Tomorrow is the first day gay couples in the land of Lincoln can legally marry. Go figure. I still can't believe it. I will see it and I won't believe it. The whole thing is surreal.
(Remember: No matter your stance on this, the Addiverse loves you. So, feel free to agree, disagree, spew religious hate, do a naked pagan dance, wear a rainbow flag. We honor all in the Addiverse.)
It appears those civilized in Illinois civil unions can "upgrade" their status to marriage with the completion of a form & the presentation of identification. As long as the civilized couple upgrades within the first year, it's free and requires no divorce.
Of course, both parties must be present to win.
It's so surreal and foreign to us that the wife and I have yet to decide when we are going to upgrade. Since the marriage date is retroactive to the civil union date, it doesn't really matter as long as we upgrade within the year.It's not like we're going to be showered with work benefits. Heck, my place of employment isn't sure they are going to honor the marriage. (Don't even get me started about that--I'll fight that fight when it fully and finally surfaces.)
Because I'm skeptical about the whole process (and because I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this whole concept), I called the county clerk yesterday to confirm if an appointment needs to be set to "upgrade" our civil union:
Me: "Hi! I'm calling to ask if people in civil unions need to set an appointment to upgrade to marriage?"
Clerk-minion: "Are you talking about the conversion?"
Me: Stunned silence.....then, burst into laughter.
Me: "Did you say conversion?"
Clerk-minion: "Yes. (Pause.) Are you asking about the conversion of civil union to marriage?"
Me: Still stunned. Who the hell thought to call this a conversion? "Yes. Do we need an appointment to do this?"
Clerk-minion (sounding a bit irritated, why I do not know): "No, just your ID for the conversion process."
Me: "Do we need to do bring our civil union license?"
Clerk-minion (sounding a bit more irritated): "No, we have that on record."
The clerk-minion was in no mood for small talk or other conversion conversation, so I thanked her and hung up. I then laughed even louder.
Whoever thought to call it a conversion is either a genius, an asshole or someone with a good sense of humor.
For those of you scratching your head, wondering why it would be weird/funny/sick/genius to consider civil union-to-marriage a "conversion," allow me to explain. When I think of conversion as applied to anything sexual-orientation-related, I think of reparative therapy--convert the gays to straights.
Conversion therapy.
There is no way I can think of anything else beside this. As both a therapist and as queen of the lesbians, I tie conversion to making someone straight. Oh, of course you can convert other things: you can convert metric to English measurements. You can convert various types of currency. You can convert temps from Celsius to Fahrenheit.
This begs the question: when the wife and I walk into the county clerk's office to be converted, will one of us walk out as a heterosexual male? Can you just imagine it:
Me (to the wife, as exit the county clerk's office): "Hey! When did I grow this moustache? When did I get this---oh my god....."
The wife: "She converted you. Don't you remember?"
Me: "What? Converted me? I thought we were converting our civil union to marriage. I'm converted to a heterosexual male? Dang, I would've preferred to be a heterosexual female."
The wife: "No, I was converted into a heterosexual female. YOU'RE the heterosexual male."
Me: "Why do I have to be the guy? YOU be the guy?"
The wife: "You're older. You lost by default."
Me: "Why didn't we both convert into heterosexual females?"
The wife: "Because if that happened, we wouldn't want to get married and thus we'd need a divorce instead of a marriage. That's too expensive."
See? Conversion equals conversion of sexual orientation. I can't help it. I'd much prefer of converting money, measurements, temps, but this is what I think of: be ye converted from sinful queer to god-fearing straight. Praise the baby Jesus, get behind thee, Satan!
We will see what happens when we do actual go get converted. I highly doubt the clerk-minion will offer to take our photo.
Convert-ulations to all Illinois couples who will be converting in the next few months.
Remember: Home Depot does have a gift registry. Just sayin.'
Saturday, May 31, 2014
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Sam I Am. Not.
Dear Sam,
I know you are dead but I know you can hear me. I'm writing to file a complaint about your evil conglomeration. See, the wife and I needed an odd assortment of things last night and so we voted to spend "Date Night Friday" in one of your stores. (I know, I know--there is almost nothing more romantic than spending time with you and your associates. I treat the wife like a queen.) To be honest, I try to avoid your circus of a store for a variety of reasons; but, at times, convenience, price and laziness take over my being and I find myself entering the place of falling prices and crabby, underpaid workers.
