Pontooning, Wearing Protective Clothing & Eating until you BURST

Last weekend was spent on “Crimson Boulders Lake” in Central Cheeseland. Participants included hostesses Master Reiki and Blue eyes, the wife, Ms. UConn and Ms. Tennessee, the Golfing Texans, the Kayaking Minnesotans, Team Bee Cee Dee Zee (aka BCDZ), and the ever-delightful Queen of the Snort and Jimmy Buffet Jr. So much fun was had that it is impossible to capture it in one measly blog entry, so here are just the highlights….

The weekend started with Team BCDZ displaying the most creative Pontoon-inspired Port-o-potty I have ever seen (trust me, having a port-o-potty on a pontoon is much easier than hanging your parts in the water trying to pee):

I am not a pontoon pee-er, but if I were, I would have been proud to pee in this contraption. (I do not pee in lakes, either, but I cannot say the same for my cohorts. They are lake-peeing professionals.)

When not on the pontoon or in the water, we were busy putting ourselves into food comas, consuming copious amounts of food. Hunger was not a prerequisite to eating food. In fact, I was never once hungry during the tenure of the three-day event yet I kept shoveling food into my pie hole. I think these women must have starved in a previous life because they put on spreads to feed entire nations of starving children:

Thankfully, all this food just made us more buoyant in the water. (This is a photo of breakfast. A SMALL breakfast.)

During our time together at the “compound,” no one managed to get a third-degree sunburn despite the blistering sun. No one managed to fall out of a kayak or off a moving jet ski (although the wife did manage to fall off a parked jet ski—how, I don’t know but she was good to go). No one went hungry. Only two people got their cramp-riddled periods and only one person was seriously bruised on the buttocks via tubing:

No, I am NOT going to tell you which tuber this is.

No one fell into the fire, although I did manage to cover myself with black tar-goop-spooge crap while at the fire pit pointing out the Big Dipper:

(This is my artistic rendition of the Big Dipper BEFORE I poured black tar all over my face and clothing. It doesn’t look like the shape of the Big Dipper but it does look starry, don’t you think? It’s actually the sun reflecting on the water. I was an art major. See? It paid off.) After this event, I was banned from poking the campfire, which left me sullen but safer.

And, thankfully no one managed to fill their vagina or rectum with “forceful water entry” despite riding the jet ski without protective clothing (can you believe this is actually posted on a jet ski?):

(The actual warning label says: “Wear protective clothing…normal swimwear does not adequately protect against forceful water entry into rectum or vagina.” What the hell are these people doing if they are getting water shot up their parts? Obviously, someone sued the jet ski people if they have to put such a stupid warning on the water craft.)

We got to see what we are almost sure was “Air Force One” fly over the lake as we pontooned our way to glory (or maybe it was Dick Cheney on Air Force 2, flying to Wyoming to shoot someone—er, I mean go hunting); it was quite the site to see a 747 escorted by four fighter jets.

The thing we did the most during the weekend was laugh (well, maybe we ate more than we laughed, but it was close). According to the wife and Blue Eyes, the Fun Factor was off the scale. There is no better (or cheaper) therapy than to laugh and snort. I could write about the weekend for days but I’m too full of food and poop to write more than I can currently pound out on the keyboard. Suffice it to say a great time was had by all. I am appreciative both of the wonderful people in attendance and the generosity of the hostesses. The wife and I are lucky indeed to know such fabulous, caring, funny people (even if they do make too much food).

Both Blue Eyes and yours truly managed to get stung by killer wasps on Sunday. Blue Eyes was attacked as we were leaving, so that really sucked because she got no sympathy from the crowds (everyone had already left by the time she got stung). Neither of us know where those damn things came from….but, they got us in the foot/ankle area, so we are guessing they were hovering low to the ground (unlike Air Force One).

The weekend ended too quickly, as most fun things do. We’ll just have to focus on losing weight for next year, so we can eat disgusting amounts of food when we return….

When Lisa met Harry

This blog entry is lovingly dedicated to my “Project-Runway-addicted-Tom-Cruise-is-dead-to-me-hair-styling-goddess” (whose pregnancy is very distressing to me because I don’t think I can take the thought of her being on maternity leave). For blog purposes, I will refer to her as “Harry.” (Get it? Hairy? Harry? Well, I thought it was funny.) And, since this entire blog truly is dedicated to her, I also dedicate this picture of myself (as a blushing bride) to Harry:

(Hey, it all ties in with our salon conversation today. Love that killer zit on my chin.)

