Sunday, April 30, 2006

Wicked-ly Fun Weekend
Me, the wife, MJagger & hubby Officer Friendly headed to the Windy City with two other couples to take in WICKED (hence, the green lettering. Long live the wicked witch of the west!) MJagger led the way to food, fun and camaraderie for the eight of us. Our journey started at "W," the feng shui-overload hotel on Lake Shore Drive (where art meets function, or so they say). I'm not kidding about the whole feng shui thing--pebbles line the darkened hallways, bathrooms with wooden shudders, metal bowls hold wooden balls of yarn-looking twig thingies, room ceiling painted black. Whoa. I felt like the rich and famous meets the Dali lama. It was a gay boy's dream spot. The first photo is my artsy attempt to take a picture of the hallway; the second is the pebbles lining the hallway, complete with hot-pink room number on the floor. The wife and I had never seen such a thing before. (The photos do no justice to actually being there. Trust me.) The hi-light of "W" for me was the lobby bathroom--you can peek into the men's bathroom and they can peek into the women's bathroom. You think I'm kidding? Check out the sign warning you of the whole we-can-see you thing:

After we finished giggling in the bathroom, we cabbed it over to the Oriental Theatre to see WICKED, a fabulous musical about the wicked witch of the west. If you haven't seen it (even if you're not a Wizard of Oz fan, which I am not), you should really check it out. (That whole tornado thing and those flying monkeys were scary in the movie, don't you think?) There is nothing I can say in the blog that would capture what seeing the show was really like. Suffice it to say, I'd go again. The ladies of the group loved it. I love the Witch of the West--she sure got a bum rap in that Oz movie....No wonder I like the color green. The men looked a little bored--okay, a LOT bored--I think they were worried about the NFL draft while being stuffed in theatre seats--but, they were real troopers.


One of the "bad" things about going to the theatre for women is that the intermission is NEVER long enough and there are NEVER enough bathrooms. (Thus, I severely restrict my intake of fluid when in a very crowded situation, like concerts, ball games, protests, day after thanksgiving shopping...). Poor MJagger had to pee with a vengence. As soon as the lights popped on for intermission, she streaked directly to the potty. Unfortunately, the line for the women's room was frightfully long. MJagger FINALLY got to the stall when she heard, "One minute--the show will begin in ONE minute--please take your seats." MJagger realized if she wasn't back on time, some evil usher person would not let her in for at least ten minutes. So, MJagger passed on the washing of the hands, practically drip dried and literally ran across the lobby--boobs in one hand, dress in the other....she didn't want anything bouncing up or out. Officer Friendly took one look at her and said to the wife, "gosh, it looks like she's been sprinting." MJagger sat down and puffed, "I WAS running!" Of course, about five more minutes passed before the show began, so MJagger was understandably miffed. (MJagger was wearing a dress that most decidedly needed her to use two hands while running. That's what ya get for wearing a dress & having cleavage, I say.) Another "bad" thing is that they don't want you to take photos of the theatre, let alone the actual play. I almost got myself thrown out trying to take contraband photos of the set before the festivities began. I miffed a few ushers off but luckily didn't get the camera confiscated.

Once the final curtain went down (and the men were done cheering), it was off to Morton's Steak House for a carnivorous delight. Now, as a vegetarian, I was mighty worried my dinner choices would be limited--like, "Here's your roll. Would you like butter with that?" I need not have worried--they had a vegetarian plate that made me weep. It had the biggest serving of broccoli I have ever seen on one plate. I had to take a picture of it because it was so spectacular. My spinach salad, which came be
fore the meal, looked like they dumped the entire bag of spinach on the plate. Popeye would have been proud. (I was a little worried about the steroid-sized asparagus, but I ate it anyway. If I start growing more chin hair or if my voice gets lower, I'll know it was the stalks.) As for the meat-eaters, may I say that those were some of the biggest pieces of animal I have ever seen on a plate? We were seated right by the kitchen--I swear I saw a cow crawl by once or twice.

Once we were done stuffing our faces, we headed off to "Howl at the Moon," a dueling piano bar, which on this particular night, was crawling with with drunken bachelorhood. There was nowhere to sit, so we just propped ourselves near the bar and tried to stay out of the way of loaded brides-to-be. You don't need cigarettes when you go to this kind of place--save yourself the six bucks--it's so smoky that the second hand smoke is probably stronger than the real thing. Oh, my aching sinuses! You can see the smoke wafting in and out of your lungs. Even so, I highly suggest dueling piano bars, as you can sing along and no one cares. Where else can you sing Billy Joel and Sir Mix-a-lot in the same hour? (And yes, I really did have long underwear on. I was cold. They were my "dress johns," so I really didn't see a problem. We got a few candid photos of the long johns but I didn't post them to protect my few morself of decency.)

(Im fact, I can't show you most of the photos I took--don't want to jeopardize the anonymity of my friends, even though I've got some pretty good "blackmail" photos from the piano bar. You'll have to ask to see the photos in person. Believe me, I will GLADLY share these tasty tidbits of photojournalism.)

Once we were done smoking, standing and singing at the piano bar (it gets really old having to stand hour after hour, even when wearing long johns), we walked down the street in the rain to find somewhere to sit and drink beer (not me or the wife--we're designated walkers--water for me & the wife, thank you). We ended up a brewery. This was the second time I saw the guys smile (the first was when they saw their steaks), as this was the home of the "Drink Tower." Ah, male bonding over the beer-filled tower is always a welcomed thing. I think I saw Officer Friendly shed a tear in happiness over the beer tower.(The photo really doesn't do the beer tower justice, as you can only see half of it here.) The wife and I called it a night just as the beer tower was drained.

We returned to "W" to find it a-hopping. Loud dance music greeted us at the front door and the lobby was filled with well-dressed-prom-going-teenagers. (Either that, or there were a lot of young types attending wedding receptions somewhere in the building.) The wife and I were worried it would be loud on our floor (god, we are getting old--worrying about such things), but our concern was for naught--it was serene and feng-shui-ee for the night. The feathertop beds were delightful. Too bad we didn't know the alarm was set by the previous patron--that woke us up way before we would have liked to have been up and at 'em. So much for feng shui.

