Rolling on the Ball Chair

I gots me one of them ball chairs a few weeks ago!  MJagger and I decided we'd improve our cores and balance by using ball chairs at work and thus we are now the proud owners of these delightfully ugly enigmas.  We were inspired by our boss, who uses a ball chair in her office. For you who have no idea what I'm talking about, it's basically an exercise ball in a chair frame. The maker of the chair indicates:

"Your body, when positioned on top of an exercise ball, is constantly making small adjustments, often imperceptible, to remain balanced and thus is constantly exercising a large group of muscles in doing so. By strengthening your body's core muscle group you help improve your posture, have better balance and guard against back injuries." 

(For the record, we probably could have gone to Wallyworld and purchased a $10 exercise ball and gotten the same benefit, but we are too sophisticated for such nonsense.  We need to spend oodles of money to get our money's worth.)


I'm using mine in place of my desk chair, so when I'm at my desk working on the computer, I balancing upon my ball.  (There are SO many jokes here, I don't even know where to start.  Trust me when I say MJagger and I have had all sorts of laughs about our big balls. I will do my best to limit my sophomoric jokes in this blog but it's gonna be REALLY hard.  See what I mean?)  The ball chair is quite the center of attention--people walk into my office to ask me something, start to ask and then stop mid-sentence...after all, I'm perched on top of a big, black exercise ball--it's hard to stay on track when you see something like that.  They usually never say why they came into my office as they are so distracted by the ball chair that they forget everything and instead stare at my ball.

The first question people ask is: "What IS that?"
I answer: "It's a ball chair!"

The second question people ask is: "Did the agency pay for that?"
I exclaim, "NO, the agency did NOT pay for our ball chairs.  I paid for it."

The third question people ask is....well, a lot of times they don't ask another question as they are very confused by the whole ball chair thing.  They usually make a sound like, "Huh!" or smile while maintaining a quizzical look.  If they do ask a third question, it's usually, "How much does something like that cost?"

Back to me and MJagger ordering the balls.  The ball chairs came in the mail, as MJagger ordered them on-line.  Poor MJagger--she should NEVER order anything on line.  Never.  When she does try, something always goes wrong--they send the wrong thing, it's broken upon arrival, her account gets hacked, it doesn 't show up, etc. I can't tell you how many times her various accounts have been hacked or how many arguments she's had with customer service representatives. This time, her ball arrived but mine didn't, despite the packing slip and box indicating this was "2 of 2" and that they had been mailed together.  MJagger started sending hate mail immediately.  (It is noted that she did get a speedy reply indicating that our balls had indeed been sent out together but one ball was behind and still in the mail, separated during transit.  I hate when my balls get separated.)  We decided to put her ball chair together so we could see what it looked like.....

The first problem is that she was missing a piece.  OF COURSE SHE WAS!  She didn't have the stability bar to keep the ball from rolling off the stand.  Back to contacting the company she went.  She decided we should proceed because the stability bar thing was the last thing we'd need to put on, so it wouldn't hamper our progress.

The second problem was that when we inflated her ball per the actual directions (yes, we actually followed the directions), it was so....little.  I mean shockingly little.  We both stared at her little ball.

MJagger: "Jeezus Christ, I can't sit on that! That's not how BossBall's chair looks."

Me: "Huh.  That's really small.  That can't be right.  Maybe they sent the wrong ball."

MJagger: "Why does this always happen to me? Why do I order anything on line?"

Me: (Silent...I have learned the lesson of not answering rhetorical questions. I'm getting smarter in my old age.) "How big is it supposed to be?"

MJagger: "52 inches."

Me: "That sounds small.  Do balls come in different sizes?"

MJagger: "I ordered the same size BossBall has.  They are all 52 inches."  (She pulls up the link on the internet and points to our chair.) See? 52 inches."

Me: "That's not 52 inches. Hand me that tape measure."

I measure her ball.  It is 48 inches.  It looks teeny small.  I look at the directions. "It says your ball will get bigger but you have to wait overnight."

MJagger: "It's not gonna get that much bigger....is it?"

Me: I shrug my shoulders.  I can't imagine the ball is going to get much bigger, but I don't know much about balls.  (See? So much fodder.)

Me: "Hand me the tape measure.  I'll go measure BossBall's chair."

I go upstairs to the BossBall's office, knock BossBall off her ball and indeed measure her chair.  56 inches.  I'm not sure if I should be happy or terrified to tell MJagger this.  I inquire from BossBall if her ball was little when she started this whole endeavor.  She assured me it looks very small the first day but you must follow the directions and only inflate it to 48 inches and wait overnight as the ball will stretch.  I have to trust her--after all, she IS our boss and she IS using a properly inflated ball chair and she is well versed about balls.

MJagger and I are not known for our patience.  We want to inflate her ball NOW; however, when I relay BossBall's message to MJagger, we for some reason choose to follow the directions and try to employ the patience we don't usually have.  I can't speak for her, but I can tell you that I had a really hard time walking away from that little ball.

Fast forward to the next day.  I stop in at MJagger's office and don't see her, but I do see her fully-inflated ball, perched happily in the frame, proudly set in front of her computer desk.  It looks full sized.  I am amazed by this. I cannot believe it.  I grab the tape measure and measure her ball.  It is 56 inches! (This is a bit concerning, as it's supposed to be inflated to 52 inches, not 56 inches...but MJagger knows a lot more about balls than I do, so I trust her that a bigger ball than normal is okay.)  I also notice that my ball chair has arrived.  I drag my box out to the car (our offices are in different buildings) and take it to its new home.

I, unlike MJagger, have all the pieces in my box.  It's easy to put together because I just watched MJagger put hers together. I inflate my ball to 48 inches. It is so painfully small but I must trust in the process.  I wait the required 24 hours and then inflate my ball to....56 inches!  I cannot believe how much my ball is able to expand.  I deflate it to 54 inches, as I am nervous about exceeding the size limit. I plop myself on top of my ball and get to work.

We have been sitting on our balls for two weeks.  Strangely enough, I haven't talked to MJagger about how much she likes or doesn't like her ball chair. I guess I'll ask her that next week. Me? I like the ball chair.  I don't feel like I'm any stronger or any better balanced or sporting a improved core, but it's pretty early in the game and I already have pretty good balance (bet you thought I was gonna say I already have a pretty buff core--ha ha!).  I like sitting on it.  I like talking about it when people come into my office.  I like everything about it except that....

....well, I have this pimple on my butt right now (Face it.  We all get a pimple on our butt every now and again.  I haven't had one that I know of in years but I have one right now.  I proudly own this); unfortunately, the pimple is right where my butt cheek meets the ball.  It's rather uncomfortable, so I've been limiting my time on the ball.  I switch back and forth with my regular office chair.  As long as the ball didn't cause the pimple, it will be all good.  If the ball is the cause of the pimple (like I said, I haven't had one for years), I am going to be very bitter.

I'll have to ask MJagger if she has a pimple on her butt.......

maybe our balls are sweaty......

and, they lead to pimples.

God help us all if our sweaty balls cause pimples......

(p.s. if I happen to slip off my sweaty ball, feel free to laugh)

While sitting on a roof earlier this week--unfortunately perched on said roof near but not next to a suicidal client dangling her feet over the edge (one never sits next to a suicidal person while on a roof, lest they take you with them)--I realized that I seem to have two themes going on in my life: eyes and roofs.  (Please ignore my cavalier approach to such a serious subject.  I mean no disrespect.  And, for cry eye, don't go getting all serious on me--neither of us were ever in danger. Just notice the theme of a roof and don't ask any questions.)  Eyes and roofs. I don't for the life of me know what this means.

You already know that  Freckles is the one-eyed wonder dog, but who knew we would soon have TWO dogs with a bad eye?  Poor Lucy, scratched herself silly with allergies and made her eye hang down like a bloodhound.  I gently explained to her that she had to stop scratching, lest she get stuck wearing the "cone of shame."  The scratching didn't stop and after two weeks of trying to ignore her pathetic eye and after losing countless hours of sleep due to her incessant licking, I took her to the vet.  Ca-ching!  One sad eyeball charged on the charge card.  Thankfully, it does appear to be an allergy issue and even more thankfully, it does not appear that the Bark of Poteidaia did any damage to herself.

It is important to note that it wasn't a tooth growing out of her eyeball. I did have a moment of concern about this--after all, I'm the one who missed the grossly infected tooth growing out of her snout.

She needs allergy pills and eye drops and time. Time to leave it alone.  Time to heal.  Time.  And, eye drops.  Did I mention the eye drops?

Sigh.  More dog eye drops.