I was talking to MJagger this morning (at work, not working) about how I had a hair appointment today with Harry. MJagger got all excited and told me I HAD to tell Harry I wanted to grow my hair out like Lisa Rinna (photo for all of you not in the know):

(Stop staring at Lisa’s freakishly large LIPS—look at the HAIR, for god’s sake!)

MJagger was correct in assuming the wife would love if I had Lisa Rinna hair, as the wife ADORES Lisa Rinna. (She even voted for Lisa on “Dancing with the Stars.” I’m not kidding. We had dueling voting in her house--it was me for Stacy Kiebler and the wife for Lisa. It was cut throat. Thankfully, no one was maimed during the voting.) My point is that no matter what miracle Harry can do with my hair, I am NOT EVER going to look like Lisa Rinna. Nonetheless, MJagger insisted I follow through with this mission; she even printed a photo of Lisa off of the internet for me to take to the appointment. I ran quickly out of the office in an effort to escape (and so not be late to my appointment), but that damned MJagger literally stood in front of my car, holding the photo of Lisa toward my windshield. I took the photo and stuffed it in my “I-hate-having-a-purse-but-it’s-better-than-carrying-a-baggie” purse and drove off to Hair Heaven.

Here's another photo of Lisa, of whom I do not look one bit like:

Okay, I admit, I was WAY embarrassed to tell Harry about this whole Lisa Hair thing. I mean, I need to stay out of my own hair decisions—when I get involved, it ends up looking like there’s a dead squirrel perched on my skull. Whenever I say the words, “I think I’d like to grow my hair out,” I think someone should hit me as hard as possible with a baseball bat to the head. So, offering a photo of some Hollywood Hottie with longer hair than I currently have is NOT on the top of my things to do list. You need proof that I shouldn’t sport longer hair? Think early ‘80s:

(A MULLET! A MULLET for god's sake! I'm not sure what part of this picture is the most disturbing: the mullet, the pooka shells or the chocolate shake oozing out of my mouth. See? This is why I should NEVER be involved in hair decisions for my own being.....)

Anyway, I got my balls up and muttered to Harry about MJagger’s Hair photo and when asked, handed Harry the picture. At this point, I wanted to throw up—I’m not kidding, this is the stuff traumas are made of--Harry looks at the photo, looks at my head, looks at the photo and then pronounces, “yeah, your hair can do this.” I’m not sure if that meant “yea, you can do this but you are so gonna look like a moron” or if it meant, “wow, that’s nice you want a change and this will work” comment.) Within minutes, I was on my way on the way to Lisa-dom. (I give Harry a lot of credit for not laughing or sneering. Thankfully, I cannot see a lot when at the salon, as I am blind without my glasses. Harry might have been making a "gag me" face and I wouldn't have known...at least I didn't hear any snickering.) How hair stylists must HATE when people come in with photos of stars and say they want to look like "that." I'm sorry, Harry--I don't want to be one of those people!!!

You know, whenever you grow your hair out, you have to go through this stupendously ugly stage—there is no way around it (besides wearing a wig or baseball hat). Harry warned me about this event in my near future. I will keep a stiff upper lip (and a lot of hairspray) for this event. Her maternity leave will give me the opportunity to grow my hair out in silence. I made her promise that if my hair gets to looking ridiculous, she is to slap me as hard as she can and then cut it all off. I have faith that Harry will do that as needed. (Of course, this is the same lady who has seen cattle be born and somehow thinks giving birth to her baby will somehow be relatively the same....)

I went back to work with my new-not-really-so-new hairdo and paraded around for MJagger. She gave me a high five and told me my hair was "rockin'!" I take that as a good sign. Now, if I could only do something about these lips......

I'm tired of rock-n-rolling...let's go bowling!

Before I go any further, let me say this: you have not lived until you’ve played tennis while wearing trifocals.

Vacation week is coming to an end. That’s good because I’ve gained three pounds in five days (must have been that once-a-day-minimum-ice cream consumption and those three frappaccinos WITH whipped cream—don’t forget that funnel cake and the two giant helpings of frozen custard from Culvers) and since I can no longer use the muscles in my legs because they are so sore (from my efforts to be sporty). I need a nap and a bowl of sugar.