As if we hadn't eaten enough on Saturday, we finished our weekend at Maggianos for Sunday Lunch with MJagger and Officer Friendly. Oh, my poor stomach. My poor colon. My poor digestive tract. I am not used to eating this much food in a week, much less in a 24 hour period. I'm sure it will take me a week to digest all that food. My intestines agree that this was certainly a very WICKED weekend....

Friday, April 28, 2006

Thursday, April 27, 2006

Canine Cranium Conundrum

I think Freckles Warrior Princess gave herself a concussion last night. Seriously, she's got this bloody, yucky, pulpous blob of injury on her head. It looks like she ran into something sharp or something fell from the sky and decked her in the noggin. As she cannot speak, I do not know what really transpired. (Although, if she could speak, she would probably say something like, "Look, you moron, I whacked my head on the corner of the table and it hurts like a bitch so shut the f--- up and leave me alone." She's that kind of dog.) It probably looks worse than it is because she has white hair and blood on white hair never looks very fashionable. We noticed she was much quieter last night--probably because she has a mother of a headache. I've been trying to take photos of the injury so I can share it with you blog readers, but have yet to secure one worth posting. (It's hard to take a photo of an injury on a dog's head. Trust me.) Lucy keeps smelling poor Freck's head. I do not keep smelling her head but have looked at it numerous times. She is not amused that either of us are doing these things. I may have to ask Grover if he knows what transpired--maybe he can understand dogspeak and then he can translate it for me. Stay tuned for canine cranium photos....

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Monk-e-mail & Chocolate in the Dryer

In true immature fashion, I suggest you go to careerbuilder.com/monk-e-mail and get a good laugh. You know those commercials with the monkeys hopping all over the business setting? Well, this is even better because YOU get to decide what the monkey says and then you can harass your closest 400 friends. Why work when you can send Monk-e-mail?

As for me, I knew I was in trouble when I heard the wife yell, "CHOCOLATE!" from the basement. I thought about trying to hide behind the couch but before I could get my sorry ass behind the love seat, I heard her add, "THERE IS CHOCOLATE IN THE DRYER!" As I am the chocolaholic of the family, I knew I wouldn't be able to get out of this, so I went to the basement. The wife was standing there, holding clothing up for inspection. I swallowed hard and went to face my execution. Sure enough, I could see chocolate stains on the clothes, the towels, the inside of the dryer. Being stupid, I mumbled something about "how do you know it was me?" but she had the evidence--a purple tin foil wrapper with a bit of melted chocolate left in it. Yikes. That is a Hershey's Dark Chocolate Kiss and I'm definitely the only one who eats those around here. I confess to the crime and take everything out of the dryer and put it in the washer for round two. I pray to the chocolate gods that the stains will come out.

Serve me right that the only stains that didn't come out were on my favorite T-shirt. That'll teach me to make sure I eat all my chocolate and not waste any in the dryer.

Monday, April 24, 2006

Talking to Dead People and Eating Cheesy Potatoes

I wanted to write about the wife’s most recent efforts with cheesy potatoes, but that’s gonna have to wait until after my Moriah the Medium report. Friend Mjagger (as introduced in blog April 12, 2006—you know, the Madonna-ticket-frenzy-friend), her sister Bon Jovi & the wife had the delightful opportunity last night to go out for dinner with our favorite medium, Moriah the Happy Medium. (Shame on you if you haven’t read my previous blog about Moriah—go back and read THURSDAY, JANUARY 5, 2006. How else will you make sense of Grover if you don’t go back and read the January 5th entry?). Moriah the Medium (from here on out to be known as MTM—and that is NOT Mary Tyler Moore, but Moriah the Medium) was in town to do some readings, as scheduled by Mjagger. (What? Do you think we work at work? No—we sit around and schedule mediums to come see us. We have priorities, you know.)

Before I go any further, I want to remind you to do two things: after reading this blog, go to amazon.com and order MTM’s book; and, email Oprah (www2.oprah.com) and tell Ms. O she needs to have MTM on as a guest. You can click on my link to MTM’s book “How to be a Happy Medium” if you are too lazy to go to amazon.com. You’re on your own to find Oprah’s website. (Yes—that’s www2 in Oprah’s address—that’s the newest in web addresses. Leave it to Oprah to get on the WWW2 before everyone else. I thought it was WWOD2 but its just WWW2.)

Anyway, I could go on and on for days about MTM’s readings for the various subjects. It’s always very amusing (in a good way) and usually incredibly amazing for all. (One lady yesterday wasn’t amazed, but she probably was just a cheap-ass-poopy-butt.) My mother will be happy to know that Grandma G was hanging out with me and that my spirit guide was smoking a corn-cob pipe. (This will make sense to my mother. It made sense to me.) Grover the Spirit Guide was also smoking a joint, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. (We WON’T go there.)

Skeptics come out of sessions with MTM as believers. Believers come as believers squared. (It’s not scary. Really. You’re not going to go to hell because you went and talked to a medium. Her head doesn’t spin around. Split-pea green vomit does not spew out of her mouth….well, not that I’ve seen, but I suppose she might have done it during other sessions. That’d be cool, anyway, if it happened. I just hope I am present when it does happen.) Ms. Medium communicates with animals—dead or alive--and anyone who has that skill can’t be all that bad in my book. I’m not sure it’s even “bad” that we held the medium party on the Lord’s Sabbath. (First, bowling for Jesus; now, Mediums in place of Mass. Maybe I am going to hell.)

The “party” was a success, as reported by the attendees. Mjagger got some answers about her daughter and the crucifix, Bon Jovi got to talk to her grandmother & Workgirl (a new character to this blog) got to talk to her dog who just “passed over.” I’ll leave the personal stories to the owners of the stories, but suffice it to say that more than one person came out with a tear in her eye. After the day’s activities were over, we went out for dinner. How many people do you know that can say they have gone out to dinner with a medium? You really should try it. You can scare people right out of the restaurant when you start talking about dead people & spirit guides at the dinner table. (Well, maybe it was the talk about poop and dildos that scared them away, but I still think it was the dead people. I, by the way, was NOT the person who spoke of dildos—I was focused on the poop. Even I blushed about that one. I’m a poop girl.) I’m not kidding—I think we stunned some patrons into horrified silence. If you can do that, you know your day has been worthwhile....