It is infinitely MUCH easier to put eye drops into a dog's blind eye than it is to put eye drops into a dog's seeing eye.  Lucy can see the drop coming for miles away and thus she is like a greased pig when it comes time to get her drop.  With Freckles, I just grab her head, blop the drop and go. Freckles couldn't care less--even in the beginning, it was simple. With Lucy, it's sheer terror.  I have to open the bottle first, catch her second, get her in the death grip and then try and put a drop somewhere near her eye (preferably the eye that needs the drop).  I should probably take video because it is so dang humorous. So far, I think I've gotten two drops in after nine attempts.  I suppose those are relatively acceptable stats for a baseball player but it's not so good for helping a dog eye to heal.  I have to try again in a few minutes--if the wife were home, I'd get it on tape.  Maybe next time.

Lucy also has to take pills, which unfortunately (for me--it's all about me) kept her up all night with a need to poop.  I would have guessed the pills would have had the opposite effect but I was wrong. It was a LONG night but I gotta give that dog credit--she would never poop in the house. Never. She'd be mortified.  She has a rectum of steel.  Lucy just stood by the door, cried and waited her turn.   Good dog.

Taking pills is easy.  Coat with peanut butter, hold in front of the dog.  Gone.

I can't put peanut butter on the eye drops.

As for the roofs, I can't say much but can say I've noticed a theme here.  I'm not dreaming of roofs--I am experiencing actual roof adventures (hence, I found myself on the roof).  Come to think of it, I am the observer in all this, not the roofer. Weird. Who the hell observes roof themes from afar? Tonight, I plan on doing some research on the spiritual meaning of the roof.  I suppose I'll also check out the dream interpretation of roofs even though this is not about dreaming.  I would like to figure this out because I really don't want the roof theme to continue--well, unless it is a very positive thing and thus I should embrace it.

Maybe the roof was really a woof and the roof was woofing "Take Lucy to the vet."  Now that I've taken her, maybe the roof woof will leave me alone.

Maybe it's the baby Jesus, asking me to look to the heavens: "Look up toward the skies, Addi Warrior Princess. Do not turn a blind eye to me." Maybe he'd add, "I've got you covered--just keep your eyes open."

I like the woof roof idea much better, no offense to the baby Jesus.
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Finally, there is still time to voice your thoughts on my soon-to-be tattoo.  I've decided that turning fifty should be honored with a tattoo.   I've had some mighty fine ideas but none have completely tickled my fancy.  I've chosen my tattoo artist but not the actual tattoo or location to put the tattoo.  So many decisions. So, vote early and vote often.  I'll include a poll on the blog for a week or two and see what you come up with.  The only exclusions are the tattoo cannot be of a portrait or caricature of the wife or include the wife's name.  Other than that, you have free reign. Let your smarty pants answers begin.
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Rolling in Reverse

This week's "Top Addiverse Event" involves me backing in to a co-worker's parked car.  Thankfully, the only damage to her car was the mushing of her license plate.  Unfortunately, the "corner" of my read bumper looks rather ridiculous.  I asked the wife if I should get the bumper fixed.  She sighed and rolled her eyes: "why bother? The minute you get it fixed, you'll just hit something else."

She's right, as usual.  Suffer with a banged up car, it is.

How can you not laugh when you can see the actual shape of the license plate tattooed on the bumper?  Thankfully, you cannot see the lettering of the plate.  That would be over the top.

I was parked in a place I don't often park.  My co-worker was parked in a place that she almost never, ever parks.  (To help you visualize, there are only five other cars and one large van parked in the lot.  It's a pretty empty lot and there's no traffic in it.) I was backing up to make a three point turn, so I could take the mail to our Main Office...I never, ever saw her car.  I never even considered there might be a car parked there.  I was on the phone with the wife...hands free, I astutely and most honestly note (the phone was in the cup holder)....I back up and BAM! I back right into my co-worker's car.

I admit a few expletives escaped from my mouth, then I exclaimed, "I have to hang up.  I just hit someone."
(I assume the wife was a bit concerned about the abrupt ending of this call. Apologies to the wife.)

You cannot imagine how frustrating this is to me, as all my car accidents (that were my fault) have been in reverse.  What it is about reverse, I do not know.  Maybe it's my lack of peripheral vision.  Maybe it's the location of the blind spots in correlation with the lack of peripheral vision.  Maybe I'm just a lousy driver in reverse.  No matter, I had another "in reverse accident." I got out of the car, looked at hers, looked at my and let out a few more expletives.  I thanked the baby Jesus for the lack of damage to her car and then thanked the baby Jesus that I was in a private parking lot.  I went in the office and told her that I had just hit her car.  She looked rather amused.  I suppose it is amusing when your boss hits your car--probably feels like a "one-up" kind of thing.  It's easy to be amused when your boss hits your car and there is minimal damage.  After she assured me she wanted nothing (no police, no report, no nothing) and after me scouring her car to ensure there was no other damage, I continued on my to drop off the mail at our office.

I should probably post a photo of her post-accident car so I can "prove" that I did no other damage....just ruined her metal license plate from the dealer....not that this employee would claim otherwise.

Okay, so she would.  Why do you think I went back and took photos of her car? 

While I was at the Office, I immediately filled out an incident report and hand-delivered it to the HR person.  I wasn't sure if it was an incident but it seemed like it was.  I then started getting nervous.  Although I knew there was no real damage and she knew there was no real damage, I realized I couldn't prove I hadn't done any real damage.  I got back in my car, drove to the site and took some photos.  I then went inside and asked a co-worker to come see if he could find any damage.  Thank god he looked and indicated he didn't see anything but the mushed licensed plate.  I even asked, "Do you see anything behind the plate?" He bent down and peered in. "No, nothing."

Unsuspecting witness and photos: I was feeling much more confident.

I now have to decide what to do with my poor car.  Spotted with "didn't-end-up-matching" touch up paint, scarred by shopping carts, scraped by an unseen ice burg, chipped by flying rocks and now dinged with a license plate....it's mainly damage to the paint, so I'm not sure what to do.  I don't really care what my car looks like--I'm tacky that way--but, I do know I want to drive it for many more years, so it would be better if it weren't a bucket of rust because I didn't take care of the paint job.   The various damaged areas do go down to the metal, so it will rust.....

I've been saving money to get a new tattoo, so I have a bit of spare change I can use to fix the car.  (Well, at least pay for part of fixing the car--my tattoo savings is for a small design, not a large sleeve, so it's not exactly thousands of dollars.)  Perhaps I'll check out the cost of a paint job.  Perhaps I'll use a vat of touch up paint.  Perhaps I'll just live with things the way they are and call it a day. Perhaps I'll paint cartoon characters all over the car, covering the damaged areas.....

Hmmmmmm....cartoon characters painted on a car......where? Where have I seen that idea before????  Oh right--on my own truck, in the mid-1980's!  I'm so gonna have to find a photo of that to prove that I am not above painting cartoon characters on a perfectly good vehicle.

Come to think of it, I got in an "going in reverse" accident with that truck, too.....

Ode to Brown Dog

Godspeed to Brown Dog, the best neighbor canine a person could ever ask for. 

Freckles met Brown Dog when she was only a few months old.  Her owner was a friend of ours.  The two dogs met, Freckles only weighing a few pounds; Brown Dog all tangled up in long legs. They romped around a local park, chasing and playing and running like there was no tomorrow.  We weren't neighbors at the time so we didn't see Brown Dog for many a-year. Fast forward to the middle of the decade....Brown Dog moved in next door.  What a wonderful surprise!  Although Freckles was now a crabby patty and quite inappropriate to Brown Dog, I know she secretly loved and remembered her from those puppy-hood days.

Brown Dog loved to sit in our back yard and watch the world go by.  A hunting dog by nature, she'd watch the local bunnies romp by....stand up slowly....point....point....point....point until someone finally "released" her.  She'd spring into action, unsuspecting bunny in her sites. The picture above illustrates Brown Dog's love of our yard--here she is this spring, peeking through the forsythia, waiting for something to run by.  During the summers, owners and dogs would plop themselves under our green ash tree and enjoy the cool summer evenings or the too-hot-of-days to do anything but sit in the shade.

Brown Dog moved away last summer (quite to our dismay) but her human grandma stayed next door, so we got to see Brown Dog now and then.  Freckles seemed pretty happy to see her and wasn't quite as obnoxious when Brown Dog was in the hood.

Brown Dog was 12 years old, as is Freckles.  Both Brown Dog's owner and I have lamented numerous times about the aging of our beloved dogs, as both of us love our dogs more than most might think possible.  Brown Dog and Cheeseball Neighbor went through many an adventure and trial together, making them an inseparable, perfect pair.  I am truly sorry to learn of Brown Dog's passing and wish only the best to Brown Dog's family.