Thursday found us at the International Gay Games being held in Chicago. Actually, Thursday found us standing in giant puddles of water where the softball fields used to be. As the rain had flooded the fields scheduled for use by the Gay games, the festivities had to be played on the grass. (Playing softball on a grass infield sucks. Trust me on this. I had to do it in high school and it sucked then and it sucks now.) The softball event was a bust. I don’t want to say too many negative things because we only went to one event on a rain-soaked day and I’m sure the other events were much better attended and in better condition than the softball fields. I hate to say it but the softball in Rockford is a much higher caliber with just as many queers running around. The only difference between Gay Games Softball and Rockford Softball is that at the Gay Games we got to see the Sydney, Australia team walking to their cars and we saw the Taiwan team sitting in a circle under a tree—you won’t see that in Rockford. No concessions, no souvenirs, no t-shirts, no bleachers, not really any spectators besides me and the wife. Just a bunch of bar teams and one umpire per grass field. Oh well, at least we went. We decided returning on Friday would be futile.

Thus, new activities needed to be found for the remainder of vacation week. Since we were with my family, there is only one thing to do: go bowling! As I’ve said in previous blogs, I am NOT the bowler my family aspires me to be. I hate smoky bowling alleys and those rental shoes make me want to gag. I am so not a bowler—I didn’t get that gene. Oh well, for love of family and in an effort to increase my “sportiness” factor, I agreed to go bowling with the wife and three nieces. It was during the bowling alley’s “non-smoking” hours, which, in a bowling alley terms means no one is currently actively smoking but the three zillion cigarettes smoked yesterday are still a cloud above the alleys. It’s better than the smoking hours, I guess. I went with the 13 lb orange house ball, although it did not match my outfit, and suffered through a pair of bowling shoe rentals. Yikes. I hate feet. I don’t even like my own feet. Why would I like wearing shoes that had been home to other feet? I want to burn my feet after wearing those things. Anyway, I was spanked by the younger crowd but thankfully was able to squeak by the wife’s score. (Good job, Niece #1, tying her all-time high game—while using a finger-tip ball, no less. You non-bowlers have no idea what that means, do you? Well, it’s good, so be impressed.) Between frames and moments of bowling humiliation, I realized that I was going to have sore leg muscles by the next day. It stinks to be bowling and recognize how much of a slug you must be that you are getting sore quads from bowling. That is SO not sporty.

With vacation almost over and so very little time left to be sporty, the wife and I rode our bikes down the street today to play some tennis. Hence, the tennis and trifocals comment at the beginning of this blog. I already suck at tennis—I suck even worse with trifocals and I didn’t think that was possible. Come to think of it, riding the bike with trifocals wasn’t all that fun, either. I’m sticking to drinking frappaccinos and doing McYoga from now on. My thighs are so sore I can barely get up off the couch to get a bowl of ice cream. I am a SLUG! (Pictured is the Santa Cruz Banana Slug, my all time favorite team mascot. I like to think of myself as a banana slug, not your plain ol' garden variety slug.)

Final moments of vacation are being spent doing mundane things such as replacing wiper blades and smearing Rain-X on car windshields (see previous blog for reasons why this was necessary), weeding the garden, flossing teeth and whining about my sore muscles. I am also coming to terms that I am no longer sporty. I’m a sporty-has-been. Face it—if I signed up to participate in the Gay Games, I’d join the marching band instead of a sports team. I’ll leave the sporty stuff to the wife…unless dancing at a Madonna concert is considered sporty—then I am SO in.

We didn’t go to a tropical island. We didn’t ride any roller coasters. We didn’t take an airplane ride. We didn’t stay in a hotel….but, it was a perfect vacation for someone who needed to be a slug for a week. A sporty banana slug, that is.

Yeee Haw! Country Thunder Wednesday


Wednesday of Vacation week found us in at COUNTRY THUNDER Twin Lakes, Wisconsin with Master Reiki and Blue Eyes. The crowd was HUGE, the drunks were plentiful, the rain held off until the middle of Keith Urban's set and cheese curds were enjoyed by all. Taking photos was a challenge, as we were waaaaaaaaay in the back of the lawn (closer to the cheese curds and port-o-potties, so that's all good). I took some photos of the "Jumbotron" to illustrate the day's activities. (Um, that's a photo of Lucy in her bikini--she would have worn this to the event had we let her come along for the day.) We enjoyed the music of Eric Church, Miranda Lambert, Carrie Underwood, Leann Rhimes and Keith Urban. Yeee haw! I've always wanted to see Leann Rhimes in concert, so that was a dream fulfilled. (This was time three for seeing Keith--I love him but refused to sit in the rain for him.) Carrie is a cutie patootie, complete with knee high boots (woof!) but her singing was a wee bit pitchy. Compare that to the perfection of Leann's ability to belt out a song and you know who's the experienced singer here. Of course, I did enjoy Carrie's rendition of "Sweet Child of Mine" by Guns and Roses (that's mixing it up at a country concert). Leann was not to be outdone and wowed the crowd of drunks by performing some Janis Joplin. The wife and Master Reiki purchased cowboy (cowgirl?) hats and were the hit of the lawn chair brigade. (I unfortunately only had my nerdy bucket hat from Disneyland...I decided to save my money for a Gay Games t-shirt tomorrow.) It looked like it was going to pour all day long, but that saved us from a third degree sunburn and from melting due to heat. I did partake in the eating of a delicious-albiet-greasy funnel cake (definitely NOT on my low cholesterol diet but the pickings are slim at a country concert for vegetarians like me--those cowboys like their BEEF!).