I needed several over-sized poster frames, tampons, coffee creamer, dog treats, socks, wall fasteners, thumb tacks and Dove Dark Chocolate (of which I am very dismayed to say once again there was none--just a sad, lonely space on the shelf where they should have been). The wife needed some gardening items. We could have run to several different stores. We could have gone to Tar-shay. We could have gone home.
But, you--you, Dear Sam--have all those things under one roof, so I caved. It wasn't hard.
I left the wife in the garden center and I went to the bowels of consumerism. I found all my items with little effort, as I am well-versed at navigating your aisles. The prices were good, the expiration dates had not approached, the odd assortment of needed items easily secured.
And then, Dear Sam, it all went to hell in a hand basket & hence I'm writing you.
(I should say it all went to hell in a shopping cart.)
It was a busy Friday night at Wally World. Not as busy as "Social Security and Food Stamp Saturday," but busy, none-the-less. Many lines were open but each of them was full, most of which featured four or five full carts ahead of me. I found a line with only three carts and hopped on it. I noticed it was 7:00 pm. I perused the tabloids, studied the gift cards, stared at various types of gum. I was humming, calm, bored. I looked around and noticed no one was really getting anywhere fast in their check out lines, so I hunkered down.
About 7:10, I looked at the situation ahead of me. That's when I noticed that the three carts ahead of me--brimming over the top of each cart--actually belonged to one family. I couldn't figure out what the problem was. It was then I saw the lady waving a wad of newspaper and magazine pages in the cashier's face. Coupons. She had coupons. Not organized. Not cut out. Not in nice neat coupon holders. She had wads of papers. She was pulling this out or that out. I noticed she argued with the check out lady on a most frequent basis. It didn't look fun for anyone involved. I thought she'd eventually run out of coupons, so I stayed put. After all, a quick look around your paradise didn't suggest any other line would be faster.
I looked around. There were a hell of a lot of associates standing around, Sam. And, you know what they were doing? They were bitching about how much they hate their jobs, Sam. Usually, I would find this very unprofessional and very inappropriate. At this point, I wanted to cheer them on. Why they were all standing around why it was obvious that other lines needed to be opened, I do not know. I didn't like that little posses of blue-vested associates were standing in the wide-open spaces in front of the registers, but I did want to cheer them on. I wanted to yell, "Run! I hate this place, too!"
At 7:19, I approached the edge of hysteria. I had been standing in the exact same place for 19 minutes and they were still on cart number one. I couldn't believe it. I was faced with a most difficult situation: I could (1) leave the cart and go home; (2) go to another line; (3) wait it out and enjoy the show. I looked at the cart and thought about my options. I guess I didn't need anything but the tampons and I could get them elsewhere....yet, I had already waited 19 minutes. Did I want to give up after all that time waiting, Sam? No. I chose number 2, knowing that this would probably not resolve one thing. You know how it goes, Sam--no line is faster. The grass is not greener in Aisle Two than in Aisle One.
Sam, at 7:25 PM I became a very ugly human being. I was frothing and taking your name in vain. At minute number 25, I was swearing about how much I hate you, your evil store, your pathetic service, your crushing of small town jobs. The only thing that kept me in that line is that I was stuck. I was between two patrons. The only thing that kept me from harming myself or others is that I could see that the lady in front of me was reaching in her purse to pay her bill.
Twenty Six minutes, Sam. Twenty Six minutes to reach the cashier. Do you think that's reasonable? No, of course you don't. But, you're dead so you can't help me. You're probably laughing in your grave.
Sam, I am going to fill out that stupid on-line "we value your opinion" survey that's listed on every receipt. I am going to be scathing in my review. I highly doubt I'll win one of the $1000 gift cards you promise on every receipt. I highly doubt you or your peeps will give a rat's ass about me standing in line for 26 minutes; after all, I'm the one who stood there. I'm the one that didn't walk out. I'm the fool that gave you my money.
Sam, I'm so disappointed at you and your circus. I'm so disappointed in me for giving you my business. Damn you for having such a variety of items at low prices.
And, Sam? I spit on you for not having Dove Dark Chocolate. You know, had you had that, I probably wouldn't fill out a survey. But, I'm filling out that survey and I'm including my disgust about you not having this essential product. How dare you have milk chocolate but not dark chocolate. That HAS to be some form of discrimination.