As for the wife's cheesy potatoes, I hadn't mentioned the "Easter Cheesy Potato Incident" until now, as it didn't seem wise to bring up any sooner than I am doing right now. The wife's Land-o-Cheddar-sister makes the ultimate, universe's-best cheesy potatoes. For some reason, even tho she claims she is using the same cheesy potato recipe as her sister, the wife's cheesy potatoes fall short of the prize. (Do you think it's because we don't live in the Land-o-Cheddar? Maybe "Penny Heads" can't make Cheesy Potatoes like they can across the border.) The most recent disappointment came at Easter (yes, the Bowling for Jesus Easter Dinner). My family and I dug in to those potatoes....and.....and, well, let's just say they weren't her sister's award-winning, mouth-watering winners. We ate them, but I couldn't help repeating, "these just aren't as good as your sister's." (Never a good thing to say to anyone, especially a spouse.)

This led to emailing back and forth to the sister, who claims--swears--the wife has the exact same recipe. I think she's holding out on some secret ingredient so no one will ever be able to make the same delicious morsels as she can. The wife got all the directions and made yet another batch of Cheesy Potatoes. This time, they looked a lot better--I think it was the tinfoil (which, in all previous attempts, the wife had omitted--sister says tin foil is imperative and I believe her). I scooped out a steaming hot pile of potatoes (as illustrated in the photo of the steaming hot spuds--isn't that cool that you can see the steam?!), dug in and.... yes! this was much closer to the "real" thing. Two thumbs up for the wife. Maybe her sister wasn't really holding out secret ingredients. I ate so many potatoes that I gave myself a stomach ache. Now, she'll just have to make some for my family so they can experience "true" cheesy potatoes....

Saturday, April 22, 2006


Grooming of the Dogs & the Breakfast of Champions

The "Grrrlz" went to the "spa" yesterday. They hate it. You'd think they were being tortured, the way they act when they get to the groomer's den. Who wouldn't love being bathed and shaved and blow-dried and primped and cologne-ized? They shake and hide and tremble and poop and put on the breaks.

I don't know how the groomer does it--Lucy wiggles so much, it must be like trying to groom a greased pig while water skiing. I know I've tried to complete a bit of "home grooming" and it's a disaster. First, I have to catch Lucy. Then, I have to hang on to her. She's like a bucking bronco--you'd think I was killing her. Forget about doing her paws. The groomer deserves a tip bigger than what she charges. God bless you, Saint Linda Groomer Girl! I feel your pain.

Poor Freckles gets blamed for being the wiggly one, but it's Lucy that causes the commotion. Freckles probably just stands there and trembles and resigns herself to the fact that she can't escape so she might as well just stand there and shake as this lady shaves her butt.

The good news is that getting groomed makes Fatty Patty Freckles look much thinner. It's like a five pound instant weight loss.

The photos above include "Babushka Girl," "Hiding under the Table and Pissed about the whole Grooming thing," and "What are you looking at?" Below, Freckles takes a nap--it's tough to be at the groomer's--a long nap is needed after that whole shin-dog.

As for breaksfast today, I had the wife make me some steel-cut oats. Mmm! We learned about this food while at Miravel last summer (on the Oprah trip, living the life of leisure). I, of course, personalize my oats by putting mini M&M's in them--a true breakfast of champions. Here's a picutre for those of you who don't think I'm serious. (I've also been known to put M&M's on my pizza, so beware!) Tasty!

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Gum Wrappers, Bowling for Jesus, Wheelbarrel Injuries & Other Nonsense
For those of you following the score, here's a photo of my wheel barrel wound (see blog about mulch spreading). I wasn't kidding when I said I ran myself over with the wheel barrel. That's my calf, by the way. (No muscle tone to speak of in this photo....looks like it could be a fore arm with a sock on the hand. I should have remembered to flex before taking the photo...but, do you know how hard it is to take a picture of your own calf?)

Easter Sunday found me, the pups & the wife with my family of origin. While there, we watched Bowling on ESPN. Not just any old bowling--trick bowling! Professionals doing all sorts of fun things with bowling balls--such as throwing balls out of towels, lofting balls over chairs, throwing two balls out of one hand, etc. Before you blame anyone in my family of bowling addicts for this sacreligous Easter activity, I confess--I am the one who found the show and tuned in the channel. I was so intrigued, I couldn't turn away. Thus, I have decided that "Bowling for Jesus" will be my new Easter activity. Sure beats wearing an Easter Bonnet in an overpacked pew.

As for the dogs: the Puke-a-torium has been getting overtime activity. Lucy managed to projectile vomit while at my parents--a feat that happens every time she visits there--and she puked again yesterday while we were at work. When I say puke, I mean PUKE and I mean on the entire sofa. (For those of you planning to visit: don't sit on the love seat.) Puke even dripped behind the cushions. How do I know it was Lucy? Well, since she was the one with puke all over her fur, I'm guessing she's the culprit. Here's a picture of Lucy "in jail" after her most recent bout of puking.

As for me, I'm in the dog house from all the gum wrappers I've been leaving around the house, the car, the garage, the coat pockets, the universe. I do chew a lot of gum a day and I guess all those gum wrappers jump out of my care and everywhere else. The wife says she is sick of finding all those little balls of paper. The best part about the gum wrappers is she announces every time she finds one. Last night, I hear her yell, "I found one in the HAMPER!" Like I need to know where the little balls of paper have escaped to....if I knew, they'd be in the garbabe. (Well, maybe not. I do tend to lose things and not pay attention to mundane things like gum wrappers. At least I'm not polluting--they're always in the house, not outside on the ground or anything.)

Good news is that Moriah the Medium is coming back to town at the end of the week, and if the Universe brings me $25 more, I'll be able to see her. (Come on Universe--show me the money!)

Finally, I'd like to say how horrified I was to learn that while at the hair dresser's yesterday, I had a giant pimple under my chin. Of course, I did not know about the white ball of love n pus before I went there....I discovered it at home, right after the appointment, so, I'm sure she got a luscious view of the whole Mount Zitney. How many zits, ear crusties and boogers do you think those hair dressers have to see a day? What a great fringe benefit that would be, eh? The stories! The horror! The gossip! Worse, during the hair cut, she says--"Hold Still! You've got a daddy long leg!" and then she proceeded to snip a fly-away scary eyebrow that was longer than the hair on my head. Ugh. Getting older is not pretty.

