrow tube. I'm asking servers to take a couple extra steps so I can eat meals with my family. Just dump the food in a blender then bring it out to me. They don't even need to season it well; it's not like I'm going to taste it. Is it too much to ask them to keep their customers happy?

That time I fell through the attic

Oh yeah, about that time I fell through the attic.

It's sort of amusing and makes me look like an idiot, so I thought I'd share it with the world!

This happened two years ago I think? As I've mentioned, I'm an avid reader and there isn't enough shelf space for all my books in the house, so we keep several boxes of books in the attic above our garage. I always wait until Betsy's out of the house to do risky things because I know she'll just say, "You know you'll just fall and hurt yourself, dummy!!!" So one morning, while my wife was at work, I decided to go up in the attic to find some books.

It was summertime. I went up there early so it wouldn't get too hot, but the temperature was already rising rapidly in the dimly lit, confined space. Like many attics, ours has an area running down the middle (where the roof peaks to its highest point) that has a plywood floor we use for storage. Step off the wooden floor, however, and you find yourself trying to balance on 2 by 6 inch joists with nothing between them but a flimsy layer of sheetrock.

The books were far from both the entry to the attic and the only light source, so I was trying to juggle a flashlight while slinging boxes around. Sweat was already beginning to drip off my nose as I struggled to find the right books as quickly as possible. After a lengthy amount of time partially bent over and perspiring, I was so intent on looking at the next box that I failed to look where I placed my foot and brought it down on sheetrock.

Abruptly, I started to drop through the floor to the garage below. Using my cat-like reflexes, I was able to grab on to one of the joists on my way down. Or maybe I was just flailing wildly in my panic and got lucky--we'll never know. Regardless, I managed to arrest my fall and dangled from the joist with nothing but a five foot drop below me.

It took roughly 500 man-hours to create this image

A decade ago, this would have been no big deal. I could've just brought my other hand up to grab the joist and gently dropped down to the floor below. In this case, though, my left hand wasn't working and I wasn't sure about my ability to land without hurting myself since my left leg is partially paralyzed and it can't absorb the impact from falling like it used to.

There was another, much more pressing, consideration. In the picture, can you see the cable dangling down from the hole? That is part of the cable that runs from our TV, back into the wall, up through the attic, and out on the roof to our antenna because we're too cheap to buy cable. That cable was between my legs.

Here's what was running through my head (yes, I hanged there from the ceiling for quite a while): just how strong was that cable? Because if it was a strong cable, I could let go of the joist, then painfully take that tight wire straight to the balls, then perhaps it would flip me over, and I would land on my head, and Betsy would come home to find her husband's brains spattered on the floor.

So, there I was. Dangling from the ceiling like that kitten on the "Hang in There" poster. I kept trying, unsuccessfully, to swing one leg over the wire. Also the garage door was open. I hoped that someone would pass by, walking their dog on the street. Then I could yell at them to come up and help me down. But my neighborhood picked that moment to be devoid of life.

"Why don't you try 'hanging in there,' asshole!!"

Nobody tells you what happens when that cat can't hold on any longer. Where's that demotivational poster?

I was fighting a losing battle. My pitiful cries for help went unanswered. My right side has the strength of ten men, but even my herculean muscles begin to flag over time. I finally figured oh, screw it, kissed my private parts goodbye, and let go of the joist.

As you can tell from the dangling cable--and the fact that I'm alive and writing this post--it snapped as soon as I put weight on it. I came down fairly hard and banged my head on the car hard enough to put a dent in it, but otherwise I was fine. No pain to the groin area!!! 

There's still a chalk outline on the ground where my body fell

After hitting the ground, I realized I'd dropped my flashlight and it was still up there where I fell through. So, like any moron, I went right back up the ladder to retrieve the light (didn't fall that time though...SUCCESS!!). I didn't say anything to Betsy until she happened to call later that afternoon:

Betsy: "Hey, babe, I'm on my way home. I think I'm going to stop by Target. Do you need anything?"

Brian: "No, I'm good...well I might have a medication ready. Could you stop by the pharmacy?"

Betsy: "Sure. I'll see you in a bit! Love you!"