Shame on you, Sam.
Disgusted (mostly at self but much at you),
Addi
Resident of the Addiverse
I know you are dead but I know you can hear me. I'm writing to file a complaint about your evil conglomeration. See, the wife and I needed an odd assortment of things last night and so we voted to spend "Date Night Friday" in one of your stores. (I know, I know--there is almost nothing more romantic than spending time with you and your associates. I treat the wife like a queen.) To be honest, I try to avoid your circus of a store for a variety of reasons; but, at times, convenience, price and laziness take over my being and I find myself entering the place of falling prices and crabby, underpaid workers.
I needed several over-sized poster frames, tampons, coffee creamer, dog treats, socks, wall fasteners, thumb tacks and Dove Dark Chocolate (of which I am very dismayed to say once again there was none--just a sad, lonely space on the shelf where they should have been). The wife needed some gardening items. We could have run to several different stores. We could have gone to Tar-shay. We could have gone home.
But, you--you, Dear Sam--have all those things under one roof, so I caved. It wasn't hard.
I left the wife in the garden center and I went to the bowels of consumerism. I found all my items with little effort, as I am well-versed at navigating your aisles. The prices were good, the expiration dates had not approached, the odd assortment of needed items easily secured.
And then, Dear Sam, it all went to hell in a hand basket & hence I'm writing you.
(I should say it all went to hell in a shopping cart.)
It was a busy Friday night at Wally World. Not as busy as "Social Security and Food Stamp Saturday," but busy, none-the-less. Many lines were open but each of them was full, most of which featured four or five full carts ahead of me. I found a line with only three carts and hopped on it. I noticed it was 7:00 pm. I perused the tabloids, studied the gift cards, stared at various types of gum. I was humming, calm, bored. I looked around and noticed no one was really getting anywhere fast in their check out lines, so I hunkered down.
About 7:10, I looked at the situation ahead of me. That's when I noticed that the three carts ahead of me--brimming over the top of each cart--actually belonged to one family. I couldn't figure out what the problem was. It was then I saw the lady waving a wad of newspaper and magazine pages in the cashier's face. Coupons. She had coupons. Not organized. Not cut out. Not in nice neat coupon holders. She had wads of papers. She was pulling this out or that out. I noticed she argued with the check out lady on a most frequent basis. It didn't look fun for anyone involved. I thought she'd eventually run out of coupons, so I stayed put. After all, a quick look around your paradise didn't suggest any other line would be faster.
I looked around. There were a hell of a lot of associates standing around, Sam. And, you know what they were doing? They were bitching about how much they hate their jobs, Sam. Usually, I would find this very unprofessional and very inappropriate. At this point, I wanted to cheer them on. Why they were all standing around why it was obvious that other lines needed to be opened, I do not know. I didn't like that little posses of blue-vested associates were standing in the wide-open spaces in front of the registers, but I did want to cheer them on. I wanted to yell, "Run! I hate this place, too!"
At 7:19, I approached the edge of hysteria. I had been standing in the exact same place for 19 minutes and they were still on cart number one. I couldn't believe it. I was faced with a most difficult situation: I could (1) leave the cart and go home; (2) go to another line; (3) wait it out and enjoy the show. I looked at the cart and thought about my options. I guess I didn't need anything but the tampons and I could get them elsewhere....yet, I had already waited 19 minutes. Did I want to give up after all that time waiting, Sam? No. I chose number 2, knowing that this would probably not resolve one thing. You know how it goes, Sam--no line is faster. The grass is not greener in Aisle Two than in Aisle One.
Sam, at 7:25 PM I became a very ugly human being. I was frothing and taking your name in vain. At minute number 25, I was swearing about how much I hate you, your evil store, your pathetic service, your crushing of small town jobs. The only thing that kept me in that line is that I was stuck. I was between two patrons. The only thing that kept me from harming myself or others is that I could see that the lady in front of me was reaching in her purse to pay her bill.
Twenty Six minutes, Sam. Twenty Six minutes to reach the cashier. Do you think that's reasonable? No, of course you don't. But, you're dead so you can't help me. You're probably laughing in your grave.