The most interesting part of the day was the ride home. Something was definitely wrong with the windshield. I blamed the wife for the cleaning products she uses on my windows, the wife blamed my windshield wipers and Blue Eyes thought it was the wax residue from going through the carwash. Whatever the cause, we could NOT see out the windshield. Defrosters, wipers, cleaning fluid, swearing, heaters---NOTHING worked. It was sheer terror for the 1.5 hour ride (it usually would have only taken an hour, but when you can't see out the window, you tend to drive slower). I think the wife was mighty happy to be home, as she was pretty terrified during the ride. We made it home with time to spare before the giant thunderstorms came rumbling through town. (Those in tents at Country Thunder probably had a really long night--nothing like being drunk and in a tent during a hail storm!) The wife says she'd go again next year, as long as we got a hotel and then went shopping at the mall the next day.

As for the vacation week, we forgot to go golfing on Tuesday morning (how that happened, I don't know) and we are supposed to go the the Gay Games in Chicago today and tomorrow, weather pending. Until then, we'll sing some country music, the wife will parade around in her new cowboy hat and we'll clean the windshield. Yeee haw!!!

Photos from the SpaBefore: the Limo ride to the Spa

After the spa: fresh and pretty and dancing for treats

Do you REALLY think I like getting my anal glands expressed???

A snack after the spa treatment. Notice the barretts in Lucy's hair. How foo foo is that?

How I spent my Summer Vacation, Part I (Days 1-3)

Good day, esteemed blog readers. I am on my ten day vacation and thus will chronicle my adventures in the land of leisure. I know you’re just about to pee on yourself because you’re so excited. I’m having ice cream for breakfast as I write this blog because I CAN have ice cream for breakfast while on vacation.

Day One went swimmingly, complete with an Indigo Girls concert (not exactly Madonna, but delightful in its own way). Thanks to “Suzie Sun Burn” and “Mr. Black Toes” (so named due to previous vacation injuries—the swamp sunburn and the Grand Canyon downhill toe disaster), we had a gay old time (pun intended—about the crowd, sillies, not about them). Mr. Black Toes got quite the site with the two ladies in front of him sucking face for the entire concert (shame on you two--get a room next time!). SSBMBTD (“suzie-sun-burn-mr.-black-toes-daughter”) and grandchildren were also present, but poor hubby Banker Bob never got to see any of the concert because he got there so late and then he had to leave because his children were on the verge of a meltdown.

Day Two was spent with “Itchy the Crotch-Scratcher.” (I apologize to SSB and Mr. Black Toes for the what I am about to share because they would never stoop to the level I’m about to sink to….)I SWEAR to you this is all true. In fact, call my wife so she can verify the validity of my report. This is very inappropriate, juvenile behavior on my part (wrong to publish on so many levels for so many reasons), but who am I to deny you any stories of my actual being? (This is a picture of Paris Hilton's crotch, not Itchy's crotch, as taken from feralboy.com. I don't have a photo of Itchy's crotch, so just go with Paris. I love Feral boy's photo on Paris' crotch. Is life good or what?)

Vacation Day Two found us at a place that I decline to name to see some people I decline to identify (friends?… family?…old realtors?…past girlfriends?…church members at an ice cream social?...we’ll leave that up to your imagination) for an event that shall remain unnamed. Anyway, we run into this woman who the wife and I have noticed has this rather unusual habit of scratching her crotch in public settings (I am NOT making this up). We see her at this gathering and there she is, scratching her crotch. Not secretly scratching—-openly scratching with no apparent regard for those around her. “Itchy” itches when talking to you and it’s really weird and noticeable. I can’t tell you why, but for the past few years, Itchy has been pawing at her parts. (The wife noticed this habit many moons ago, so kudos to her for being the first one to mention Itchy’s behavior to me.) Crotch-grabbing-scratching-pawing is rather unusual for a woman, as far as I’m concerned, so it peaked my interest (in a horrified-can’t-look-away-from-the-train-wreck way). Male baseball players are always playing with their parts—-women at public functions do NOT usually fondle their naughty tidbits. At first, I thought maybe it was just a bad shaving job gone wrong. The next time I thought maybe it was a yeast infection gone wrong. The third time I thought maybe the crabs had taken over. The fourth time I thought she was just perverted. The fifth time I thought, “is anyone else seeing this?”