Godspeed, Brown Dog. Much love to your humans and Bitty Bichon.

Gone to the Dogs

Yesterday morning, I got bit by a neighborhood dog.  Right on the forearm.  That dog grabbed on and didn't let go.  It was like those police training dogs where the giant German Shepard bites the trainer's arm and doesn't let go until the trainer yells some command in German.

That sounds pretty dramatic and you know how I love drama, so I thought about leaving it at that, but really... I did get bit by a dog and I do have a mark and it was quite the exciting way to start the day....

....but, I was saved by the wife's winter coat (a Packer coat, no less) and thus needed no medical attention. (The coat will need a seamstress.)  The dog only weighed like ten pounds (it's those small ones you have to watch out for) and the owner was in route immediately after the dog charged out the door....

It happened so fast.  We were out for our daily morning walk.  I was lost in my own pity party thoughts when I heard the dreaded sound....the sound of dog tags jingling a little too loudly. I looked to the street and there it was--Cujo Light, a little ball of black fur and white teeth, screaming toward us, leash dragging behind.  I knew I'd have to act fast, as Cujo Light meant business, white fangs snarling and drool flowing.  I knew the dog's name and called out to it, hoping for some form of recognition, but there was none--it was full speed ahead. Lucy and the wife were hysterical--Freckles blindness came in very handy as she didn't see a thing (Cujo Light came in from the blind side).   I realized this dog was going to have the wife and Lucy for breakfast unless I did something pronto:

I threw myself in the way of danger.

I crouched down in front of my "pack," pulled my hand into the sleeve of the coat (it's amazing all the things you can think to do in 2.5 seconds), folded my fingers into a fist (no fingers for breakfast) and shoved my forearm in front of me with a block that would have made the NFL proud.

WHAM! Cujo Light bit into my arm like there was no tomorrow.  It grabbed and and did that shaking thing dogs do when they are killing a rabbit.  The dog was airborne--I pulled my arm up and there it was, dangling and shaking and growling and drooling.  It hurt.  It hurt a lot because the dog had me in a "pinch;" although the coat (and sweatshirt underneath--thank god I always overdress) saved me from punctured skin, it could not save me from the pinching jaws of death.  I knew I'd have a bruise by the time the event was over.  The owner frantically ran our way, screaming the dog's name the whole time.  She ripped the dog off my arm and we all took a moment to gather our wits.

(I am SO glad that dog didn't get hit by a car running across the street to kill us because that would have been much more traumatic than a little "ankle biter" putting a rip in the wife's Packer coat.)

The owner looked understandably mortified.  I assured her I was fine and I tried to convince her that we totally understood....she had opened the door to take her dogs for a walk and Cujo Light squeaked out the door as she spotted us.  I told her a few days ago Lucy had squirted out of our front door and went after the city's school superintendent & dog (never a good idea).  She kept thanking us and apologizing.  After she was finally convinced I was fine, our neighbor took Cujo Light in hand and we continued on our walk.


For the record, I do have a bruise.  It's kind of disappointing, though, as far as bite bruises go.  It's still a bit swollen and you can see where the teeth were if you look hard enough (kind of like how you can see the stitching of the baseball in the bruise from a baseball to the eye, not that I would personally know what that looks like) but it's really disappointing.  You can't say, "Man, I got bit by a dog today!" and then point to this pathetic excuse of a bruise.

Not that I'm complaining.

I have been bitten one time before, back in my days of running.  I was running in the middle of the side street, nowhere near the sidewalk or fence lines, when a little white "ankle biter" squirted under the chain link fence and grabbed on to my ankle (hence, proving the point of the nickname).  Yeow! The owner screamed the dog's name...and, the dog literally let go and fell over on its side, playing dead.  I kid you not.  I looked down and saw that the dog had drew blood.  I looked down and saw the dog playing dead.  I looked down and saw the dog was wearing an up-to-date rabies tag.  I decided to jog home and call it a day.   I didn't need medical attention, so no use worrying about it.

For the record, I did not turn around and see if the dog ever got up.

Yesterday must have been a dog day, as we ended up spending some time talking about dogs with an 80 year old farmer.  He was playing with Freckles and Lucy when he started talking about his own dogs over the years.  (Before I go any further, may I just say that old farmers have a MUCH different view of pets than I do?)   He had a gleam in his eye as he talked about his most recent dog, Skip (of whom I knew lasted less than a year but I didn't bring that up).  "Skip was a great dog, loved to run around.  I loved that dog.  Made him a little pen--he'd get all snuggled up in the blankets.  Ran out by the road, got hit by a car, crushed his nose.  That was a good dog."  He gave a chuckle.

"Dog before that was Lucky.  That dog loved everyone. We loved Lucky. He loved to run and play.  Got hit by a mail truck and needed to get his arm amputated.  I carried him back from the road and took him to the vet.  Crushed shoulder, had to have that arm cut right off.  Leaned a lot after that, did just fine with three legs.  Now, Snoopy--well, Snoopy was a good dog.  Huh.  He ran out in the street and got hit by a car, crushed his snout.  I loved that dog.  Carried him back from the road, died right in my arms."  He chuckled again, quite reflective in manner.

We pray he will stop telling us about dead farm dogs but there seems to be one or two to go...."Sparky was a great dog. He was the family dog.  Ran around free on the farm, loved to run.  Well, we had these bolts that had been cut short, between the fence & chicken coop.  Ran over those, cut his belly wide open, front to back.  I loved that dog."

Thankfully, he stopped with Sparky.  I don't think I could have taken one more dead farm dog story.

When he left, the wife and I made sure Lucy and Freckles knew just how lucky they are to not live on a farm. I reminded the wife that having a dog with one blind eye really isn't so bad.  I thanked the powers that be for having me wear that winter Packer coat in the middle of May...and, maybe....just maybe..I was a wee bit grateful for having such a lame bruise.....and, for not having to live on a farm.

Seven Hundred and Counting

This is my 700th blog, or so my statistics say.  Do we get a prize or what?  I think we should get a prize.  Maybe the 700 Club will send us something.  Ha!

The other day, as a 20-year-younger-than-me female co-worker walked past where I was standing, she innocently enough  remarked, "you're all dressed up today!" As she walked down the hall, I looked at my clothes, looked at a male co-worker seated near where I was standing and looked down at my clothes again.  I was wearing a solid t-shirt (you know, the "nicer" kind that you get an actual department store), nicer jeans than not (cheap but no holes, sparkly things on the back pocket), an old cardigan sweater and my Doc Martens.  Confused, I shrugged my shoulders at my my male counterpart; he tilted his head and gave me a quizzical look.  My co-worker must have recognized our confusion.  She stopped, turned around and exclaimed, "well, you're wearing a t-shirt without slogans or cartoons on it!"

Touche.  (You know you've taken casual work clothes to a whole 'nother level when you are considered dressed up because there are no slogans on your t-shirt. There should DEFINITELY be a prize for that.)

This, by the way, is the same 20-year-younger newbie co-worker who during lunch at a fast food restaurant asked "are you're a vegetarian?" when I ordered a veggie burger. When I confirmed my vegetarian status, she laughed and said, "of COURSE you are!"  I think the kicker was when I was talking about the wife.  I explained that she was a professor at a local college.  When Ms. Newbie asked what department she was in, I answered, "in the P.E. department." I thought this girl was going to fall out of the booth. "Of COURSE she is!" she hooted.

Thankfully, I find her entertaining.  Others might not be so entertained.  I remind myself that she, being twenty years younger than me, has a VERY different view of both me and of the world. She sees me as a very stereotypical, old school kind of gay wad--she sees the stereotypical way of being for someone my age and "lifestyle," as the religious right like to say.  Her world is so much different than mine.  I am sure I seem SOOOO old to her, so ridiculously OH.EL.DEE.school.  I can't help it I come from the day of the mullet, pinkie ring and Melissa Etheridge concert.

I can't even think about how old my nieces must think I am.

I forgot how I am, what I do, how I look.  It's easy to do this.  I look from the inside, out.  I don't think much about me being me.  I just am.  I see things from behind these thick lenses and keep moving along, humming as I go. So, when someone comes along with this kind of thing, it is always a surprise, when really it's not a surprise at all.

I'm glad to say that I end up surprising this newbie along the way.  Just about the time she thinks she has me pegged, I throw a wrench her way.....just the other day, a song came on her radio.  I mentioned how I really liked the song and muttered something about their album.  The look on her face was priceless.  I thought for a moment that I must have a booger on my face.  I asked what was the matter--she couldn't believe I knew the band or liked their song.  Again, I was confused and asked why. "Well, it's a Christian band.  I didn't think you'd listen to Christian music."