Sam, I am going to fill out that stupid on-line "we value your opinion" survey that's listed on every receipt. I am going to be scathing in my review. I highly doubt I'll win one of the $1000 gift cards you promise on every receipt. I highly doubt you or your peeps will give a rat's ass about me standing in line for 26 minutes; after all, I'm the one who stood there. I'm the one that didn't walk out. I'm the fool that gave you my money.
Sam, I'm so disappointed at you and your circus. I'm so disappointed in me for giving you my business. Damn you for having such a variety of items at low prices.
And, Sam? I spit on you for not having Dove Dark Chocolate. You know, had you had that, I probably wouldn't fill out a survey. But, I'm filling out that survey and I'm including my disgust about you not having this essential product. How dare you have milk chocolate but not dark chocolate. That HAS to be some form of discrimination.
Shame on you, Sam.
Disgusted (mostly at self but much at you),
Addi
Resident of the Addiverse
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Eight Hundred
You may know the song..."only 800 hundred miles to go (more to go!)...." Well, this is my 800th post. I think I should be given a cookie and we should all break into a rousing version of said song.
It would probably be my 1000 post had I kept blogging at the rate of which I used to blog. Ah well, such is life.
So, last time we met, I was fretting about the mysterious disappearance of Dove Dark Chocolate. Good news: DDC is back on the shelves. I have a hankerin' to do some hoarding, lest I ever run out of this delight. I can't explain the great DDC drought of Spring 2014, but don't care now that DDC is back in the local stores.
Now that I have chocolate, I can blog. Let's be serious, shan't we? We'll save the sunshine and rainbows and unicorns for a different day.
As you know, my job tends to be very interesting. Sometimes sad, painful; always entertaining, very rewarding, incredibly educational. I've met a lot of amazing people along the way. My recent job adventures featured something that made me mad and sad. See? Can't be all sunshine and rainbows.
Recently, I had to watch a stable client purposefully have his perfectly-working psychotropic meds stopped....stopped cold because a medical doctor in a hospital ordered them stopped.
One would think a medical doctor would think of better things to do than this but this one did not. I am not a doctor so I should probably watch my tone or make any judgment. I'm sure there is much scientific reasoning requiring the sudden discontinuation of medication for a person with chronic mental illness. What that medical reasoning might be, I do not know. All I really know is I had to watch a wonderfully stable man stop his psychiatric medication.
The client was medically hospitalized for a medical crisis, leading to changes in his overall treatment. The client, who takes anti-psychotic medication as well as mood stabilizers, had been as stable as he had ever been--we are talking in his entire life. I've known him for 15 years and this is by far the "best" he has ever "done." His symptoms of psychosis were quiet, only a whisper. The voices weren't torturing him as they had in years past. He had clearer thinking and was making sense when expressing himself. He had made great progress in his treatment. Although still mentally ill and although he was still on the more bizarre-than-not end of his diagnosis, he was enjoying a relatively "normal" life. Even better:
He was happy.
Insight into how mentally sick you used to be can be terrifying, for you know what it would be like to return to that "place." So, imagine being that client, lying in a hospital bed, knowing, absolutely knowing that you are about to become psychotic and you can't stop it.
You know you are going to start hearing voices.
You know you are going to get paranoid.
You know you thoughts are going to get all jumbled up.
You know you are going to be terrified.
You know your sleep is going to get all screwed up.
You know you are going to think thoughts that aren't true but will seem very true.
You know you are going to think things about people you love that aren't true but there will be no convincing you otherwise.
You know you don't want to go back "there."
I saw him on the second day after his meds had been stopped. He was still asymptomatic. We talked about mundane things, about his desire to have a diet soda, about his medical crisis...and, then about the discontinuation of all his psychiatric medication.
He had no time for the elephant in the room.
He spoke about his fears and apologized in advanced. "I don't know what I'll say." I assured him I would realize it was his mental illness, not him, saying the words of which he was afraid he would say. I told him I would wait for him to come "back." He knew I had waited before, that I had heard his horrific stories and had seen him at "bad" times.
I assured him that I was not and would not be afraid of him. I meant it. I couldn't be afraid of him. I knew the "real" him. He is not his mental illness. He is a person with an unfortunate blessing of chronic mental illness.
He spoke about the waiting....waiting for the symptoms to start. The waiting was the hardest part, as he didn't know when things would start. He knew the probable symptoms--he just didn't know when they would begin their torture.
Thankfully (a weird thing to say), it only took a few days. He didn't have to wait long.