At this gathering, Itchy walked up to me and starts babbling about her clothing and then, I SWEAR to you this is true, she starts talking about how her daughter told her she scratches her crotch in public and it’s embarrassing and how she should go to the doctor because there must be something medically wrong…and she goes on to say that her husband tells her, “that’s why all your shorts have holes in the crotch” because she scratches her crotch so much.

What can I do but laugh like a hyena? I burst out laughing but she keeps talking about not having any shorts to wear because they have no crotches left. I laugh harder, which is probably not the reaction I should display but snot flies out of my nose and I try not to fart because I am laughing so hard. Day Two is a complete success.

Today is Day Three which is really a day for the dogs, as they spent time at the “spa” (read: terrorized at the groomer), getting all spiffed up. (They were a ball of knots...God knows they needed a shave, as long as they don't scratch their crotches after getting shaved.) They didn't have a good time and have all sorts of nicks and cuts. It's their fault so don't feel badly for them. Freckles also was very naughty, nipping at the groomer, but since it's basically impossible to muzzle a Shih Tzu, the groomer just had someone hang on to the bitch while cutting those nails...

Since I won’t be going anywhere exotic this week, I went and saw “Pirates of the Caribbean” and pretended that I’m on an island in the Atlantic. Arrg! It's a pirates life for me! I liked the movie--I liked it better than that Superman movie and Johnny Depp is hilarious, so who wouldn't want to be a pirate while on vacation?

Peri-not-so-merry....
Warning to all of you youngsters (meaning anyone younger than me): RESPECT YOUR ELDERS. This will happen to you, too. Remember that I told you so. Now, stop snickering and bring me some Dove Dark Chocolate.

Warning to all you squeamish people: TOUGHEN UP. This is what happens. Now, stop whining and bring me some Dove Dark Chocolate.

Warning to all you men: SHUT UP and bring me some Dove Dark Chocolate.

Warning to my father: why are you reading this crap? Do you really want to know about your daughter’s menstrual cycle? Stop reading this and go get me some Dove Dark Chocolate.

Warning to my mother: I’m really not this old, so don’t worry about it. I’ll bring YOU some Dove Dark Chocolate.

I had been wondering where the hell my now-two-week-late period has been (not that there was ANY chance of pregnancy and not that I was fearful this might be the second coming—that’s MJagger’s daughter’s job). Not that you want to know, I have been blessed with the most-on-time-arrival of my period since the dawn of ovulating. O’Hare Airport should be so lucky to have such a high on-time arrival percentage. Anyway, I was standing there at work this morning when it happened….I was struck with a pain…a blinding, breath-stealing pain. I bent over, grabbed my belly, said some expletives. The pain was excruciating and anything unlike I’ve experienced since….wait a minute. These are cramps. I stopped to contemplate the pain. Yes, these are terminal cramps….but, I haven’t had cramps—real cramps—since high school. What the hell is this all about? I’m sure, though—it’s cramps. I muttered more expletives and toughened up. Who the hell whines about cramps at age forty-four?

I waddled across the hall (while holding my belly, of course) to a co-worker’s office. She’s just about my age and has listened to all my weird stories, so I figured she be a good one to bother. I start bitching and moaning about having these damned cramps and how I don’t ever get cramps and why the hell is my period two weeks late and how I feel like I’m about to pass a bowling ball. (Hey—what are co-workers for?) She starts laughing—in a supportive, non-judgmental way, if that’s even possible—and she gently reminds me that I am 44 years old. What the hell does that mean? I’m still bitching and moaning about how my period is out of control and a lot worse than it used to be and it was late and never has been late before and that I go in the bathroom and think, “JESUS! DID I JUST PASS MY LIVER or is that an ALIEN BABY?” She asked me about sweating at night and so, without thinking, I start bitching and moaning about this, too—“Geez, last night I was sweating so much I had to just about change the sheets. I slept with a towel!” She is still laughing.

Then it hits me. She thinks I am in peri-menopause…the beginning of the end. SHE THINKS I AM STARTING TO HAVE SYMPTOMS OF PERI-MENOPAUSE! The rat bastard!

Now, wait just a damn minute here! I may be 44 years old but I am a very YOUNG 44 year old. I barely have any grey hair, for god’s sake. I am certainly NOT READY for anything like this nonsense. Peri-menopause is for OLD PEOPLE. I am NOT an OLD PEOPLE!