I waited a few seconds and then calmly said, "Damn, I forgot I'm supposed to be outside doing pagan rituals, dancing naked while wearing my Birkenstock, recruiting small children to join my ranks."

To her credit, she quickly apologized.   To my credit, I remained amused.  To our credit, we had a good laugh about stereotypes.

With this 700th blog entry, I acknowledge that my view of me is definitely different than my co-worker's view of me...which is much different from your view of me...which is painfully different from my teenage nieces' view of me.

For the record, I do not recruit small children to join my ranks....but, I might be found dancing naked on the front lawn doing pagan rituals.   If you see me, please make sure to say, "Of COURSE you do!" when observing my lebetian interpretive dance. Then, we can all have a good laugh about the view.

Don't Put Your Lips on It

Seems that I have caught a cold.  It's a pretty lame cold, as far as colds go--I have been "low grade, not very miserable" version, thankfully not "oh-my-god-this-is-the-worst-cold-ever" cold, like some of my co-workers have experienced in the past few weeks.  Everyone at work is sick with some form of disgusting virus or bacteria: I've been dodging Swine Flu, Bronchitis, puking flu, Strep Throat, Pneumonia, regular-non-swine flu, sinus infections, tonsillitis and the common cold. Poor MJagger's household has been swimming in germs for the past three months--they've had everything but the Bubonic Plague and I'm not sure they didn't have that, too.  They've been to the ER, the walk-in, the regular doctor's office and her manly peep was even hospitalized with pneumonia. That's a houseful of germs. (Side note: I am especially grateful to "only" have a cold because I am in MJagger's office more than I am in my own and I use her computer all the time...if there is one thing that has germs, it's a keyboard.  I also use her phone, which is another germ fest. I refused to get MJagger's illnesses.  Seriously.  I refused. I told the Universe that I wasn't having any of that nonsense and I haven't. Thank you, baby jesus and thank you, Universe!)

I'm pretty pleased with my "decision" to go with the cold.  I've been trying not to brag, as I was one of the few left that hadn't caught anything, and I've been putting out thoughts of good health, so I am not too distraught over my "failure" to avoid all illness-producing germs.  Besides, my cold pales in comparison to those around me--I've seen co-workers just about accidentally blow their brains out with bionic sneezing, while others have missed days of work with their version of the wheezing and sneezing cold.  Me? I've gotten away with a 12 hour period of a scratchy throat, followed by 12 hours of non-stop watering eyes...five days of fuzzy thinking with an accompanying feeling of being on the verge of not feeling very good but feeling good enough to do whatever I wanted, a fever that never got above 99 degrees, a bout of ongoing but not copious clogginess and.....a cold sore. This cold sore thing was a complete surprise to me as I almost never, ever get a cold sore; in fact, I can't remember the last time I had one.  As a kid, I used to get canker sores but I rarely ever get those now that I'm an adult (knock on wood, knock on wood, knock on wood). I'm a pretty "sore-free-mouth" kind of girl, so I'm not sure what to do with this thing developing on my lower lip.

The placement of my developing cold sore makes it suspect.  I thought it was a cold sore--after all, I have a cold--but, the wife thinks it might be a canker sore.   It's on my lower lip but it's more on the inside of the lip than not.  Further review suggests it's like an innie-outie belly button--it's kind of inside but kind of outside. The wife's statement that it looked like a canker sore made me think: what the hell IS the difference between a canker sore and a cold sore? A quick jaunt on the Internet suggests that a cold sore is caused by a virus and the canker sore is not. Cold sores are on the outside of your lips and canker sores are on the inside.  Cold sores are contagious and canker sores are not.  Cold sores can lead to some mighty big problems (think Herpes on your naughty bits), while cold sores usually stick to making you miserable and then don't give the gift that keeps on giving.

That said, I'm still not sure what I have.  All I know is that I should not touch my lips and then touch my naughty bits.

As with everything, I turned to Book de la Face for help regarding my cold/canker sore.  My proclamation regarding the development of a cold sore led to many interesting suggestions, of which a few are illustrated here.  Ear wax and toothpaste were also mentioned.  I really got some good ideas here and will be taking this up with my local pharmacy later on in the day.  If it were a canker sore, I would go get some Milk of Magnesia and swish it around, just like my mother taught me to do as a child.  I'm not sure how I'd swish it around considering the placement of this thing but I'd give it the old college try.  I'm probably not going to try putting my own earwax on the thing (and am certainly not put the dog's earwax on it) but I'm might try a bit of OTC TLC. Whatever I do, I won't be kissing you and I won't be touching anything important.

If you come to my place of employment, I suggest you don a mask, gloves and haz-mat suit.  Although we seem to be approaching the end of the work-place plague, it's always better to be safe than sorry.  Do not shake anyone's hand, do not kiss anyone, do not lick anyone's keyboard.  Douse yourself in hand sanitizer and bleach when you leave.  On second thought, just stay home and far away from my co-workers. And, whatever you do, do not kiss me and then touch your naughty bits.  Just sayin.'

I've..got..to...be...a...Macho

Why.Em.See.A

Oh my goodness, is it Friday night already? Okay, so I'm feigning surprise.  I know what day it is. I consumed a vat of brownies earlier in the day and am in a sugar coma, but I still am coherent enough to know what day it is. Tonight, I am trying to stay awake long enough to go to a party in honor of our dear friend, so I have no excuse for not writing this blog.  I.must.stay.awake!  We're not used to going OUT at 8:30 PM....we are used to coming IN at 8:30 PM.

I have had oodles of things on my mind....happy thoughts for our Golden Apple friend....conflicting thoughts about the wild turkeys meandering in our yard (they seem to be making a daily visit, tossing mulch left and right)....wondering what to do about my M D N A license plates, as I'm sick of everything thinking they say MONA....putting out good thoughts for Jobi the Wonder Dog (who, thanks to the miracles of modern medicine, is the recipient of new new eye lenses---who knew dogs get cataracts?)...healing thoughts for Captain Harley.....fun memories of American Bandstand.....contemplating the merits of the 17th Annual Day of Silence....pondering how naughty substances became associated with 4/20....and, truth be told, December 2012.

Now that Dick Clark died--after all, he is the king of New Years Eve--I predict things are going to start getting weirder and weirder, faster and faster.  Damn those Mayans.  MJagger says I'm the only one thinking about these things, but won't she be sorry when she didn't take December 21st off and I have the day off. These three diddies were on my Book de la Face wall yesterday, so don't tell me people aren't thinking about these things. (Thanks to those whose artwork is depicted here.  I'd give you appropriate credit but Book de la Face isn't very helpful in this department.  I do see that the ecard thing is appropriately acknowledged, so one out of three ain't bad.  I make no claim to these illustrations; I am merely sharing their genius with you.)

I think I shall stick to talking about Mr. Clark, as that is a much happier topic than the stupidity that might surround the end of this calendar year.  I loved American Bandstand.  L.O.V.E.D.  My mother claims that she used to plop me in the playpen (located conveniently right in front of the TV) and have me watch AB while she did household duties.  I believe her because I adore music and I love the concept of musicians performing/dancing/lip-syncing on the tube. I'm guessing I didn't even move when AB was on--I probably begged to be put in that aptly-located pen. Can't you just hear Barry Man.O.Low singing the theme song?   I honestly really can remember seeing ABBA, Blondie, Andy Gibb (yum!), The Osmonds, Michael Jackson,  Madonna, Adam and the Ants (oh, how I loved Adam!), the Carpenters, Barry Man.O.Low and, of course, David Cassidy on AB.  The Number One band (and, I do use that term loosely) on my list of "Most Memorable Memories of American Bandstands of Addiverse Past" is....

....The Village People.

I'm serious.

When I think of AB, I think of the Village People.  Cop. Biker. Construction Worker. Cowboy. Soldier. Indian. I can remember thinking, "who ARE these people and why are they dressed like that?" I wanted to BE one of those people.  Macho Men, YMCA and In The Navy can make a bad day so much better, even 30+ years later.  (How I didn't catch one iota of all that gayness oozing from the songs and the band until I was at least 35, I do not know.  Sigh. I'm the same person who missed what Kiss You All Over and Afternoon Delight had to do with, so no surprise I didn't catch on quickly to my People.)

I loved the Village People.  How can you not love a band of six grown men in such stereotyped outfits? If memories serves me right, I do believe my sister owned two of their albums and that we would imagine ourselves being a Village Person (which is way weird because I was in high school when they were at the top of their game and I should have been way too old to worry about being a village person).

This jog down memory lane brings up thoughts of Midnight Special, Soul Train and Solid Gold....the glory days before the arrival of MTV in 1981 (which is a whole 'nother chapter in my life).....

.....but, really it was all about the Village People.  Spell it with me!