Brian: "Love you! Oh, I fell through the attic so don't freak out when you see the hole in the garage."

Betsy: "WHAT?!?!?!?!?"

Brian: "See you later!"

Betsy: "YOU SON OF A-"

*click*

You can call me Brain

This has nothing to do with tubefeeding or my health, but I feel the need to rant.

I hate the DMV.

Is there anyone, other than people who work there, who likes the DMV? Do people who work there even like the DMV?

For those who don't live in the US, the DMV is the Department of Motor Vehicles. It's where you go to get your license to drive.

Everyone I know, or see, around Knoxville is perfectly normal, they regularly groom themselves. They all possess average intelligence. Basically, everyone I come in contact with in this town is a productive member of society.

Then, I go to the DMV.

Much like the "Fourth Floor" on Parks and Recreation

You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy.

On Parks and Rec, the "Fourth Floor" has the DMV, divorce court, and probation officer (and poisonous popcorn)

Where do these people, these creatures, come from?? I don't see them in everyday life. Am I in some small bubble of normalcy while the  rest of the population lives in a sort of dystopian, alternate-dimension Knoxville?

Anyway, let me share the story of the DMV's latest affront. In 2009, we moved to Knoxville. At that time, I went to the DMV office (eerily similar to every other DMV I've been to) to exchange my Colorado license for a Tennessee license. I walked in at 9:00 AM and I was out of there by dinner time--it was a typical visit to the DMV. They cut up my old license, snapped my picture (the most hideous picture I've ever seen), and I had my new card.

I was a Tennesseean.

A few months go by.

One fine day, I was showing my license to Betsy to prove to her that my license picture was far worse than hers (she agreed), when she happened to notice that they'd misspelled my name.

No, surprisingly they spelled 'Liebenow' correctly. No one ever spells that right. Even I misspell Liebenow at least once a day but the DMV got it right.

They actually got 'Brian' wrong. Nope, they didn't spell it 'Bryan.' That happens fairly often, but they got that right. The state of Tennessee decided to call me 'Brain Liebenow.'

BRAIN.

Betsy and I shared a good laugh about it, but I decide not to get it changed. Nobody ever notices it anyway. I figured it would be a pain in the ass to switch it. Plus, I try to make a habit of spending as little of my life as possible at the DMV. So, I thought, I'll just get it corrected when I renew my license in five years.

Fast forward to the present day.

I get a renewal notice in the mail, so once again, I make the trek to the DMV. I walk through the gates of hell and into their office and low and behold, there is almost no line in front of me. Only one kindly old woman getting her own license renewal. The people behind the counter have smiles on their faces. There's no one in handcuffs over in the corner. No one curled up in the fetal position mumbling profanities. Is my life about to change? Is this a sign that things will get better? Will 2015 be the year I finally get my hoverboard and flying car??

I walk up to the counter with a shy, hopeful grin on my face.

"Hello, I'm just here to get my license renewed," I declare.

"Alright, sir," the man answers kindly.

As though I'd just thought of it, I mention, "Oh, also I need to get an error changed on my name. You guys spelled it 'Brain' last time. Could you please change that to 'Brian?'"

The man gets a crestfallen look on his face. "Oh, I'm sorry sir. We can't change names at this office. You have to go to a state office to do that. The closest one is about 45 minutes away. Do you know where it is?"

My mouth gapes open in surprise. "No, I don't know where it is," I snap.

"Here's the address," he says helpfully. "You'll need to bring your birth certificate with you."

I grow more incredulous. "So you guys made a mistake and spelled my name as 'Brain.' But now you can't just go on your computer, and switch out the 'a' and the 'i' without me producing proof that my parents weren't cruel enough to name me 'Brain?!?"

"Sorry, I'm not allowed to change names here," he repeats. "You should really get that changed though. So....uh...did you still want to renew your license or go and get your name changed?"

You see what's going on here, right? This guy can renew my license, even though he knows my name is 'Brian.' Even though I have IDs indicating that my bank, my health insurance, the University of Tennessee, the Department of Defense, United Airlines, Costco, Target, the Public Library, and the Veterans Administration all agree that I'm not called 'Brain.' The local DMV office can overlook all that evidence and give me a new 'Brain' license because he's not permitted to fix a typo. But if I want to fix THE DMV'S mistake, I have to dig up my birth certificate and drive 45 minutes to wait in line at some other office.

