The Year in Review
Indulge me in some self-centered reminiscing, won't you? It's rather impossible to be anything but sentimental & reflective on New Year's eve.
What a busy year it was, as I am sure it was for you, too. There was the retiring of Brett Favre and the subsequent un-retiring of Brett Favre, the favre-o-roids and the pants that no longer fit. A new job came to the addiverse (of which we do not speak) and a new face on the political horizon (of She Who Must Not be Named). The mold mobile kept rolling, Madonna kept on strutting, prestigious awards were bestowed upon the wife and our first cruise was enjoyed (unexpectedly freezingly cold). I learned to believe in the power of chiropractic treatment, joined Book de la Face and got my first cell phone. Addiction to text messaging followed. Dos Marias got married, niece number six arrived, Freckles Warrior Princess spent oodles of hours at the vet and I learned the merits of doing housework.
My gratitude for the wife factor multiplied by a million.
Lucy Bark of Poteidaia continued to hate all dogs in the neighborhood. The Brewers and the Cubs both choked, quite to the horror of our household. Master Reiki had a horrible accident and bravely faced the trials of healing. I fell in love with Jillian, broke up with Jillian, got back together with Jillian, despised Jillian, relapsed back to Jillian. My beloved lady chiropractor healed my knee (or was it the breakup with Jillian that led to the knee improvement?). Wild Mama became Cool Mama, Taco Juan lost two feet of his intestines and Sister Lady Di ruled the school board. Not enough time was spent with the Chicago Nieces. I fell three people short of my goal of 50 people by 12/31/08 on Book de la Face (well, I have a few more hours to make that goal). I re-pierced my ears in the bathroom (bad idea) while the wife made sure a new roof and a new wood floor came to our life. I lost money on the Madonna concert but in the end decided that going to the concert and keeping a friendship is always more important than money.
Did I mention my pants no longer fit?
As usual, the year went too quickly. How unfair is it that the older you get, the faster the years go by?
I don't make resolutions because it just sets you up to fail. After all, why say you're going to do something because it's a certain day of the year? If I did make resolutions, I'd probably resolve to get back into my pants; never take for granted family, friends, life, work and all the things that truly matter; walk the dogs more often; work on the garden daily; eat less white sugary products; eat more vegetables; make more art; save money; go on a super-great vacation to some fabulous island; visit family more often; meditate; get my pap on time; get a white tattoo (so much for saving money); lower my cholesterol via diet to below 200; resolve my issues with Jillian; cut my addiction to the Internet and text messaging by half; not make fun of the Baby Jesus; curb my stalking of my Beloved Lady Chiropractor; and, get new license plates.
Shallow? Maybe. But, you already know that I can be a tacky, shallow person. Maybe I'll work on that, too. Less shallow, more content, more veggies, more gratitude. Integrity, serenity, humility. It doesn't get much better than that.
A new, blank slate. A new year. Same old me. And, in the big picture, that really is okay. Happy New Year to you!
--
and remember: "If you want it, you already got it; If you thought it, It better be what you want." (Madonna, "4 Minutes")
It's all right. It's all wrong. It's all good. It's an entire blog of self-serving rantings about various mundane subjects of no redeeming value except a laugh or two along the way. Welcome to the Addiverse: 2005-2022.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Relapse
I have to type fast, don't even have time for photos or color font. I won't tell you what I'm doing that makes speed of the essence but suffice it to say I've got to keep moving.
(Can I just say it sucks to be Brett Favre today?)
I have a confession to make.
I've relapsed.
No, no--not THAT kind of relapse.
I've had a Jillian relapse.
I am powerless, my life has become unmanageable.
Yesterday, while watching football on TV at home with the ever-recovering, uterus-less wife, I realized that my knee was really bothering me. This gave me pause as it's been awhile since I've had that complaint. I haven't seen my Beloved Lady Chiropractor over the past few weeks as she was weaning me off frequency of appointments. I wasn't able to say why it hurt as I've been a lazy non-exercising slug and haven't done anything very athletic--a few miles with Leslie Sansone here and there, but I've been too busy stuffing my face while waiting on the wife to be doing serious exercise. Heck, I haven't even been walking the dogs or even shoveling.
Sooooooo.....since my knee already hurt......and, since I can't get any of my pants on anymore (there was a significant moment of trauma over the weekend when I tried to put some black pants on for a funeral and I couldn't even button them)...........I figured it couldn't hurt.....
......it wouldn't be THAT bad.......
......it would be just this one time.........
I went to the basement.........
.....pulled out the.....GASP!........Jillian Michaels 30 day shred DVD......
.....put it in the DVD player......
.....and I relapsed.
I threw myself into that 20 minute workout like an alcoholic going on a beer bong bender.
I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop myself. It was like a little slice of fatty patty heaven.
Oh Jillian, you tart! Now I've done it!!! It doesn't matter whether or not my knee hurts. It only matters that I have come back to you. What does it matter? I can't get my pants on--so what if you make my butt bigger? What if I get thicker? This middle aged thing isn't doing anything for me, anyways. I'm already saving money for new pants--why not go out with a bang? You're like a bad penny, you bully--go ahead, keep coming back to me!