I waddled back into my office and grabbed the bottle of Motrin. “Take four, they’re small” is my motto. I take four pills and sit down to contemplate the meaning of my menstrual cycle. I think about how unfair this is, now that I’m finally getting a grip on my emotions. Isn’t this just going to screw up all that hard work, all that money spent on medication????!!! I am BITTER, BITTER, BITTER, BITTER, BITTER, BITTER, BITTER!

I get ready go on with my day, pissy and crampy and distracted but none the worse…when [an unnamed coworker--unnamed to maintain her anonymity--we'll call her Meri Peri] sees me. Being that Meri Peri is a women just a dot older than me, I whine to her about my cramps. She smiles. Uh-oh…she, too suggests peri-menopause is about to make home in my kingdom. She assures me I will live, adding that she is enjoying this event in her very own life. (Do we ever really want to know that our co-workers are peri-menopausal? Yes, I think we do.) I announce to her that no matter what the agency does, we must not hire another woman our age, because it's a really small agency, so the odds would really suck for those not flashing and shooting out blood clots the size of Utah if they were stuck with those of us who are doing just that.

There is nowhere to run or hide. I decide to run to another location, far away from my office. This diversion does not pan out as expected, as I run right into a peer--I'm going to call her Mary-not-so-merry-peri--who is exactly my age….who, for some unknown reason, starts talking about how she was in the ER this weekend because she was in such dire pain she thought she was having a miscarriage. Guess what? Her period was two weeks late and she was passing the world’s largest blood clot and….why, it looks like she is starting peri-menopause. THIS IS SO UNFAIR! We are both too young for this! We commiserate for a time and then go on with our day. We vow to support each other during this time of trauma and angst. I shudder—dear god, an entire army of my very own friends will be going through this at the same time. We are doomed, doomed, doomed! (Our spouses are doomed!) Didn't I just start menstruating? Wasn't it just yesterday I was listening to that "5th grade speech" from the school nurse? Wasn't 1975 just a few years ago??? Not-so-Meri agrees and passes the Motrin bottle.

So it has come to this. I thought talking about poop was important, but this must take precedence. I must now fill you with stories of my ovaries and uterus, of sweating and flashing, of blood clots and bigger blood clots. It’s only the very beginning stages but you’ve got to start somewhere…..

(MJagger, STOP LAUGHING! I can’t help it I was born in an earlier decade than you!)

So, start sending the dark chocolate and praying for the wife. Now, leave me alone so I can go put a heating pad on my belly…or, maybe I’ll just pour some ice cubes down my pants…WHERE'S MY DAMN CHOCOLATE, ANYWAY?!!!

Good old Summertime

Ah, it is finally summer, as evidenced by the hot weather and the dying grass in the front lawn. The wife and I aren't going on any "major" trips this year--we're just doing some day trips and outings for a week this month. While we'll have a good time, this is distressing to the "love-to-travel-to-nice-islands" wife. Ah well, next year I won't buy so many Madonna tickets and we'll go somewhere fun and tropical.

Vacations of Old....here is where the family used to vacation every year:
That is a whole group of sun-worshipping people, back before we realized that skin cancer would become a concern. (Go ahead--I dare you to "steal" this photo off the blog. My grandmother will come back and haunt you. I wouldn't mess with her if I were you....) The cottage was an annual event loved by all. (Well, I think it was loved by all. I certainly loved it.) Who wouldn't love the pea-green soup water of Petite Lake? Many a game of Yahtzee, Kings in the Corner, Pokeno and Bunco were played along the way. All you relatives can try and find yourself in this photo. (I took the picture, so I am spared the pain of being included in this late 1970's shot.)

This is where I wish I were right now: Miravel in Tuscon, Arizona, home of the Oprah Spa....

Now THAT was a vacation. Talk about feeling rich and famous (of which I am neither). Stone massages, fresh fruit smoothies at any time of the day or night, dry dessert air, good friends, out-of -this world food. Why, speaking of food--here's what I'd like to be eating for breakfast: fancy cake roll at Miravel...
Instead of being waiting on, here is what we'll be doing: Oh, wait! There's no photo here. Exactly. (Okay, okay, I'm being a baby. We're going to have fun. We're going to several concerts, we'll travel the vicinity, I won't go to work, we'll see family and friends, I can eat cake roll from the grocery store, I can visit a few Dairy Queens and raise my cholesterol....)

Here's what the dogs will be doing for the summer: looking anxious about the bath they are about to receive.... Hey, at least Freckles has her eyes open in this photo!