A judge in Tennessee can order that a newborn's name has to be changed from 'Messiah' to 'Martin.' Yet if the family had named him 'Martin' to begin with, but the hospital had mistakenly typed his name as 'Messiah,' it would have taken an actual Messiah to get the kid's name changed back. Yes, I know these two things aren't in any way related but can you see the madness that is bureaucracy???

So that's it. I'm changing my name to 'Brain.' I figure it'll be easier to switch my name to 'Brain' with every other agency in the country--including the IRS--than it would be to get the DMV to fix their typo.

I will only respond to 'Brain' from now on. It's because I'm incredibly smart.

I nearly died the other day

Sorry I haven't blogged in a while, but I was moments away from death last week.

Ok, I was definitely at risk of dying.

Ok, ok, there was a slight chance I was going to die.

Alright fine, I fell down, broke several bones, drove the car to the ER while in blinding pain, and I'm currently in the ICU encased in a body cast.

ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT!!! I fell down on some rocks and it really hurt. Are you happy?!?

I turn 40 next month. It's crazy how the older I get, the more one fall has the potential to inflict some serious damage. In this case, no broken bones, but I was so sore I could barely walk the next day, and it still hurts to take a deep breath.

How did this happen? Let me set the scene. 

I love taking my dog, Aspen, for walks. He is the perfect dog for walking. He never pulls on his leash. He loves being outside, doesn't care how cold he is (obviously; he's a freaking polar bear), and really enjoys exploring new places. 

He especially likes hiking in the snow. We get a TON of that in Eastern Tennessee!

I've been all over Knoxville with him--to every park I can find. My favorite place to go with Aspen is Ijams Nature Center. Ijams is a beautiful natural area on the Tennessee River just outside downtown Knoxville. There are hiking trails all over with a boardwalk along the river and plenty of wildlife scampering through the woods. The park is never overly crowded and has just enough hints of wildness that you can forget for a moment that you are still near the city.

I had to show Betsy and Grace the scene of the accident yesterday

On a whim, I took my handsome, noble pet to Ijams last Thursday. It was a perfectly crisp fall day--still fairly early in the morning so few people roaming the trails in the park. Normally, I took Aspen on a loop along the boardwalk by the river. But, he gets bored if we go the same route. I can tell when he's bored because he no longer stops to sniff every foreign object along our route. Instead, he just walks, glumly behind me. He steadily falls further and further behind, until I'm practically dragging him back to the car. So instead of hiking down to the river's edge, I chose a different route that first climbed up to a river overlook, then meandered down past a sinkhole and over a swampy area back behind--and probably 100 ft below--the park visitor's center.

Grace loves packing a really heavy backpack...then making us carry it

Such a beautiful morning for a hike. The autumn leaves carpeted our path and the high canopy of the older trees dimmed my surroundings and kept undergrowth away so I had a mostly unobstructed view of the rolling landscape and small woodland creatures surrounding us. Not another person in sight; only the peaceful sounds of nature that were so far removed from our suburban life across town. My fiercely loyal pet and I wandered, first following a tributary of the river, then circling around the visitor's center and some other historic buildings. As I said, we ended up far below the parking lot, on a series of boardwalks in a marshy area. By this point of the hike, I was tired, and--as so often happens on our morning walks these days--feeling the call of nature and in need of a bathroom.

His camouflage is amazing, isn't it?

So, I'm standing down there looking up this steep incline at the back end of the visitor's center, knowing our vehicle is within easy reach, ready to just get this walk over with so I can find the nearest restroom and do my business. The trail seemed to continue on, with a series of steep stairs cut into the hill and a rope railing leading up about 20 feet. 

Looks safe to me!

With my best friend at my side, I climbed those stairs, thinking there would be a trail leading me straight back to civilization. Instead, the path abruptly ended. That was it. The only way I could get back was retracing my steps and following the winding trail back over the roughly 10 miles* I'd just hiked. I looked my steadfast companion in the eyes and we decided to take a little shortcut, even though we'd just passed a sign warning us to stay on the trail.