Well, I'd like to talk more about bodily fluids and bowling dieties, but it's timed for my "Charmed" reruns, so I gotta go...

Saturday, April 15, 2006

A Night in the Local Emergency Room

No, no--not for me--I was in the emergency room at the local hospital as part of my job. I won't talk about the client who I was there to see, but I will talk about all the things I witnessed while in the ER....it became a surreal comedy while I was there and I couldn't help but think, "this crap will be so perfect for my blog!" I will tell you "my" client was lying on a gurnee in a public area--there were no available ER rooms--wearing her Blue Blockers sunglasses--her position in the ER gave me GREAT view of the ER happenings. We couldn't help overhearing everything going on....I've never seen the ER so busy. There was a FIVE hour wait for those who needed stitches....there were people everywhere--in the waiting room, outside, in the hallways, in the parking lot. I knew it was going to be a long night but didn't mind because there was so much entertainment to be had.

The client and I were "parked" next to three other patients. The nearest guy was a very, very drunk man (with a blood level of 4.0!!) who had a terminal case of phlegm balls. He was hocking phlegm balls bigger than my car--then, he'd spit and vomit and make all sorts of gross noises. The security guard and I would just look at each other and try not to gag. He kept saying, "Nurse! I need a drink of water!" over and over and over. He then yell, "I'm going through withdrawal!" The nurse kindly reminded him he was NOT withdrawing as his blood alcohol level was still 4.0 and there was no way he'd be detoxing with that much booze in him. So, we were left with his loogies and puking.

Next to him was a lady who was supposedly having an appendicitis. Now, I have had the pleasure of actually having appendicitis and I can tell you this lady was definitely NOT having one. She was on her cell phone the entire time....I'm not kidding. She'd call her friends, tell them, "yeah, I'm in the ER with stomach pain...probably appendicitis....I'll call you when I know more." She was on the phone so much that the nurse actually said to her, "You know, there is such a thing as Terminal Cell Phone-itis." The patient didn't get it but I did and I laughed out loud. Old Cell Phone lady kept yipping and yipping and yipping. I then heard her say, "Chicken? With Barbeque sauce? Hmm hmm. Yeah, save some for me, I'll be there as soon as I can get out of here." Ah, the magic cure for appendicitis--homemade barbeque chicken. (Why hadn't I thought of that? I could've saved myself the surgery!)She called the nurse, told her "I'm not having any more pain--I'm leaving." Off she went, smiling and almost skipping. So much for the belly ache.

Next to her was a kid that had been bitten in the face by the neighbor's dog. Don't get to worried--it was one puncture wound to the face and he looked no worse for the wear. He had a horrible time sitting still while waiting for the doctor...after all, he was probably only seven years old. He was all over the place, announcing that he didn't want stitches because he had stitches EIGHT TIMES before. His very overweight mom was there, complete in teeny, tiny tank top--naked belly hanging WAY out underneath the shirt--and grey stretch pants that were about thirty sizes too small. For some reason, she wasn't wearing shoes but instead only had what used to be white socks on (they were now grey yucky from walking around without shoes on). The kid was covered in dirt and the nurses spent much time trying to get him to wash his hands. They did not succeed. He was a champ when given the one stitch he needed. God bless that doctor--she was fabulous with him....but, she couldn't get him to wash his hands, either.

After what seemed like days (and was really was many, many hours), my client was admitted to the hospital, but there was nowhere to put her because the entire hospital was filled. This meant she got to stay right on the gurnee in the ER. Once she was officially admitted, I was able to leave her to her own fun and enjoyment in the ER. She still had her Blue Blockers on when I left.

While driving home, I literally praised Jesus and Grover that I would NOT be needing medical attention on this night...if I were to have a medical emergency, I think I would give up being a vegetarian and go out and find some of that magical barbeque chicken....

Friday, April 14, 2006

Confessions of a Madonna Whore Part II

Ticket to Madonna Show: $187.50 (or even $400.00)
Parking at the United Center: $30.00
T-Shirt at the Concert: $100.00
New outfit for the concert: $100.00
Seeing madonna in person: Priceless

The Madonna Frenzy continues. MJagger and I continue to plot our way to victory and money for the June 14th concert at the United Center. The wife just keeps saying, "don't tell me you don't have any money when you spent all that money on a Madonna ticket." I hate when she's right. (The Oprah diet exploded when I purchased that ticket.)

I posted my one ticket on eBay, with the hopes of making a small profit. Unfortunately, 430 people also did the same thing at the same time. A gluttony of Madonna tickets does not make a sale profitable or perhaps even possible. Still no bids after four days. I begin to sweat just a teeny, tiny bit. We may have to wait for weeks before we put more tickets up for sale. eBay, don't let me down! (If any of you blog readers want a Madonna ticket for the June 14 concert, I'm selling it for face value--for what I paid for it--$187.50. We'll even drive you to/from the concert as long as you promise to: (1) be on time; (2) be fun; (3) don't get sloppy drunk and puke in the car; (4) be on time; (5) be willing to sit alone in section 115.)

I've been practicing my dance moves and thinking about what to wear to the show. I really don't have money to buy anything fancy, so I'm limited in my day-dreaming. Maybe I can find a shiny disco shirt. I refuse to wear those high-wasted disco pants from the 70's (remember: I'm in mourning over the loss of the ultra low rider jeans). Maybe I'll just buy a new t-shirt and call it a day. Maybe I'll just wear an old t-shirt and buy a Madonna T-shirt at the concert, throw away the old t-shirt and wear the new concert shirt.

Should I forget new clothes and just get a Madonna Tattoo??! That would be a permanent souvenier from the show.