Have Filter, Will Travel

I'm not ignoring you.  I swear.  I've been busy trying to figure out the new blogger way of being, repeatedly listening to Madonna's album, trying to figure out if I am or am not pregnant in the State of Arizona, getting my myo fascial released, chasing turkeys out of the backyard...and, changing the car cabin air filter on my own. Sweet! I was so excited by that adventure that I made the wife take a photo of me at the completion of my conquest. (That's one dirty filter, if you ask me.) Now, many of you are not impressed--after all, if you know how to change a car cabin air filter, you are chuckling and wondering what the hell I could be excited about.  For those of you who didn't even know we had an air filter in the car cabin, you are probably at least a wee bit impressed.  I thought I'd save some money by doing this task by myself.  I went to the auto store, bought the filter and brought it home.  I wasn't sure what to do next and the car book didn't say anything besides "change your cabin air filter."  I didn't even know where it was located (the dirty one--the new one was in the box in my hand).  The wife asked only one question during the endeavor:...

The wife: "Did you read the directions?

Me: "Of course I did!"

Okay, I lied.  I didn't even know there were directions.  I looked at the box and I looked in the car book but I didn't read or even see any directions.  Thankfully, when I pulled the new filter out of the box (to take one last look at it), the directions fell out and floated to the ground.  After reading them and seeing that it would take me "twelve easy minutes," I was good to go.   I changed that puppy in under three minutes.

No, I am not going to tell you where it is located or how to change it.  You can pay me for that information. It'll cost you.

In case you think I'm kidding about turkeys, here they are, milling about in the backyard:

They are making quite the mess.  They do this weird thing with their feet/claws/talons/hooves and throw mulch all over the place.  Maybe they were trying to throw mulch at me so I would move along.  That's better than them trying to spray me with something, to be sure.  The wife has been wondering what/who the heck is messing up her mulch--the holes are obvious and much bigger than I would anticipate from a mourning dove or ground squirrel (which are back and remain on my poop list--photos sure to follow in a few weeks).  I should have taken a video  of the "tossing turkeys" because it was pretty impressive how far they were chucking that mulch.

Just so we are clear, the Madonna album has grown handsomely on me; in fact, at times I feel like there is an ear worm eating into my brain and I can't get this or that song out of my head.  The wife will sigh and say, "is that ALL you are going to sing?"  I appreciate that a few of you have emailed me/messaged me/posted comments here about the whole MDNA thing.  I've decided that the louder you play the album, the better it is.  I was meant to dance.  I've read a ton of blogs and articles about the album and it's a mixed bag.  The only thing mixed about it for me is a dance mix.

While I'm dancing, I think I'll enjoy our trees, which are out of control.  We have two trees that I swear are growing carnations.  The wife says they are some form of cherry tree but I don't see no stinkin' cherries--just carnations.  The entire tree is one big pink carnation.  The warm winter and early spring has led to an explosion of color of which is at least four weeks early and much brighter than usual.  The freeze hasn't been good to the hydrangeas but the rest of the flowers look no worse for the wear and the trees look spectacular.  Take a peek at the tree behind me in the car filter photo--that's a carnation tree if I've ever seen one. You know, I could make a few bouquets and hand them out--change a filter, share a bouquet.

I think there might be turkey on the menu if the wife has her say about it.

All is well in the Addiverse as my new license plates have arrived and they just happen to match my new Madonna album.  I know this is shocking to you; after all, what are the chances that my new plates would have anything to do with Madonna, let alone be the SAME as the album title?

Unfortunately, I have learned that the title of her album is not only reference to her name (sans vowels) but also a nod to the drug ectasy (otherwise known as MDMA).  So we are clear, I do encourage use of Madonna albums but do not encourage the use of dance floor drugs, even when Madonna albums are playing under the disco ball.

Enough about pop culture and license plates.  I need to talk about our lawn.  I can't wrap my head around it.  The grass is the greenest, plushest, healthiest it has EVER looked. EVER.  I mean since the day we moved in, it has never looked better. Usually at this time of year, it's still brown-straw-ish and there are all sorts of dead spots from dog pee.  This year, I am supposing because of the ridiculously mild winter, the grass never really got brown and we never seemed to develop the dog pee rings.  We've already had to mow three times and we just crossed into April.  As long as it keeps raining now and again, we are going to have the most beautiful green carpet for a front yard.

I went to lunch with two youngsters earlier in the week.  They are half my age, so they qualify as youngsters. The grrrrlz asked me to go with them so they could ask questions of their elder (me).  They have been together for one year and wanted to talk to someone who had been together with someone for longer than that.  The wife and I definitely qualify.  Since the wife was unable to attend the lunch, I was left to my own devices to answer the questions posed.  For some reason, they started with the topic of arguing.

Grrrl 1: "What do you argue about?"
Me: Blank stare.  "Um.  Argue?"
Grrrrl 2: "Yeah, what DO the two of you argue about?"
Me: "Now? Or, way back when?"
Grrrls look at each other. Grrrl 2 shrugs her shoulders.
Grrrrl 1: "Now."
Me: "Gosh.  We tend to bicker.  We don't argue very much anymore. Um, I guess we argue about the lawn."

Talk about blank stares.

Me: "Well, I don't think the lawn needs to be cut yet and she does.  She worries about things like that.  I don't. So we argue about that."


I can tell they think I am from another planet.

Me (trying again): "I guess that sounds silly.  Huh. We argue about me not taking my shoes off in the house."

Now they are SURE I am from another planet.

Me (trying not to sound so old): "We used to argue about money.  Does that help?"

I can tell this does not help.  What the hell are they arguing about? It's certainly not about money, shoes or the lawn.  There is nothing I can do but ask, "Why do you want to know what we argue about?"
Grrrrl 2: "Do you argue about having friends?"

Ah! Now we are getting somewhere.  Me: "You mean about having friends? Like our "own" friends?"
Grrrrl 1 gives a dirty look at Grrrl 2, then spits out "That is exactly what I mean."  I swear I see  Grrrl 1 stick her tongue out at Grrrl 2.
Me: "You mean do I have my own friends and does the wife have her own friends and do we have together friends?"
Both grrrrls light up and exclaim "YES!" at the same time.

So, this is what they are arguing about.  Dear god, you could not pay me enough to be their age again.  Never.  The mega-millions would not be enough.  I sure do like bickering about the lawn more than this kind of thing.

Me: "Well, I have my own friends, the wife has her own friends, we have together friends, we have work friends, we have non-work friends, we have gay friends, we have straight friends, we have old friends, we have high school friends.  We have lots of friends. We have all kinds of friends. Why do you ask?"
Grrrl 1: "Oh, I don't know."
Grrrl 2 (with a growl and a glare): "Oh, you do too know.  SHE doesn't think I should have any friends besides her.  I think I should be able to go out with friends without her. I bet you can go out with your friends and the wife doesn't care."

Ooooh.  This has potential to get ugly.  There are steak knives at this table. I've got to figure out a way to diffuse the situation.  I decide there is only one thing to do--talk about something else.

Me: "Did you see my new license plates?"


This works like a charm.  They are totally thrown off kilter.  Me: "My new plates are all about Madonna.  She has a new album out, you know."

For the record, 25 year olds do not care that Madonna has a new album; in fact, I'm not sure they know who Madonna is.  I can tell that they have decided to stop asking questions and find someone who is a little less elderly to talk about such things like arguing.  There is only one other thing I can do:

Pick up the tab.

This also works like a charm.  Old people like me have more money than young people like them.  Who can argue when someone is paying for your lunch?

And so, the rest of the meal went swimmingly.  I don't think I helped them solve anything in regards to their relationship but I do think I reinforced the fact that getting older isn't all that bad...after all, I've got nothing more to worry about than if the lawn needs to be cut or if people understand my license plates and I have money to pay for lunch....

I think they decided that getting old people as friends is a safe way to go.

Lest you think I didn't leave them with any pearls of wisdom, let me assure you that I convinced them NOT to get each other's named tattooed on themselves.  I told them that is it NEVER okay to get someone else's name tattooed on your person unless it is your mother or your children's names.  NEVER.  I don't have the wife's name tattooed on me and I never will.  Call me superstitious but that would be like the kiss of death.  I made them promise not to do anything ridiculous like that.

See? Old people still do know what they are talking about, even if they don't have anything to argue about besides lawns and shoes.