Actually, it was this sign

Aspen swore he would help me over the difficult parts. I knew I could rely on my dog--just as early man depended on the first domesticated wolves for our survival. I set off up the mountain with my partner cautiously picking out a path in front of me. With only one working arm and my left leg weaker than the right, I couldn't race up the rocky hillside like I could've done a decade ago. But, I made steady progress with my furry white knight leading the way.

The hill I climbed looked strikingly similar to this

I was nearly at the summit. I could see the tops of cars and the pressure from my bladder had me in panic mode. Then, disaster. My left foot slipped on the moist ground. My left arm couldn't catch my body and there was nothing to prevent my left side from slamming against the sharp rocks embedded in the hillside. I emitted a sharp cry of pain and maybe a profane word or two as I wallowed in the dirt and leaves in agony. As I vainly tried to count the number of broken bones, I cried out for my friend, my loyal companion, the pet who I've fed and sheltered for countless months to come to my rescue!!

Did he come rushing back to my side? Did Aspen immediately rush off to find help or medical assistance?? Nope. The fat bastard just scrambled the rest of the way up the hill and without a backward glance, he walked away as though declaring, "I never really liked that dude anyway. Anybody want to finish my walk with me?"

"Thanks a lot, lard-ass," I muttered to the no-good mongrel as I painstakingly dragged my body the rest of the way up the hill and slowly limped back to the car. The hairy, conniving traitor, as though coming to the realization that the park was deserted and no one was likely to rescue him from his incarceration with the Liebenow's, trotted back to me and climbed into the car. As he sat in his preferred spot in the front seat, slowly drooling on the dashboard, he gave me a look that said, "Guess you didn't die back there after all. Since you're the only human around, I suppose I'll have to abide your company a while longer. You just gonna stand there staring, you scrawny punk?? Let's go!!!" Yes, his look said all those things. He's a very expressive animal!

Somehow, I was able to drive through the pain and dragged myself home. I managed to whine to Betsy enough that she took me in to see the doctor. I was certain I had a few broken ribs and a cracked pelvis but the X-ray came out completely clean. A couple days later, my hip was feeling better but my chest was hurting even more. I couldn't even take a full breath without being in pain. So this time, I got a CT scan because surely I had multiple fractured ribs that the X-ray failed to catch. Nope. All that extra radiation from the CT scan was for nothing because I only had badly bruised ribs. The only positive thing that's come from this experience is that I've gotten out of even more chores around the house. Also, I've come to see my evil, self-serving dog in a whole new light. 

Oh Aspen, how can I stay mad at you??

* This may, or may not, be accurate. Could've been 5 miles. Could've been 0.5. The truth is we'll never know just how far that return journey would've been. Hey, aren't we all on our own separate long journeys called 'life?' Think about it. 

Tennessee Football Game

Let me tell you how fortunate I am. Since I got cancer while I was in the military and it happened after 9/11, I am a Wounded Warrior Project (WWP) "Alumni." This was a bit of a shock to me. I'm not sure I deserve being designated as a wounded warrior. 

My friend, Mark, was an Army officer deployed to a highly volatile area in Iraq. While out on patrol, a suicide bomber set himself off right behind Mark. He suffered shrapnel damage to the right side of his cervical spine (ironically similar to the radiation damage I have on the left side of my cervical spine). As a result, he is weak on his right side from the neck down and has lost feeling on his left side. My symptoms are the exact opposite. Well, not quite exact. He has more strength in his weak arm than I have in mine (he plays piano beautifully). He can also swallow, so he's not a tubie like me. On the other hand, he is almost completely deaf from the bomb blast. He also has traumatic brain injury (TBI). Half of his skull had to be removed, along with a portion of his brain. He suffers from short-term memory loss and frequent seizures, so he can't drive himself.

Clearly, Mark is a Wounded Warrior Project "Alumni," right? He was in combat. He was injured while in combat. When I was in Afghanistan, I mostly sat at a computer or briefed the guys who were going into danger. I never left the Forward Operating Base, or FOB--folks like me are now affectionately (derisively?) known as "fobbits." My injuries came from radiation. There are millions of cancer survivors out there just like me--some better off, some worse. They are not WWP "Alumni." They don't get the benefits I get. Do I deserve all this? 