Hey, by the way--today is POOP FOR PEACE DAY! I'm going to poop for peace AND in honor of Madonna. Get into the Groove! And, it's Easter Weekend, so I'm going to listen to lots of sacreligious Madonna music in the pope's honor. Did you know that Lincoln was shot on Good Friday? At least that is what my work brother Randolph says and I believe him b/c he is just as big of a nerd as I am. So, kiss a penny, pray at 3 pm, poop for peace and buy a Madonna today. It's all good.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

Confessions of a Madonna Whore

This all started when I heard Madonna was going back on tour this summer. Since Madonna (aka Dita, Madge, Ester) is having the “Confessions Tour,” I thought this would be a great time to confess all my sins to her. I will especially need to confess what it was like to buy tickets for this upcoming tour…First off, I confess that I copied this photo from some unknown link on the Web. Madonna, I’m sorry and hope you will forgive me. For you, I’ll do three “Oh Fathers” and promise to stay away from seeking other Google Images.

Madge, you know I’ve been there through the Boy-toy phase, the Blonde Ambition Tour, the I’m-a-cowgirl-Music-Drowned-phase, the Re-Invention tour, the bad movies, the okay movies, the husbands, the babies, the albums, the Sandra Bernhart phase, the bad accents, the Truth or Dare era, the David Letterman shows, the blonde hair, the red hair, the dark hair, the disco hair. I’ve seen you four times in concert—once in Dallas and three times in Chicago. How could I stay away from you for the “Confessions Tour?” I confess that I cannot. I HAVE to have tickets to your latest concert—at any price. Any. I am truly a Madonna whore.

About that concert: I MUST get the ticket that will lead to dancing and singing and general excitement with Madonna. I MUST GET TO THAT CONCERT! I will sell my dogs. I will sell my house. I will sell my wife!

My friend, Madonna fan #2—we’ll call her MJagger (for reasons known to her)—and I decide that we will both try and secure tickets for the “Confessions Tour” coming to the United Center this summer. We’ve gone to two previous Madonna concerts together, so why stop now? We aren’t stupid—we know those tickets are going to go like hotcakes, so we need a plan. I decide I will be on line at work and she will be on line at home. We will be poised on Ticketmaster with our grubby little paws on the mouse, ready to pounce with the cursor on the BUY NOW button so we can seek the best available tickets. At 9:59 AM, I am sweating. I am in position. I am at my desk, hand on mouse, palms getting sweatier by the second. I confess: these are not cheap tickets. This is Madonna. Tickets are $350.00 or $165.00. I can’t even pay my bills and I’m going to spend money on concert tickets. The wife is horrified.

10 AM rolls around and WHAM! I’m clicking that mouse like there is no tomorrow. Only about three zillion other people are doing the same thing. MJagger and I call back and forth to each other via cell phones. Neither of us is getting anywhere very fast. We decide to start seeking single tickets instead of two tickets at a time. She gets through and swoops up a single ticket for herself.

I get through! I have a ticket in my grasp! I reach for my wallet…and, I discover I DON’T HAVE MY CREDIT CARD! (I’ve been leaving it at home so I don’t use it. Great time to remember that.) I contemplate suicide. I make the decision to use my Bank Card, praying to the banking gods that I actually have enough money in my account to cover the cost of the ticket. I point and click. TA-DA! It is mine. It’s not the greatest seat I’ve ever seen but it is mine. MJagger calls me, screaming, “SHE’S JUST ADDED ANOTHER CONCERT!” MJagger goes into overdrive. She is buying tickets left and right. I can’t keep up. In just minutes, she has tickets for both nights. I’ve lost count of what she has purchased and spend our time screaming and yelling and celebrating and sweating.

After the ticket frenzy, we have time to re-group. She has several single tickets and two floor tickets. I have my ticket. We plot and plan how we can get the best out of these tickets and sell the rest. I get confused and dizzy as she tries to explain all the options to me. I’m not sure how it will work out but I do know that I have concert tickets and that I will be dancing with Madonna in June.

By the way, I ended up having $13 to spare in my checking account after buying the ticket, so nothing bounced across the nation. It was meant to be.

I don’t know what I’ll wear to this concert. Last time, MJagger wore leather pants. I have nothing that exciting to wear. But, at least there are 60 shopping days until the concert. This time, I’ll remember to bring the charge card….

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Too-Mulch-chu-us

I was held hostage this weekend, “forced” to shovel and wheel-barrel ten yards of mulch. Do you know how much ten yards of mulch is? I thought it looked rather like Mount McKinley—it’s giant and you can’t see over it and it makes you want to start drinking. It’s too mulch. The wife enlisted my help this year and since I’ve gotten away with basically for more than ten years never helping with the mulch-spreading, it seemed only fair that I fulfilled this relationship obligation. It would be too-mulch-chu-ous to say no at this point. (Actually, in all fairness to the wife, I really wasn’t forced—I volunteered in a weak moment. But, it’s so much more fun to say that I was forced so blog readers can have a laugh.) Thankfully, our friend T offered to help with this endeavor. I’m not sure if she’s our best-est friend or our stupidest friend for volunteering. It was wonderful having that third person help dig out Mt. McKinley but why anyone would volunteer to do this, I have no idea.

T and I start shoveling mounds of mulch into wheel barrels while the wife is seen primping her hair in the car window reflection. T and I roll wheel barrel after wheel barrel of mulch up and down the yard while the wife wanders around pointing at this and that. T and I begin to realize that we got the short end of the stick, so we go on strike and take a break. We pretend to be Union members and take a longer break than planned, complete with chocolate. We demand better working conditions and a higher wage. The wife agrees to buy us dinner for our efforts. Victory!

Four hours later, T and I are still spreading mulch. We are too old for this and realize we will not be able to get out of bed the next day. I whined. A lot. I almost poked an eyeball out when walking into a tree branch during mulch delivery. I whined some more. My butt hurt, my arms hurt, my legs hurt, my eye hurt. I had mulch in my nose, in my shoes, in my hair. The wife is spreading the piles of mulch over her prize gardens and she’s starting to look tired from all that bending and raking. T and I thank the gods that the wife is starting to look pooped, because the two of us can barely use our arms any more. I smashed the wheel barrel into my calf--it's going to bruise like a grape. (It sucks to get old. We could have done this in two hours when we were in our twenties. Right now we’re just trying not to have heart attacks.) By the time we get done, we are not sure we will be able to lift our forks to our mouths during our free dinner.