Mega-Madge and Me

I don't know what you've been up to but I've been busy googling of myself, securing mega-million tickets and listening to the new Madonna album.  You DO know that you are supposed to google yourself every now and then, don't you? I am always tickled of how many of "me" there are in the world--there are at least 18 people in the US with my same name.  I think there's more but I stopped counting after 18.  The most prominent one seems to be some lady in Florida who writes math books.  Definitely not me.  The majority of the same-named women happen to be minorities and live south of the Mason-Dixon line.  There is one who prances around dog rings in show dogs, one who made comments about how much she loves Doris Day and even one that lives in two places I have lived--oh wait, that is me.  Funny how some search engines think I still live where I lived 25 years ago.  I'm all good with that--stay away from where I am now.  I was a little shook up at how many photos of me there are on the Internet...all my blog photos show up as me.  Dear god, that's a lot of me.  I'm not sure how I can stop this, as I don't really have my name publicly tied to the blog, but I will be working on a way to make myself a little less visible.

I can't believe I just wrote that.  Me, the hog of the limelight, wants to be less visible.

My co-workers have decided to join the mega-million-madness by pooling our money and buying a pile of tickets for tonight's drawing.  I figure I could live with ten million (after taxes, of course) as my portion.  I don't play the lottery very often so it was exciting to go buy a ticket or ten.  I've already planned out how I will be spending it.  Relatives, take note: you will be getting a chunk of the highest amount allowed to be given tax free as a gift.  While that won't make you rich--I think it's only $10 or $!2,000--it will allow you to go buy new clothes and a few of Madonna's new album.  When I told the wife about my plans, she said, "Can't we spend the money on ourselves first?" I assured her that we would have plenty of money for ourselves.  I told my boss that would continue to work because one cannot live off of ten million dollars and besides, I really like my job. Well, okay--maybe I could live off of ten million dollars and I'm going to want to travel.  Maybe I can work part time.

Don't worry--after we win, I'll still blog.  After all, I will have all sorts of time to blog and I'll have actual things to blog about.  No more mundane subjects of no redeeming value.

As for Madge, I have to think about this new album.  Last time she put out a new album (a real album, not a greatest hits compilation), I didn't like it very much after the first few listens.  I blogged about that, you know. I believe it was 2008--I'll double check.  I grew to love that album and thought the world tour that accompanied it was great.  So, I'm not too concerned that I am not in love with this album. I believe it will grow on me and that I'll enjoy the accompanying concert.  Until then, I'll try and figure out why I think the album feels a wee bit desperate.  I do like a few of the songs and already have them stuck in my head, so I take that as a good sign.  I think my biggest "complaint" is that she wrote this pathetic diddy with the "F" word in the title...the first line of the song is the title of the song, so the "F" word is front and center. Why she had to do this, especially in a ballad, I'm not sure.  It just makes her sound like someone who is old who is trying to be cool. It's my least favorite song and the most desperate.  I have no problem with the "F" word. It's just that there was no need for it that I could figure.

Oh.my.god. I sound like a curmudgeon.

I don't think any of this album will get any play on top 40 radio.  The last album didn't, either but that didn't hurt sales and didn't keep her from making a bazillion dollars  I think me, MJagger and all the 50 year old gay boys of the world are keeping her in business.

Someone's gotta do it.

My ten million mega-million dollars will NOT give me enough money to become Madge's new friend so I'll have to look elsewhere. She poops more than ten million dollars a day. She eats ten million dollars for breakfast. I bet Lucy Lawless would gladly be friends with my ten million dollars.  I bet the other 18 people with my name would be friends with my ten million dollars.  I know the people living in my old apartments would gladly visit me and my money.....

....all I have to say is: Wait til I win that money--THEN google my name.  That'll keep all of us busy.

Hungry Gaming---Yum!

First of all, I need your help: If you have NOT read the Hunger Games books yet but plan to see the movie, please DO NOT read them before going to see the movie.  I am looking for someone to give me a non-book perspective of the movie. I thought the movie rocked, but I'm wondering if (a) the movie makes sense if you haven't read the books; (b) you thought the movie was good despite not reading the books; and, (c) the movie has the same emotional impact that it has on the book-reading viewers.

That said, there are no spoilers here, so everyone feel free to continue reading, whether or not you plan to read the book or see the movie.


I decided to go see the Hungry Gaming movie on opening day in IMAX.  I took four hours of vacation time, secured a ticket on-line from Fan-tastic-do and zipped toward the theater.  Water bottle and protein bar hidden for sneak-in snack, I pull into the parking lot.  Now, weekday theatre in our town is never busy, even on opening days, even for really big movies (even all those vampire movies have never been crowded), so I wasn't too worried about the event.....but, I did not anticipate what I saw before me....


As I am driving in, I notice FOUR giant yellow school buses lined up right in front of the entrance. Four!  Four buses with a bazillion middle schoolers pouring out of them.  Pouring! Stunned (with mouth literally dropped open), I park the car, try not to drop the water bottle hidden in my sleeve and head toward the entrance.


It is no exaggeration when I say the entire lobby was filled with middle schoolers.  They engulfed the place.  I couldn't even see the front of the concession stand.  I got my ticket from the kiosk and meandered toward the usher taking tickets.  I look at her as I had her my ticket and say, "Please tell me these kids are NOT going to the IMAX show."

A lady standing near my laughed.  She said she had just asked the same thing. The usher assured me the kids were not in the IMAX theatre and that they had several theaters to the opposite side of the showplace.  The usher also pointed out that there was a special line at the concession stand for people not with the school group.  I found this to be genius.

As for the movie, here's what I have to say:  (No spoilers, so do not be afraid.)  
(1) I thought the movie was quite true to the book.  Of course, they had to change some things, cut out characters, shorten interactions.  I was very pleased by this and feel they captured the essence and story of the book.
(2) I was quite surprised how I embraced the actors and actresses in their roles.  Reading a book, you imagine your "own" characters.  I had been disappointed when I saw the casting--those actors didn't look like I had imagined.  Yet, once the film got rolling, it all made sense.  I have to give the casting director credit.
(3) It did not seem long at all.  I never once looked at my watch (or, my cell phone--the younger generation doesn't look at watches) nor did I get antsy.  Time flew by.  I guess the movie is about 2.5 hours long.  I wouldn't have guessed that.  I would have guessed two hours, which is a compliment to the movie.
(4) Whoever came up with the idea of having Cinnabons available at the concession stand is a GENIUS.  Dear god, there is nothing better than the wafting of cinnabons and popcorn as you are standing in line waiting to get in the theater.  (Well, I suppose if they threw in there chocolate chip cookies baking, that would be the perfect trifecta.) I ate a Cinnabon and I don't ever eat them when I'm at the mall nor would I buy them to bring them home.  I couldn't say no--the aroma was too tempting.  It was six bucks for that puppy and worth every penny.  Sweet and salty is also a genius combination.  Damn you, theater owners!
(5) Bring your kleenex.  There are two scenes that I found gut-wrenching, even though I knew they were coming and I knew what was going to transpire.  I am wondering, though, if the scenes were so powerful because I read the book or because they were powerful on their own.  That's why I need to find a non-book reading viewer--to know if the scenes were as powerful for you as they were for me.  The scenes were quite true to the book and yet they still enveloped me in angst.  I did not have Kleenex, as I am not the crying-in-a-movie type of grrrrrl.  I had to use my sweatshirt sleeve, which is disgusting but worked.
(6) I will gladly go see the movie again.  Probably two times more.  The incredible scenery of North Carolina alone is enough to make me go see it again.
(7)  I know what I am going to be for Halloween and it's not Katniss. I will leave that to MJagger. She's got the look--dark hair in a braid and leather boots make her a shoo-in.  I have plans which include a lot of blue.  'Nuf said.
(8) I think that school deserves a medal.  They had everything organized. Everything! Good job by the school and by the theater. I'm still contemplating how I feel in regards to a bunch of middle schoolers seeing this movie as part of a field trip.  Alas, I'm just old and crusty when I use that kind of thinking.
(9) I am NOT looking forward to the third movie, as that book is so dark and so painful that I'm not sure I can deal with it.  Ugh, to think about putting all that in a movie!
(10) Go see it in IMAX if you can.  I know, I know--it's just another scam to make more money and movies are already expensive enough....but, all that beautiful scenery is begging to be enjoyed.  I'm sure it will be just fine on the smaller screen, but it really is worth it, at least IMHO.  It's kinda like Avatar--it was great in 2-D and still incredibly enjoyable, but seeing it in 3-D took it to a whole 'nother level.

That said, go see the movie.  If you didn't read the book and go see the movie, you have GOT to tell me what you thought.  See the movie and.....may the odds be ever in your favor, especially when Cinnabons and popcorn are involved.

Jump Right In and Spit Back Out

I will get to the Hungry Gaming next blog.  This can't wait--a miracle of the Lord has happened....I jumped back into the medical loop and it spit me right back out!

I take this as a sign from the Universe that I am good to go and should stay out of doctors' offices for the issue of which I do not speak.