I get stopped by people all the time thanking me for my service. People assume, because of my appearance, that I was wounded in combat. After I correct them, "No, it was just cancer." I always imagine there's a look of disappointment on their face. I assume they think, "I went out of my way to thank this man, thinking he's a hero, but it's only cancer?? My neighbor's kid has leukemia. His family doesn't get a special license plate, or discounts at restaurants!"

I feel guilty that people make the assumption that I'm a hero because I'm a disabled veteran. Yet, I still take advantage of veteran opportunities. I take comfort from the fact that Mark doesn't resent me at WWP or Disabled American Veteran (DAV) events (or he hides it really well). Also, there are many more veterans at these events who were not injured in combat. I don't know what the percentage is, but at the DAV Winter Sports Clinic in Aspen, Colorado, it seemed like half (or more) of the veterans were not injured in combat, but instead got their TBI, paralysis, blindness, or missing limb(s) from accidents or diseases.

So, one of those opportunities I took advantage of was the WWP offered me two box seat tickets to see the local college football team (University of Tennessee Volunteers; and that's American football, not that other football everybody else is crazy about) play a game. If you're not from Knoxville, or the US, then you may not fully appreciate the culture of college football around here. Let me just say that the last time UT won the national championship title, Peyton Manning was quarterback. He appears to be regarded as a minor deity in eastern Tennessee. We get regular progress reports in the local news on his health and performance in the NFL, even though he now plays for the Denver Broncos in Colorado. I've also noted that most of Denver's games are now televised here, even a game against San Diego a few weeks ago. Tennessee has no connection to Colorado or Southern California, but everyone is an automatic fan of wherever Peyton plays.

The media constantly highlights the damage football does to players' bodies. College professors lament how college football sucks money away from academics for lavish athletic facilities. At the air conditioned box suite above the fray of the commoners' seats at UT, I had flat screen TV monitors above every urinal in the bathroom, a huge catered lunch with plush, leather seats that had lovely views of the Tennessee River (why would I bother watching the game?). Meanwhile, across the street where I got my master's degree, the decrepit classrooms date back to the 60s. The 12-story humanities building was built in 1965 and recently had emergency maintenance because it was literally falling apart. But God forbid we have a losing football season or Peyton breaks a pinkie toe!! 

Side note: I've been a rabid Denver Broncos fan since the days when John Elway was quarterback. I realize this is somewhat hypocritical to my somewhat anti-football establishment rant above, but if you try to deride my team or our players, I WILL CUT YOU!! Peyton Manning better not break a toe, either!!!!!

Anyway, I keep digressing from the main topic: tubefeeding at the football game. I wasn't sure what the food situation was going to be up in the suites, so I opted not to bring my Blendtec and use whatever food they offered at the game. After seeing the smorgasbord our hosts laid out, I will definitely bring my blender next time if I ever have the opportunity again.

"What football game? I'm just here for the food!"

It seemed like there was an entire table devoted to donuts

So I blended up a meal before the game, put it in a blender bottle, and packed it along with my tube, plunger, syringe holders, and towels in a backpack. The University's security has a thing about not bringing any backpacks or liquids into the stadium, but our liaison for the game, Mary Hughes, talked to them beforehand and they let Betsy and I through.

We got passes to stand on the sidelines before the game. Pretty cool!

Couldn't find an outlet for my Blendtec down here

Up in our box seats, I was humbled to meet several other wounded veterans sitting with us. We had an excellent view of the action. Tennessee played Southern Alabama, which should have been an easy game for us, but our team isn't very good this year (they've been struggling since Peyton Manning left) so it turned out to be an exciting game. My seat had a convenient fold-out table I could hook my syringe holder to and I was able to eat without difficulty around halftime.

Could've brought alcohol in my blend, but alas I didn't

Luckily, there was no tubie blowout and I didn't spray food on my fellow veterans

Overall, it was a great experience. I really appreciate how much Mary, and everyone else, bent over backwards to accommodate all the wounded veterans in attendance!