The mulch was spread and the heavens parted and the angels sang and we ate copious amounts of food as purchased by the wife. The flower beds, all ten yards of them, look beautiful, I must admit and I’m sure the flowers will bloom in full glory from their new mulchiness. I look forward to helping our friend T spread her mulch when it’s time.


Not.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Anal Gland Explosion of the Hot Dog Kind

I swear you will learn something today if you read this blog. If you own a dog, you at least owe it to your four-legged friend to learn about it's anal glands....

....Me 'n' the wife were out eating lunch with a posse of friends yesterday, when right in the middle of our appetizer, I learned about M's dog having an anal gland explosion. Being the sick chick that I am, I asked for ALL the details. Nothing bothers my ability to eat food so I wanted the blow-by-blow....(Yes, that IS a dog's butt. What dog you will soon know. Thanks to M for sending the canine butt photo--true friends email photos like this. I just LOVE it!) I thank M also for the anal gland story and I hope to do it justice in this blog. Forgive me if I forget some of the details....

M's dog is one of those hot dog kind of dogs, only the long-haired kind; thus I will refer to this precious puppy as HotDiggity (as in hot diggity dog). Well, HotDiggity wasn't peeing and didn't seem to be pooping and seemed downright miserable. As M and family were supposed to be going on vacation, this was rather worrisome. After all, you want your dog peeing and pooping, whether in town or not. A pre-trip visit to the vet determined an impacted, infected anal gland to be the culprit. All the nasties were "expressed" outta there and all seemed as if it would be well. (Side note: Have you ever smelled a dog's anal gland stuff? Holy Cow--it makes your eyes water and I am not kidding. Freckles and Lucy both have some pretty pungent anal gland yuckies and have to have those glands "expressed" every now and then...when they do that, you have to clear the room. Really.) HotDiggity seemed no worse for the wear, M rubbed the cream on HotDiggity's butt like she was supposed to and made sure the dog took her antibiotics. One more expressed (not an espresso) squeeze, an okay from the vet and the trip was able to go on as scheduled.

Upon return from the land of Elvis, M noticed a crater on the back of HotDiggity, right next to the poop shoot. We're not talking about a little pimple--we're talking about a volcano here. This was understandably quite disturbing to M, who whooshed HotDiggity off for medical attention. Turns out that HotDiggity blew out an anal gland while M and the troops were on vacation. Exploded. Literally. Did you even know an anal gland can explode? (I would have paid money to see that happen.) It's not as unusual as you'd think, according to my "Hound Health Handbook" by Betsy Brevitz. (Yes, I do sit around and read about anal glands in my spare time--Hound Health says anal glands "produce an oily, stinky substance that is supposed to squeeze out each time the dog deficates. Told you you'd learn something. Expressing anal glands "is a stinky business involving a latex glve and petroleum jelly...") The actual word is "ruptured" but I'm sure it was much more like an explosion. Thankfully, I am told that such things heal quickly and it's not like anything fatal. Just gross. (Unless you are standing behind the dog when it explodes and the force of the explosion takes out your eye or something.) The vet just washes out the old crater, makes sure the pup is getting antibiotics and away you go. The photo is HotDiggity's backside just days after the event and you can see everything is looking pretty darned good back there. In fact, it looks beautiful. I can't even see a scar.....good job, HotDiggity!

Freckles has a great talent--she can literally SQUIRT anal gland juice! (By the way, it's normal for dogs to leave little tidbits of anal gland juice to mark their territory.) When she gets really mad (if dogs are able to get mad), she can squirt with the best of them. Stand back when the UPS delivery person comes to the door--WOOF! It only takes a drop of the goop to clear the sinuses. Freckles anal glands are better than those yellow stickies UPS or the Mail Person leaves--we can tell the minute we walk in the house they've been there--because the stench hits us before we even get the key out of the door. (Okay, so this is more than you wanted to know or learn. But, isn't it interesting? Don't lie.) Thankfully, Freckles Warrior Princess has never blown out an anal gland, but there's still time....and when it happens, I'll be there, with camera in hand....

Saturday, April 08, 2006

Random Poop Nonsense on a Saturday

First of all, I don't want you to forget that POOP FOR PEACE DAY is April 14, 2006. I don't know about you, but I'm saving up my poop so I can have the motherload on that day. If you didn't catch the previous "poop for peace" blog (not log), here's what you need to know, taken directly from The Poop Report:

"Poop For Peace Day is not about protest or partisanship or politics. PoopFor Peace Day is about acknowledging the fundamental basis of sharedhumanity: black or white, liberal or conservative, Christian or Muslim orJew, we are all united in struggle against the tyranny of the bowel.And Poop For Peace Day is April 14 -- next Friday.Spread the word. Tell the media. And start eating roughage." More info: http://www.poopreport.com/Peace

(The poop photo is from poop-on-peaceniks.blogspot.com/ is probably copywrited but it was too funny not to take the chance. Heck, I'm giving credit for where the photo came from. Can you believe you can find this kind of "crap" (pun intended) on the Internet? All I did was a Google Search for "poop peace" and a whole pile of images showed up. Is this a great country or what?)

This leads me to thoughts about one of my all-time favorite work stories--related, of course--to poop. As the supervisor of a group home, I had the pleasure of sometimes plunging a toilet. Mind you, there are eight giant men living in that group home and they make eight zillion pounds of giant poop every day. Those old toilets can only handle so much and staff was forever plunging. Well, one day I go into the bathroom and in the toilet is the hugest, roundest piece of poop I have EVER seen. It was the size and shape of a baseball, or perhaps an 11 inch softball, and it was spinning round and round and round because it couldn't fit through the hole. It was AMAZING! So, this poor puppy of a poop had to go. Being the creative type, I went into the kitchen and got some tongs. I entered the bathroom, plucked out the spinning ball of poop and yelled, "WHO MADE THIS POOP?" Several of the guys were standing around watching, hands in pockets, silent. No one makes eye contact with me but I do catch them looking at the tong-held, hard-as-a-rock poop. I can't believe this thing actually came out of someone's orphace. How the hell did it ever get out of there, how did they make it so round and big and why was it like CEMENT? Ouch! I tell them," Whoever made this poop should be proud and take ownership! I've never seen a round poop like this before!" Still, no one takes the credit--or blame. After we had all had a chance to contemplate the meaning of this round poop and after the case manager and I stopped laughing, I threw the poop away in the garbage can--I threw away the tongs, too, so you can rest assured no salad was tossed after poop-removal-tong duties.