It made me so mad. I watched him fall apart and become something from a decade ago.
Oh, to find the doctor who "did" this. To scream at him and spit as I yelled, "how dare you do this to someone!" I was on the verge of outrage. I wanted the chance to demand an explanation, the rationale. I wanted facts, medical need, medical justification.
The client did indeed start hearing voices. He got paranoid. He got confused and scared and delusional. He kept saying his brain had turned to jello. I let him say what he needed to say. I did not leave and I did not become afraid.
He's out of the hospital now and his medications are slowly being re-started. You can't just re-start some meds lest you lead to nasty things like seizures. He's not back to "normal," to his base-line, as they say. He's able to look back and explain what happened as he got sick, when he was sick, how it was like to come out of having jello for a brain. Yet, he still has intrusive thoughts, disorganized thoughts, scary thoughts. He can't put all the words together the way he wants them.
He knows he has to wait.
I know I have to wait, too.
Trust me when I say that I am the more impatient of the two.
And, so he waits for his meds to kick in, hoping that they work as well as they did before they were abruptly stopped. He knows there is potential that the meds will not "work" as well as they did before this. Another cruel reality in the world of mental illness is that sometimes meds don't work as well when the are stopped and then resumed. If that happens, I am going to go find that doctor and smack him in the head as hard as I can while I am screaming obscenities.
You'd think the client would be angry, but he is not and he was not. He is the understanding one of our motley crew. He knows that he was very medically ill and that the medical doctor did what he thought needed to be done.
He was scared but never mad.
In his crisis, he is teaching me. He's patient. He has faith. He remains confident. He isn't angry or blaming or callous. He is understanding, reflective, honest.
In life, he is teaching me. He is a gift. He is my rainbow and sunshine.
He's not a unicorn, but he is my rainbow and sunshine. And for that, I am truly grateful.
I look forward to his "return." When he's "back," I'll make sure he gets that diet soda he wanted. And, I'll behave--I won't go looking for that doctor because he wouldn't want me to do that. I will honor my rainbow and sunshine.
As for the unicorn, I'm gonna go out and find one and stick that unicorn's horn right up that doctor's ass.
After all, I promised to behave. I didn't promise not to stick a unicorn's horn anywhere. :-)
*********************************************************************
Happy 800th blog to all of you.
Godspeed, Sabine. Know that we are thinking of you and your family. Much love to you, KG.
*********************************************************************
It would probably be my 1000 post had I kept blogging at the rate of which I used to blog. Ah well, such is life.
So, last time we met, I was fretting about the mysterious disappearance of Dove Dark Chocolate. Good news: DDC is back on the shelves. I have a hankerin' to do some hoarding, lest I ever run out of this delight. I can't explain the great DDC drought of Spring 2014, but don't care now that DDC is back in the local stores.
Now that I have chocolate, I can blog. Let's be serious, shan't we? We'll save the sunshine and rainbows and unicorns for a different day.
As you know, my job tends to be very interesting. Sometimes sad, painful; always entertaining, very rewarding, incredibly educational. I've met a lot of amazing people along the way. My recent job adventures featured something that made me mad and sad. See? Can't be all sunshine and rainbows.
Recently, I had to watch a stable client purposefully have his perfectly-working psychotropic meds stopped....stopped cold because a medical doctor in a hospital ordered them stopped.
One would think a medical doctor would think of better things to do than this but this one did not. I am not a doctor so I should probably watch my tone or make any judgment. I'm sure there is much scientific reasoning requiring the sudden discontinuation of medication for a person with chronic mental illness. What that medical reasoning might be, I do not know. All I really know is I had to watch a wonderfully stable man stop his psychiatric medication.
The client was medically hospitalized for a medical crisis, leading to changes in his overall treatment. The client, who takes anti-psychotic medication as well as mood stabilizers, had been as stable as he had ever been--we are talking in his entire life. I've known him for 15 years and this is by far the "best" he has ever "done." His symptoms of psychosis were quiet, only a whisper. The voices weren't torturing him as they had in years past. He had clearer thinking and was making sense when expressing himself. He had made great progress in his treatment. Although still mentally ill and although he was still on the more bizarre-than-not end of his diagnosis, he was enjoying a relatively "normal" life. Even better:
He was happy.