Memories of a Ruptured Appendix...the Fourth of July…Dreams of a “Big Blog Bash” for You Stars of the Blog

Happy Fourth of July, blog-ettes. (Poor Freckles. She hates all the fireworks. Her tail is permanently stuck in the down position.) Today marks the third year anniversary of my infamous ruptured appendix. I’m sure the wife, Phalange-a-slam, T-Mulch and Emily the Folkie have some humorous memories of that long night. It’s a story that bears repeating, but since the majority have heard it thirty zillion times, I’ll spare you. I did find a photo of a ruptured appendix on Google, and I’m here to tell you—THIS is what my appendix looked like (photo on the right--tasty!). How do I know my appendix looked like this? Because I made the surgeon show me once I woke up from surgery. E-gads, it was gross. (The grosser, the better in my book.) I am a little nervous about this day, as I was on call for the Fourth of July at the time of my ruptured organ….I’m on-call again this Fourth. Pray for me….

…Speaking of being “free” (you know, a patriotic theme), Harvey’s funeral was today, so technically speaking, she is “free” of this world and of her oppressive body. I am happy to report I didn’t have to throw myself on the casket at any point during the services. I was ready to RIP out any rosary that might be in her hands, but since she wasn’t Catholic, no rosary was to be had, so all was good. Unfortunately, a babbling Baptist preacher rambled on about being in the “house of mourning,” reflecting and making decisions. I think he wanted us to throw ourselves in the Rock River for baptism at the end of the funeral. Remind me NEVER to be Baptist. My favorite part of the service was when we were standing at the gravesite and a cow was moo-ing in the pasture. I’m sure Harvey got a kick out of that. Made it harder to hear that pompous preacher, that’s for sure…

MJagger had a GREAT idea—she suggested that I have a “blog party” and invite everyone who has been mentioned in the blog. I thought that sounded really groovy and thus started digging through the archives to see who would be on the guest list. Besides, who doesn’t like reading about themselves again? There have been family & friends, clients and pets, stuffed animals and spirit guides, co-workers and TV stars, poop lovers and religious icons. Peruse the blog and you find a wild mix of people and critters.

Those mentioned in the blog who have passed on (most notably Harvey the one-boob-wonder, Cloudy the Hamster, all the mice killed by my mouse-surgeon-murdering-boss, the ex-father-in-law) probably will NOT attend the festivities, but they are certainly invited. Actually, I think I have a better chance at having the dead attend the bash than I have a chance of the super-famous-blog-noted types (like Jodie Foster, Madonna, Lucy Lawless, Jesus, Stacy Keibler, the stars of Charmed, the “Pardon the Interruption” guys on ESPN, the Dixie Chicks, Oprah, Reese Witherspoon, the “Little People”).

Grover, my spirit guide, may or may be considered dead but there is no doubt he will be in attendance. He never misses a party. On the other hand, the "mystery pooper" at work will not be invited because if I were to invite this person, it would no longer be a mystery...

Freckles and Lucy are very excited that Mr. Winkle will be on the guest list. Even if Mr. Winkle can’t make it, we know Riley the tree-climbing neighbor pointer will be there (albeit in the corner, peeing on herself—she’s really afraid of Freckles).

Are YOU on the list?

“The wife” gets top billing on the guest list, as she is probably the most mentioned person in the Addiverse, quite to her dismay….and, she’ll get stuck cleaning up after the party, so she best be at the top of the list. It goes without saying that Freckles Warrior Princess—the eldest canine of the family—and, Lucy Bark of Poteidaia—the younger canine of the family—will be waiting at the door for guests to arrive.

Since it was her idea for the party and because she is a friend extraordinaire (who just happens to have a stalker mentality about Madonna & still speaks to me when most people would exude expletives at me), MJagger (the professional seat-hopper at concerts) is also at the top of the list. MJagger’s eldest daughter (the 2nd coming of Jesus) & hubby Officer Friendly will accompany her and their youngest daughter. Bon Jovi—MJagger’s sister who has actually kissed Jon Bon Jovi on the lips (I’m not kidding) will keep the family affair going. MJagger’s mom-in-law deserves a nod, as she went to a Madonna concert with us. Anyone who is willing to drop some serious cash on Madonna needs to be honored.