I went to the doctor, as planned, little white flag of surrender in hand.  As noted in the previous blog, I was hoping not to jump back in to the medical loop, because once you are in, it's pretty hard to get out.  Besides, all the tools and knowledge of western medicine have done me diddly squat poop--I guess it's that addiction to the white coat that sucks me back every now and again. Is there a 12-step program for this? "Admitted we were powerless over the white coated-eastern scoffing-laden-with-pharamceutical-cash doctor and that our managed health care has become unmanageable."  

My doctor always walks in, looks at me with a jaunty step, pretends to know who I am, gives me a hearty hello and a big smile.  I know he doesn't know me and I'm quite certain he has no idea what possibly could be my ailment; thus, he radiates happiness and gives empathetic look of concern on his face when listening to you.  Hey, that's almost as good as recognition.  Long story short: I whine, he listens, I whine, he waves an empathetic brow, I whine, he nods while reading the computer screen.  To make sure he is listening and to give emphasis to my whining, I add, "if you told me eating meat would help, I would start eating meat again today."

Thankfully, he does not suggest I start eating meat.

While whining, I give a side-note I can't exercise any more because the pain bothers me too much, he stops typing and looks at me.  I can tell this bothers him.

He indicates this is unacceptable.

I am giddy with gratitude.  This not being able to exercise seems to quantify things for him. I have finally struck a chord which shows how the quality of my life is being affected. He decides that I must exercise and that we must find a way to do this.  He drums his fingers on the table as he stares at the monitor and says that "we have to get you exercising. I don't really want to refer you to the surgeon." He then gives two thumbs up for myofascial release and tells me to keep doing this as it is very beneficial.

I can't believe I am hearing this.  My doctor just said gave two thumbs up to myofascial release and he has announced he doesn't really want to refer me to a surgeon. Doctors refer people to surgeons and specialists as part of the medical loop fun.  Here I am, not getting referring.  I start to think I'm delusional but he says it again.  This being spit out of the medical loop while trying to jump in is really mystifying me.  We discuss the plan of how I will exercise again. I am supposed to give this three months.

With this, I have been spit out of the medical loop.  I can work miracles in three months.  I am absolutely positive that I can work miracles in three months.


I decide to worry about seeing the Hungry Gaming on opening day and on buying new shoes instead of worrying about not knowing, once again, what truly ails me.  After all, one can't exercise without proper footwear......

I think I need at least two new pair of shoes in a three month's span, don't you?

Not Real: Not a crusty critter

After further review....

It appears our crayfish is a mushroom.

I went and dug up one of these puppies, in hope we would find mud puppies for dessert. Here it is, plopped on our driveway (which obviously needs to be sealed). Alas, it's just some funky fungus.

Guess I have more research to do.

Fungus Among Us


The Addiverse gives a big shout out and a hearty congratulations to Chick-a-hello and her best friend Scooter.  Those gayla apples are mighty fine this time of year.

My original blog, which was written over the weekend, never got published because I had second thoughts about it.  Suffice it to say that is was mostly me whining about my continuing medical saga.  I thought the post was pretty funny (I always manage to entertain myself), then I realized I was just giving "power" to the issue by whining/writing/giving attention to the issues. It's hard for me not to whine.  I can whine with the best (or worst) of them.  Here's what I'll tell you: I'm jumping back into the medical world loop.  Once you are in the medical loop, you have to go along for the ride.  Seat belt is fastened, hands will remain in the car at all times.  Here I go!

Since my original blog is no longer relevant, I decided that I would blog about the mystery blobs in our lawn.  We've got these "things" for a lack of better word/term/description bubbling up from below--kind of like some kind of underground mushroom is trying to push through the turf.  They're pretty big, as far as I'm concerned--they've got to measure six inches wide.  They're black and look dirty but not like dirt.  We noticed them late fall and during the winter--they're multiplying and we now have like ten of these things. I went out and tried to take a photo of them, but the sun was already setting, so it's not the best visual:

All but this one of the mystery piles do NOT have a hole in the middle; this is the only one that does, so that's why I took the picture of it.  Most of the piles look like dog poop that's been sitting out in the rain--you know, if you have a big dog and it poops and you don't pick it up and it rains, you go back out in the yard and there's this pile of something that no longer resembles poop? That's what we're talking about here. If you have any idea what this might be, we are all ears.

In order to get an expert opinion, the wife called our lawn man.  I took him out to the piles (after all, the wife was already in her pajamas--I couldn't make her go out on the front lawn) and pointed to the problem.

Lawn man: "Wow! Those are crayfish.  In my 14 years of working in the business, I've never seen crayfish in a lawn."

He then looked around, a bit confused.  After all, we live in a suburban-type setting with no river/creek/pond anywhere near us.

Lawn man: "Do you have a lot of wild life around here?"

That's when I looked around.  Houses.  Mailboxes. Parked cars. Cell phone towers.

Me: "Um, well we have squirrels and rabbits." I thought about it for a few more seconds.  "I think we have a stray possum every now and again."

Lawn man: "Huh.  Crayfish! I'd just throw some dirt over them and re-seed." He smiled.

Me: "Throw some dirt on it?"

Lawn man: "Yup! That's what I'd do."

I went in the house and announced to the wife that we have crayfish.  Neither of us believe that for one second but we have no idea what it actually is, so I suppose we shouldn't poo-poo the idea until we have some other ideas. Our vote is that it's a mushroom/fungus type of ordeal.  We've had stink horns and puff balls and vomit/slime fungus but never crayfish-type bubbling-from-below fungus.

I think there is a fungus among us.  The Addiverse is offering a reward for information on what the hell is growing in our lawn and includes information on how to get rid of it.  If it does indeed turn out to be cray fish, I will give the Lawn Man the prize.

Maybe I'll just throw some dirt on him and keep the prize for myself.

An Most Excellent Day

What's not to love about a day that features more tampons in the mail and the discovery of chocolate peeps?

Well, I must admit to being extremely disappointed that the Golden Arches decided to increase the price of their ice cream cones, but that's not such a bad thing when one gets a sparkly green box in the mail filled with bundles of love.

First, let's talk about the peeps.  I am pretty sure peeps don't qualify as a vegetarian product but one must make concessions when it comes to confections.  I hate peeps.  Don't eat them.  If I want that much sugar in such a small package, I'll go eat a tablespoon of raw sugar and call it a day.  That said, I was very intrigued when the wife held up a package with a chocolate covered peep in it.  Now, you KNOW I love chocolate so I wasn't able to say "no" to this product.  I figured it was worth the chance.  Suffice it to say that I found it strangely semi-tasty.  I'm still  no peep fan but this was much better than an original peep.  If you get the chance, try one.  I wouldn't spend any time seeking them out but if one crosses your path, just say yes.

As for the tampons, I received a sparkly green-glitter box in the mail, sent to me from the northernmost tip of Wisconsin.  It was filled with ob tampons.  As you can see, Lucy is very interested in what's in the box.  She was disappointed to see that this wasn't another package from a dog-related company (i.e. treats in the mail).  She doesn't need tampons, so what does she care? Those of you who visit the Addiverse often know what this is all about.  Those of you who only visit now and then have NO idea why I would be excited to get ob tampons in the mail.  I can't thank my transplanted cheddar head enough for the gift. Kiss kiss!

A final note about those ice cream cones: they went from fifty cents to 69 cents.  It had to happen, I suppose...but, it's messing with my money system.  I keep 54 cents in my car at all times because that's how I roll and that's how much they cost.  Now I have to figure out how much tax is on 69 cents so I can keep the proper amount of change on hand.....

...I'll focus on how much those little cotton bundles of love fill me with joy and not worry about the price increase.

Here's to YOU have a most excellent day.

Taxing our Brains

To understand the irony of the most recent mathematical transaction in our house, you have to understand that the wife was a math teacher for 17 years and I was an art major.  Now, I'm not saying that art majors are inferior to math majors--I'm just saying that if there is a mathematical equation, my money is going to be on the math person, not the artist.

Our tax refunds arrived in our bank accounts last week.  Because we are single in the eyes of the federal government, we have to file separately and thus get separate returns.   It's a pointless story to talk about the happenings of our money, so I'll just say that once we get our returns, we put our refunds together, as any other married couple would do, and the wife goes out and spends it. 

This year got a little more confusing than usual--why, I am not sure.  It seemed like a no-brainer to me but the wife kept insisting that I was wrong.  This made me nervous because I was pretty sure I was right but how does the art major argue with the math major about numbers? I swear to you this is the discussion that happened around our kitchen this week.

I'll base it this blog on $2000 because that's a nice round number easy for math majors and art majors to use. You should see me preparing for this blog--had to get my numbers figured out so I could appropriately and correctly explain this interaction....