Insight into how mentally sick you used to be can be terrifying, for you know what it would be like to return to that "place." So, imagine being that client, lying in a hospital bed, knowing, absolutely knowing that you are about to become psychotic and you can't stop it.
You know you are going to start hearing voices.
You know you are going to get paranoid.
You know you thoughts are going to get all jumbled up.
You know you are going to be terrified.
You know your sleep is going to get all screwed up.
You know you are going to think thoughts that aren't true but will seem very true.
You know you are going to think things about people you love that aren't true but there will be no convincing you otherwise.
You know you don't want to go back "there."
I saw him on the second day after his meds had been stopped. He was still asymptomatic. We talked about mundane things, about his desire to have a diet soda, about his medical crisis...and, then about the discontinuation of all his psychiatric medication.
He had no time for the elephant in the room.
He spoke about his fears and apologized in advanced. "I don't know what I'll say." I assured him I would realize it was his mental illness, not him, saying the words of which he was afraid he would say. I told him I would wait for him to come "back." He knew I had waited before, that I had heard his horrific stories and had seen him at "bad" times.
I assured him that I was not and would not be afraid of him. I meant it. I couldn't be afraid of him. I knew the "real" him. He is not his mental illness. He is a person with an unfortunate blessing of chronic mental illness.
He spoke about the waiting....waiting for the symptoms to start. The waiting was the hardest part, as he didn't know when things would start. He knew the probable symptoms--he just didn't know when they would begin their torture.
Thankfully (a weird thing to say), it only took a few days. He didn't have to wait long.
It made me so mad. I watched him fall apart and become something from a decade ago.
Oh, to find the doctor who "did" this. To scream at him and spit as I yelled, "how dare you do this to someone!" I was on the verge of outrage. I wanted the chance to demand an explanation, the rationale. I wanted facts, medical need, medical justification.
The client did indeed start hearing voices. He got paranoid. He got confused and scared and delusional. He kept saying his brain had turned to jello. I let him say what he needed to say. I did not leave and I did not become afraid.
He's out of the hospital now and his medications are slowly being re-started. You can't just re-start some meds lest you lead to nasty things like seizures. He's not back to "normal," to his base-line, as they say. He's able to look back and explain what happened as he got sick, when he was sick, how it was like to come out of having jello for a brain. Yet, he still has intrusive thoughts, disorganized thoughts, scary thoughts. He can't put all the words together the way he wants them.
He knows he has to wait.
I know I have to wait, too.
Trust me when I say that I am the more impatient of the two.
And, so he waits for his meds to kick in, hoping that they work as well as they did before they were abruptly stopped. He knows there is potential that the meds will not "work" as well as they did before this. Another cruel reality in the world of mental illness is that sometimes meds don't work as well when the are stopped and then resumed. If that happens, I am going to go find that doctor and smack him in the head as hard as I can while I am screaming obscenities.
You'd think the client would be angry, but he is not and he was not. He is the understanding one of our motley crew. He knows that he was very medically ill and that the medical doctor did what he thought needed to be done.
He was scared but never mad.
In his crisis, he is teaching me. He's patient. He has faith. He remains confident. He isn't angry or blaming or callous. He is understanding, reflective, honest.
In life, he is teaching me. He is a gift. He is my rainbow and sunshine.
He's not a unicorn, but he is my rainbow and sunshine. And for that, I am truly grateful.
I look forward to his "return." When he's "back," I'll make sure he gets that diet soda he wanted. And, I'll behave--I won't go looking for that doctor because he wouldn't want me to do that. I will honor my rainbow and sunshine.
As for the unicorn, I'm gonna go out and find one and stick that unicorn's horn right up that doctor's ass.
After all, I promised to behave. I didn't promise not to stick a unicorn's horn anywhere. :-)
*********************************************************************
Happy 800th blog to all of you.
Godspeed, Sabine. Know that we are thinking of you and your family. Much love to you, KG.
*********************************************************************
Friday, May 02, 2014
Time Flies
In an effort to determine why I have not been able to blog as much as I have in the previous years, I took a survey of myself. I thought it prudent as I don't feel any busier than any other year. My search for O.B. tampons is over. I have the same job, same house, same wife, same dogs, same life. I spend much less time on Book de la Face. I'm not spending THAT much time on Pinterest. We eat out the same amount of time per week. We're not sleeping more. We don't have more trips to the Cheddarlands. We haven't been going on monthly cruises or vacations or visiting places without internet....