On a happier note, the pooper at work finally seems to have caught on that it is his/her poop (I won't incriminate the person) we are taking photos of and them posting around the agency, as we haven't seen any poop in the toilet in the last week. It's not like we were subtle or anything....desparate times for desparate measures.

Another work-related poop thing is that we as supervisors were recently given written directions on how to plunge and turn on/off the water to the toilet. There were even photos on the instructions. You know, that Master's Degree really didn't cover proper plunging techniques, so I suppose it's very important.

Finally, Lucy made the BIGGEST poop ever this morning. It was human sized and I was very jealous. Even the wife was amazed. It wasn't round or clogging a toilet but it was still really impressive.

That's enough poop for one day, don't you think? Flush early and flush often, that's what I say.....

Friday, April 07, 2006

Memoir of Mania: Slim Jim, Smiles and the DMV

Slim Jim is a hall-of-famer in the mania department. SJ was the DEFINITION of manic. He never stopped talking--ever--and had a smile as big as the Grand Canyon. It was exhausting trying to keep up with him, but it was my job and so I jogged along. Did I mention he never stopped talking? He was the nicest, funniest guy around and he would have been delightful if he weren't so exhausting.

(Note the Slim Jim. His name was not him and he didn't eat Slim Jims....well, at least not that I know of. Think of the Slim Jim photo as a visual...of what, I'm not sure.)

Mania can lead to rather...shall I say intersting behavior....and usually shoots any form of inhibition and judgment right out the door. Slim Jim needed a new state I.D. That in itself is not interesting in the least. What is intersting are the stories that go with him.

I went to SJ's apartment--a crusty, yucky place where no human should have to live--and find the door unlocked. I walk in and find all four burners on the stove lit brightly. A blackened pan with some type of scorched bean product is lying on the floor. I look in the over--it's on at 45o degrees--and see SJ's pants in there! He comes bee-bopping into the room and announces that he is drying his jeans in his oven. Well, that certainly is not very safe, so I take the pants out and give him a lecture. He keeps smiling and talking. SJ can't recall why he had the burners on "but there they are and here I am, so I must have turned them on, yup!" he says. You can't stay mad at SJ. He beams down at me with that smile. I swear I can see all 32 of those pearly white teeth. I reminded him we were scheduled to go get his new I.D. He gets way excited and jumps around and sing-songs my name and just about throws himself down the rickety steps toward my car. He says his name over and over and over, for no known reason. He says it while I drive, he says it while we are in the parking lot. Yip yip yip yip! The words literally fall out of his mouth at break-neck speed.

So, we go in to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) and find it--of course--packed. We will now have to stand in line. Great. Slim Jim will NOT be good at standing in line. He talks to everyone--in front of him, behind him, across the room from him. He says to the lady behind him, "I'm Slim Jim! Pick a number, any number! Pick a number from 1-100." The lady and I stare at each other. I shrug my shoulders and she says, "37." Slim Jim immediately drops to the ground and does 37 push-ups! Right in the DMV line. He certainly has now gained lots of attention. He pops back up, smiling and still talking all the while. He turns to another person and asks the same thing. Now, you think the person would know better than to pick a number, but he does--25. Slim Jim drops again to the ground and does a brisk set of 25 push-ups. He doesn't tire--he just keeps talking and smiling. We meet every single person in the place. I have to admit that it was the most fun I've ever had at the DMV.

Somehow, Slim Jim ended up in jail. Probably something to do with very poor judgment during his mania. The jail asked me to come see him as he wasn't taking his medication and wasn't cooperating with the jailers. He is asking for me by name and indicates he will cooperate if I am there. When they told me he was in isolation, I knew it wasn't good. They only put the really "crazy" ones in observation and they don't have any clothes on--they are as naked as the day they are born. I take a co-worker with me for backup and support. We walk in...it reeks of everything you don't want to ever smell--urine, poop, butt crack sweat, garbage, etc. We walk past the cells, in each a naked guy screaming obscenities at us. Fun. Slim Jim is in the last cell. I am not prepared for what I see. Poor Slim Jim is standing in the cell, looking terrified, covered with bits of food on his face and body, garbage shoved in his toilet and overflowing, sad, sad look on his face. I have never seen Slim Jim without a smile. I turn and look--there are SIX officers and a nurse accompanying me and my friend. What the hell do they need SIX guys for? Slim Jim recognizes me immediately and gives a smile. I tell him the police want him to get an injection of his psychiatric medication and I need him to cooperate. He melts like butter and says he most certainly will cooperate with me. The six men put on rubber gloves, snapping them into place. I give them a rude, "you're assholes" kind of look; one of them says, "we're gonna hafta take him down to give him that shot. He won't cooperate. You'll have to get out of the way." Piss on you, I think. Slim Jim isn't going to do anything that requires you morons to do anything but stand there. I get an idea--I will have SJ come to the bars so they won't have to open the cell--that way, they won't get near him. I tell him to back that ass of his right up to the bars and let them give him a shot. I'll be damned, he backs his ass right up to the bars and stands there as the nurse gives him an injection. I gave those six assholes the meanest look I could muster. "Told you he wouldn't be any problem," I snarl to them.

Slim Jim was eventually released from jail and went on his merry manic way. I never saw him again, I'm sad to say because he could always make me smile, even when backing his ass up to the bars of a jail cell. I look for him every now and then and always smile when visiting the DMV....how many people can say that?

Monday, April 03, 2006

An Oprah Moment in REAL life!

I wanted to tell you about "Slim Jim Jerry" and related mental illness stories, but that will have to wait. Yesterday, I was part of a real-life Oprah moment and just have to share the story.

The wife and I returned to Cheddarland for yet another visit to the family. (Boy, they sure like each other. They are ALWAYS getting together, traveling across the great cheddar tundra. Thank god they have great food.) Anyway, when we walked in, the wife's brother (aka Tommy Hilfiger) grabs me and just about throws me into the laundry room. Strange but fun greeting. He hands me the camcorder and case and asks me to film a special event later in the day. All Tommy Hilfiger tells me is that he will be handing his dad a letter and he wants it on film. Sounds easy enough.