We need some sports-types, so bring on the bowlers! Wild Mama and Father John (who made the Addiverse possible) will lead the bowling brigade. The sister, Nieces #1, #2 and #3 are mandatory attendees. (Hey, we could hold the party in a bowling alley! My mom and sister could hook us up with some moonlight bowling.) We can call in my brother-in-law, my cousin and my deceased grandpa. Heck, just bring anyone along who likes to bowl….I can always write about them later…

Speaking of family types, how could we party without the Cheeseheads from the wife’s family? Tommy Hilfiger, Mrs. Hilfiger, Cheesy potato sister, the wife’s dad and mom have to bring some Green Bay flavor for shits and giggles. Cheesy potato sister needs to bring some of her world famous cheesy potatoes for consumption during the blog bash or I’m not letting her in the door. There are a lot of other wife-types, but I haven’t written about them yet, so they have to wait their turn. Do you think Brett Favre is free to join the party? (Wait--we can't invite him or MJagger won't come to the shin-dig...)

Let’s see….I need to make sure cousins S&A (two of the world’s nicest people), Grover the spirit guide, Moriah the Medium, The Hedgehogs (god love those stuffed animals), Blue Eyes and Master Reiki and LLL participants are part of the fun. We’re talking everyone from Patty Party Pecs to phalange-a-slam, from Pee Pee Peeker to Ingabor Logjammer….Ms. UConn to Ms. Tennessee, Spotted Owl to Einsteina Vagina, from T-mulch (that's what I'm going to call her after helping us with all that damn mulch) to all those guests of the LLL. I can't forget the Lake Redstone Compound crew. So I look good for the festivities, I’m making sure my hair stylist is ready to go. I am NOT inviting the Hair Nazi—I’m true to my current hair goddess.

Clean queen, Emily the folk singer, HotDiggity (the anal gland-impaired dog), The Mouse-Surgeon Boss and my gynecologist are on the invitation list. On second thought, let’s NOT invited the mouse-surgeon boss and pretend we did. Do we really want a mouse murderer in our midst?

I need to invite the racoon that laid the killer poop that almost killed Lucy after she ate it (remember that from the very first blog?), the vet that saved Lucy's life, the dog groomer who has to try and grab the dogs to groom them and even the doctor who performed my colonoscopy.

I haven't forgotten those of you who read the blog but have yet to be mentioned. Your day is coming, Walshy-calm-submissive-family and the TV.

We can add the ex-husband, Stella the 72 year old Xanax addict, Mary the merry-go-round-riding smelly-crotch girl, Gert the smoking bra babe, Slim Jim Triathlon Friend, Tim Simms, Larry Morrissey, Governor Blago, Bob Ham and even Vicki Shaw. Actually, we can now invite my appendix surgeon, Uncle Sam and the babbling Baptist Preacher. Is this gonna be a hot party or what?

Your invitation will be in the mail.....until then, Happy Fourth...and hang on to your appendix.

Photo Day in the Addiverse

Lest you think I'm getting too maudlin in my old age, here's some photos from the Addiverse:
Lucy waits for her ball--which is in the dishwasher--as it is so full of puppy saliva that it had to be taken away for awhile. Notice how morose she looks. If we shut the dishwasher, she cries. When we finally run the dishwasher (after it fills up with dirty dishes...and, as you can see, it's gonna be awhile), she lays right by the dishwasher and waits for her prized possesion... Yuck-ah! Here I am, peeking out of the yuccas. The wife hates them. I love them. They bloom right in time for my birthday, they look like little bells and they have a great name (YUCK-ah!). Every year we argue about these diddies....the wife wants them gone and I whine about how much I love the. Looks like I'm "winning" for the time being...
Ah, the naughty squirrel that keeps eating the wife's bird bell. You'll have to look closely--yes, that's a squirrel hanging upside down, using it's tail to hang on for dear life while it eats the bird seeds. It's enough to drive the wife to drink. I had a hard time taking a picture of it, due to the deck but I think you get the right idea. While I was sitting at the kitchen table (preparing to take the photo), another squirrel literally ran UP the screen of the sliding doors and then jumped on the roof. I think the wife thought I was crazy until she saw the squirrel run DOWN the screen door. I swear we only have two squirrels in the entire neighborhood and they hang out at our house....Here's Freckles Warrior Princess with her birthday squeaky, thanks to the very generous friends Blue Eyes and Master Reiki. She is usually constantly squeaking it, but at this point she is just guarding it from Lucy. Maybe she got tired. Maybe it got too drooly. Most likely, she just doesn't want Lucy to have it. Somehow, Lucy also got a birthday squeaky the same day FWP got her birthday squeaky, even though Lucy's birthday is not until July 27 (well, I suppose it should be called a whelp-day present). She, too is guarding hers--but she is guarding hers from the evil Freckles. Notice the classic underbite. At least her tongue's not hanging out.

Well, none of this is very profound but it does make me laugh and I haven't had enough photos of the dogs lately. Sometimes, we should just screw the whole profound things as laugh a whole lot more....