....yet, I seem to have less time. So much less time. I hate to lose time without knowing I am losing time.
In a non-scientific survey, this is where my time goes:
Walking the dogs--Now that Freckles is 159 years old, arthritic ally-slow-moving, mostly blind and quite deaf, it takes FOREVER to get around the block. An 11-minute walk has turned into at least a 30 minute walk. That adds a minimum of 19 minutes to every walk we try and take. If we were to take two walks a day, that would be 38 more minutes per day. No wonder I can't blog--I'm walking in slow-motion. I can't blame her. When I'm 159 years old, I hope to get around the block in less than a day.
Speaking of walking--I'm walking in a work-sponsored walking program. This means I actually have to walk, which adds about 45 minutes to every day. 38 more minutes plus 45 more minutes equals no time for fodder. I need to consider how I write a daily walking entry (complete with photo) for the program, which means I have a new mathematical equation of 38 minutes plus 45 minutes plus fifteen minutes = 1 hour, 38 minutes more "doing something a day." That's a pretty significant "loss." Hmmmm.
Here I am doing a walking tape in the living room. The weather hasn't been very conducive to walking outside. I don't "do" rain. Thankfully, Leslie Sansone is in the house.
Searching for Dove Dark Chocolate has become another time-consuming area. I'm a bit worried as every time I go to Wallyworld or a local grocery store, there is NEVER any Dove Dark Chocolate. There is every other kind of chocolate (even caramel sea salt) but never the dark chocolate. I hope it's just that there has been a run on dark chocolate now that it's been proven it's healthy for you. (Well, healthy in one ounce per day servings....my pound a day probably isn't deemed healthy.) It makes me REALLY nervous that I can't find this stuff. Per repeated Internet searches, there doesn't seem to be a shortage, so I don't know what gives. I really am not a fan of the Hershey Bliss things but will use them in a pinch. I'm actually relying on dark chocolate chips...you know, the kind that you use to make cookies. I'm desperate. I could buy individual Dove Dark Chocolate candy bars, but that's not the same as fondling a bag of individually wrapped squares of love.
And, then there is church. Oh, how church sucks time from my life. Between emails, mail, newsletter, meetings, services, special events and other godly things, I am probably "losing" the most time to this. I suppose there are worse things to "spend time" on, but really--there is only so much God one person can take in a day. Even though I haven't gone to the past few services, church keeps me busier than all the things listed above--combined. This alone may answer my question of why I have less time--how can I blog if I'm making another newsletter, sending out another personally-crafted email, reading another spiritually based blob of info? I forgot about this aspect of time use until I took the self-sponsored, self-focused survey. I'm not going to even try and figure out how much of my life is sucked away in this area. After all, I don't want to piss off God whining about the time he/she/they/it takes.
Netflixing....I love the term Netflixing as I get it--you watch an entire season of a show in one long marathon. I may be doing a bit more TV-watching because I've been watching Dr. Who, Sherlock and other shows on Netflix. I thought this might be where much of my time goes but that's not true--I don't watch "regular, real" TV shows anymore, so this is a break-even area. Dang.
I confess: When the next season of "Orange is the New Black" comes out in June, you probably won't be seeing a blog for the month. I have to watch the show immediately.
Waiting to poop. I suppose this isn't an added loss of time but it is an area of which takes some time. Ya just gotta sit around and wait for things to happen. This really should be a good thing, as I should write my blog while waiting; however, this never seems to be the case. (Actually, this area has nothing to do with time loss. I just wanted to write something about poop.)
Primping. Okay, this is a stretch as I only go for a massage for one hour every three weeks....I get a hair cut every six weeks (one hour), with every other time being a longer "get rid of the grey" coloring session (two hours)....I have more chin hairs to pluck, so that's probably an additional five minutes a week...and, it's warmer out, so I am shaving my legs (5 minutes every other day). Still, I've always had the hair care time included in my way of being. I've always had to shave my legs. It's not like I've started doing my make up. I guess the massage and chin hairs must be the culprit.
The verdict? I'm just slower. Although I keep moving, everything basically takes more time. Like it or not, I'm the one wasting time without wasting time. I can only squeeze so much into a day and my squeezing capacity is slower than it was a decade ago. I hate when that happens.
I think I'll stick to blaming Freckles. Heck if I'm gonna take the blame for moving slower.
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