I try to get my coat off and here comes Mrs. Hilfiger. She, too throws me into the laundry room and says the same thing. I assure her I will do as requested and just ask that they let me know a few minutes before the filming is supposed to start so I'll be ready--for whatever it is I am supposed to be ready for.

The party goes on, the food is consumed, all is well in the world.

After dinner, Dad notices that Tommy Hilfiger is missing. Now, this guy doesn't usually notice anything, but he has noticed Tommy is gone. I see the wife's dad walking toward the garage--I guess to see if Tommy H is out there--Mrs. Hilfiger freaks and just about throws herself in front of dad and the garage door. I figure this must be the moment, so I throw myself into the laundry room (not as fun as others tossing me in there), get the camera rolling and take my spot. Tommy is enters from the garage and shooshing his dad to the kitchen.

The film is rolling. Dad is sitting in the kitchen, on a chair, holding a letter. The wife's mom is sitting at the kitchen table and all the kiddies are circled around. Dad opens up the letter and starts crying. I'm filming, filming--close up of the crying--zoom out from the crying--and he doesn't say anything but I keep filming. Tommy Hilfiger hands his dad what is obviously a car key. Dad hands the letter to the mom and she starts crying. More closeups. I zoom around the room--they are all crying (and they haven't even heard why anyone is crying yet). Dad is unable to read the letter out loud and mom has her head in her hands, not able to choke out a word, so Tommy Hilfiger reads the note to everyone. Suffice it to say he has just given his mom and dad a brand new car.

A new car, complete with big red ribbon on top of it--just like on Oprah or on TV!

Tommy noted that his dad had NEVER had a new car in his entire life and talked about the sacrifices made along the way. So, now dad had his own new Ford 500. Was I ever glad to be filming this moment!

It's one thing to see Oprah doing this kind of thing. It's another to see it in real life, with real people--people who are so humble they cannot imagine such a kind act and don't know how they will ever accept such a lavious gift.

Everyone piled out to the garage, jumping in and out of the car. More crying, more filming, more crying. A big red bow, for pete's sake! If this isn't an Oprah moment, I don't know what is. Tommy Hilfiger is a very giving, caring man and he has outdown himself.

I think the Dad slept in the car last night. Who can blame him?

Saturday, April 01, 2006

Two fools for April Fools Day


Here are some photos related to Rockford College. Why? Because this is where the wife and I met (never mind that this is also where I met my ex-husband--that is a whole 'nother story) and because today is our anniversary (don't ask any questions just yet). April 1, 2006. A glorious day, indeed.

This building? That's Burpee Center, the home of the school cafeteria. Back in the day, I could easily put away thirds at any given meal. Of course, that's why I weighed 50 pounds more than I do today. (Well, that plus the pizza and beer, but let's not go there). 

Burpee will always be near and dear to my heart because it's where I met the wife for the very first time.  

We officially first met in the Summer of 1982 in Burpee Center--it was during her freshman orientation. Now, that was a LONG time ago. (We were three years old when we met.) I was working that day because I was going to be a Resident Assistant for the year--the RAs were on campus to welcome the incoming freshmen. I was assigned to the beverage table. I believe the choices were water or lemonade; but, being me, I was offering other things (not that they really existed).....

When the wife bellied up to my bar, I said, "Vodka or Whiskey?" 

Yes. Those were my first official words. I remember it. She remembers it. We still laugh about it. We should have realized it was destiny. "You had me at vodka."

Thankfully, her father did not hear me.

We didn't really get to know each other until we began standing in line every day waiting for the Burpee Cafeteria to open. We were ALWAYS first in line. I'd be right by the door, waiting for it to open; she'd be right behind me, waiting for the cafeteria to swing into action. On most days, we were the only two standing there for many minutes. Every day, at 11 AM we'd be standing there. The cafeteria didn't open until 11:15 AM but we didn't want to be late. There was food to be eaten! This love of food and a sick need for punctuality became the basis of true friendship.

So, my second official words to the wife were: "You're a woman after my own heart." 


I wasn't kidding about eating thirds at every meal. We were serious food hounds back then. The wife had three chins, for god's sake. And, isn't it just so appropriate that the cafeteria is located in a building called BURPee?

The pool. Ah, the pool. The college pool is where (a) I almost drown while taking a swimming final freshman year after a big bout with mono; (b) the place the wife taught me how to swim without drowning; and, (c) home of the gym, which is wear the wife and I spent most of my waking hours (when not in the arts building or drunk in some dorm room).

(Side note: I really feel bad bout calling the wife, well--the wife. I mean, she's not really a wife, nor a husband. I'm not her husband. This hurts my head. I can't very well use her name--she'd hunt me down. Saying "partner" sounds like we are in business together and "Significant other" sounds ridiculous. Using "love buckets" is just so disgustingly sweet. So, I'm going with "the wife." It makes me laugh, if nothing else.) 

No need to get into details (I don't want to scare any of you blog readers)--suffice it to say that time went on, I graduated, she graduated, I got married, I got divorced, we lost weight and stopped eating thirds at every meal, we got real life jobs, blah blah blah. Along the way, April Fools day became "our" anniversary. (That's another blog topic--how anniversaries are determined. Not today, please! That's more complicated that finding world peace.) 

(Mother dear, aren't you glad to know we have an official anniversary? No need for gifts, thank you!) 

And so, we have been "together" longer now than the age we were when we got together. (Does that make sense? I know what I'm trying to say.) April Fools Day is by far the most perfect day for an anniversary as we are the two biggest April Fools I know. I'm not sure it's very romantic but it is very appropriate. And, that is NOT an Aprils Fool joke.

How will we celebrate, you ask? Being the oh-so-romantic type, I'm making the wife go to Barnes and Noble so I can have an anniversary frappacino while reading PEOPLE magazine. Okay, so we'll go out for dinner, too, but I'm all about the frappacino. Our dear friends J&G will join us in an anniversary bookstore beverage and we'll laugh and tell stories and distrub others trying to read their PEOPLE magazines. We might go stand on the Rockford College softball field, just for fun. I don't think we'll go to Burpee for lunch but we'll consider it.

 After all, she is a woman after my own heart.    :-)