Me: Hey! My tax return is in my bank account! $1500.  Woo woo!

The wife:  Mine arrived, too.  $300, just as expected.

Me: I'll write you a check so you can put the refund in your account so you can pay for the new furniture, right?

The wife:  Yes.

(Side note: we really are getting furniture.  We were on track to get furniture last year but the dog became the new furniture, with all her vet bills.  Thankfully, the dog is quite healthy so we are going ahead with the purchase.)

Me:  [I pull out my check book.]  So, I write you a check for $1500--right?

The wife: No.  We split it.  Besides, we haven't gotten our State tax return yet.

Me: Well, we haven't filed that yet, so no.

The wife: I'm including that in this equation.  I got $300, you got $1500, we're getting $200 more.

Me: Uh-huh.

The wife: That's $2000 total.

Me: Uh-huh.

The wife: How much are you keeping?

Me: Huh?

The wife: It's your return, you don't have to give me everything for the furniture.

Me: [getting really confused.  What IS she talking about?]

The wife: So you have to give me $1000 but you'll get the $200 from the State, so really you have to give me $1100.

Me: [REALLY confused.]  Why aren't I giving you all the money I got back?  Besides, you already have $300.  So, I should give you $800, right?

The wife: No,wait--you know what? Why don't you keep my part of the mortgage payment (which, for the purpose of this blog we will say is $500--I have to keep the math simple for illustration purposes)--$800 minus $500 is $300.  You should write me a check for $300 and then we'll be even.

Me: [Silent.  This is wrong. Way wrong.]  Are you sure? You want a check for $300?

The wife: Yes.  Do you think it should be less or something?

Me:  No--no, not at all.  I don't think your math is right, tho.

The wife: You own me $300.

Me: [grabbing paper and pencil] Let me show you.  If I have $1500 and I'm going to get $200 more and you have $300, that's $2000.  You want me to keep $500 for the mortgage, so that's back to $1500.

The wife:  Right.  Half of that is technically $750.

Me: Well, okay.  But, why am I cutting this in half?

The wife: because that's your return.

Me: [very confused, art major brain beginning to pound] But, we're putting our money together for the furniture.  

The wife: So, you write me a check for $300--that way you can keep $150 for yourself.

I am now WAY too confused to speak.  I write the check for $300 and hand it to her.  I go get ready for work, shaking my head, thinking that I need to give her $1500 from the return, give her the $200 when it arrives and she needs to put this $1700 with her $300, which makes $2000, which will pay for the furniture.  If she wants me to take out the $500 for the April mortgage, the equation is $1500 + $200 - $500 = $1200.  This has nothing to do with her $300 tax return in her account.  I should be writing her a check for $1200, not $300.  I don't even know what to think about this keeping $150, let alone where she got this $300 idea. I don't know what the hell she is talking about.  While standing in the shower, I think I should just shut up and enjoy my windfall.

I go to work and say not another word. When I get home, the wife announces she has figured out she was wrong.

The wife: I didn't figure this out correctly.

Me: Really?  [Duh.  I knew that.]

The wife: Right.  Here's the equation I worked out [shows me her scribbling with numbers and tiny little writing that I can't read, which I am sure is about what is what].

Me: Right.  So how much do I owe you?

The wife: You own me $600.

Me: Huh.  Don't you mean $900?

The wife: where are you getting $900?

Me: Well, I gave you $300.  I'm supposed to be giving you $1200.  Isn't $1200 - $300 = $900?

The wife: Yeah.  So?

Me: So, I need to write you a check for $900.

the wife: Did you get the state refund?

Me: No.  But, I will.

The wife: But, you don't have it yet.  So, you can give me $100 when it gets here.

Me: What? Why aren't I giving you $200?

The wife: Don't we split that?

Me: Are you SURE you taught math for a living?

*********
For the record, I wrote the check for $900.  I had faith she'd figure it out sooner or later.  She eventually did:

The wife: Oh, you should have given me $1200.

Me: Really.

The wife: Yeah.  I don't know what I was thinking.

Me: Me neither.  So, the $300 + $900 is $1200, so we're all good, right?

The wife: Right.

Me: And, we're even, right?

The wife: Yes, until you get the state refund.  Then you owe me $100.

Me:  [OH.MY.GOD.OH.MY.GOD.OH.MY.GOD!!! WHERE IS SHE GETTING THESE NUMBERS????]  No. we're even.  I've already given you the money for the state refund that we didn't get yet.

The wife: Oh.  [pause]  Are you sure?

Me: Are YOU sure you were a math major?

The wife: Right.  We're even.

I don't think she is yet convinced about the money.  All I know is that the furniture has been ordered and is on its way, the state will send me refund in a few weeks and the dog is healthy.  Maybe I should just shut up and keep whatever money she thinks I should keep.

Me: Maybe we should have a joint checking account.

The wife: Maybe we should get divorced. This whole tax thing would be much simpler.

Me: What? Divorcing me wouldn't change this.  I'd still give you the refund in my account.

I can tell the wife is NOT following this statement or concept.  Someone get this lady some hormones!

Me: Yeah, maybe we should get divorced. That'll solve that problem.

She'll come to her senses tomorrow.  Maybe I should spend that money before she figures things out.....

Problem is, I'm not sure how much to spend because I'm not quite sure she even knows how much I have.....aw hell, I can just make up numbers and fire up the Internet before the hormones kick in!

Maybe I should've been a math major.  At least a math minor.

Face It

I could talk about how much the Republican candidates freak me out or how I much I've been contemplating the meaning of the warmest winter on record or how I'm excited about the arrival of my new Jillian workout DVD or how classy Peyton Manning was as he was cut from his team, but I think it's more important we talk about my face.

Now that I am 49.75 years old, my face--as I lamented about just a blog or two ago ("Freeze Frame, 2/16/12)--has taken on a mind of its own:

My facial skin is now incredibly pliable, which can be quite entertaining, albeit in a disturbing way.  I think I can get ten to twelve inches of skin stretched away from my face, which is perfect for making faces to scare small children. I like to scare tiny tots, so I am all good with this development.


Speaking of small children, I think I've lost a few in my frowny brow.  It always looks like I'm serious or angry but I'm really not serious or angry at all.  It's just what my skin has done. I can thank my grandmother for these deep crevices. They are an inheritance of the maternal type.  I best check them every once in awhile to look for dogs, dust bunnies and Jimmy Hoffa hidden in there. I've heard botox will help me not look so stern but really? Wouldn't I rather have more Madonna tickets than get botulism shot into my face? I'll keep my grandmotherly gift and Madonna tickets, thank you.

Lest you think I've always had those frowny brows, here I am in younger years, frowny brow free:

My jolly jowls are developing in a most droopy, surprising way.   I noticed this on my friends before mine became apparent. Now, they are giving me little waves "hello" when I look in the mirror.  I think the jowls are my least favorite change, not that it matters how I rank the changes.

I'm not bringing facial hair into this discussion, so cool your jets.

I am not alone in this adventure....thankfully, most of my beloved friends understand my plight.  They too are experiencing the change of the middle age face. Technically, we are more than middle age, but that's how we roll in America.  We are middle age qualified.  (Some of us are already AARP qualified.  I am awaiting my invitation.)

The wife and I went to dinner last night with three of our most wonderful friends.  A great time was had by all.  Because we are all in the general vicinity age-wise, we are all enjoying the same age-related issues, including changes in our facial presentation.  We embrace it and laugh about it because we really are powerless over our skin and our crease lines have become unmanageable......unless, like I've said before, you are Madonna and can have plastic surgery.  None of us have the inkling or interest in such nonsense, so embrace our faces we shall do. 

We cannot fight gravity.  Or, so they tell me.  No wonder all those parts are going south (and east & west, in some cases).   Life would so suck if we didn't have gravity, so go with it.

I embrace my gravity-changed face but I'm not so sure I'll ever be able to embrace my wobbling triceps, though.

I am SO going to have to take video of that.  My triceps, not gravity. 

Here is one of my triceps in 1987:

Here is one of my triceps in 2011:

Okay, okay, so that's not my tricep. It's Madonna's tricep.  I'm fantasizing. It COULD be my tricep.  She's older than me, so she gives me and my triceps hope.  I don't think she's had tricep-enhancing surgery, so I am motivated: this is what I aspire to by the time I'm 50. POW! POW!

Hmmm.  I think I'll stop pulling the skin on my face and do a few push-ups.  

Ah, hell--I'm not gonna do a push up.  I'm gonna go eat another piece of chocolate and pretend I did the push-ups. Then I'm gonna go scare some small children.

Anyone seen the dogs lately?