And, now it begins. Tonight, I did your work out AGAIN. See? I AM powerless. I am addicted. Twenty minutes of you beats 60 minutes of Leslie. (No offense, Leslie--it's about availability of time, not about the actual quality of your walks--I love you!) I've gone back to my evil ways, you and that angel tattoo. I'm giving you thirty days to shred away. I'll give you that time and my butt, but after that....
....after that, if I don't see ginormous results (and I'm not talking about butt here), I'm breaking up with you.
Again.
This time for good.
Maybe.
I have to type fast, don't even have time for photos or color font. I won't tell you what I'm doing that makes speed of the essence but suffice it to say I've got to keep moving.
(Can I just say it sucks to be Brett Favre today?)
I have a confession to make.
I've relapsed.
No, no--not THAT kind of relapse.
I've had a Jillian relapse.
I am powerless, my life has become unmanageable.
Yesterday, while watching football on TV at home with the ever-recovering, uterus-less wife, I realized that my knee was really bothering me. This gave me pause as it's been awhile since I've had that complaint. I haven't seen my Beloved Lady Chiropractor over the past few weeks as she was weaning me off frequency of appointments. I wasn't able to say why it hurt as I've been a lazy non-exercising slug and haven't done anything very athletic--a few miles with Leslie Sansone here and there, but I've been too busy stuffing my face while waiting on the wife to be doing serious exercise. Heck, I haven't even been walking the dogs or even shoveling.
Sooooooo.....since my knee already hurt......and, since I can't get any of my pants on anymore (there was a significant moment of trauma over the weekend when I tried to put some black pants on for a funeral and I couldn't even button them)...........I figured it couldn't hurt.....
......it wouldn't be THAT bad.......
......it would be just this one time.........
I went to the basement.........
.....pulled out the.....GASP!........Jillian Michaels 30 day shred DVD......
.....put it in the DVD player......
.....and I relapsed.
I threw myself into that 20 minute workout like an alcoholic going on a beer bong bender.
I couldn't help it. I couldn't stop myself. It was like a little slice of fatty patty heaven.
Oh Jillian, you tart! Now I've done it!!! It doesn't matter whether or not my knee hurts. It only matters that I have come back to you. What does it matter? I can't get my pants on--so what if you make my butt bigger? What if I get thicker? This middle aged thing isn't doing anything for me, anyways. I'm already saving money for new pants--why not go out with a bang? You're like a bad penny, you bully--go ahead, keep coming back to me!
And, now it begins. Tonight, I did your work out AGAIN. See? I AM powerless. I am addicted. Twenty minutes of you beats 60 minutes of Leslie. (No offense, Leslie--it's about availability of time, not about the actual quality of your walks--I love you!) I've gone back to my evil ways, you and that angel tattoo. I'm giving you thirty days to shred away. I'll give you that time and my butt, but after that....
....after that, if I don't see ginormous results (and I'm not talking about butt here), I'm breaking up with you.
Again.
This time for good.
Maybe.
Friday, December 26, 2008
Another Day is Housewife Hell
...Twas the Day after Christmas
and all through the house
not a creature was stirring
not even a....
WAIT A MINUTE! THIS creature was all over the house cleaning like Cinderella under the whip of those EVIL step-sisters.
I thought you Addiverse readers might enjoy a few candid photos of my frenzied efforts in Housewife Hell.....after all, some of you might be very entertained by this. Others of you may be motivated to send the wife condolences cards because I am so pitiful at doing these chores.
The first photo shows me doing the one chore I have not enjoyed during Operation Housewife--washing the floor by hands while on my knees. My beloved Lady Chiropractor might have objection to me crawling around on my newly healed knee but there was a floor to wash and knees be damned. As you can see, I believe in the casual look when cleaning. (Why I have my winter wool cap on is a mystery to me. Must have been cold.) If you look closely, you can see Freckles' head (lower portion of the photo, in front of the green bucket). That is because Freckles was staring at me doing this awful task. I crawled my way from the kitchen to the eating area to the entryway to the upstairs bathrooms to the lower room bathroom to the lower level tiled area.
I have to say I do NOT like washing floors. Give me another foot of snow any day.
Once the floors were clean and shiny, I moved on to the laundry. I was already doing laundry--and, I like doing laundry--but, today the wife informed me that it was time to wash all the throw rugs. I must confess that if left to my own devices, I would never once wash a throw rug, so I guess it is for the best that I have now learned this is a necessary part of living life. I didn't even know you COULD wash throw rugs. Forty six years and never once thought about a clean throw rug. Well, at least we now have clean throw rugs on my newly cleaned floors.
Once the throw rugs were in the dryer, I moved on to garbage day efforts. I didn't want to over do it, so I stuck with the garbage and decided to do the recycling later in the day--maybe after midnight. (Maybe next week. We'll see.) We don't usually have so much garbage, but the holidays led to triple volume--three bags instead of one. As it was very slippery out (there was a layer of ice all over the ground), it took me quite a long time to get down and then back up the driveway. At least on the way down, I had the three bags to fall on if I should slip.
Once I safely got back to the garage, I was SURE the recycling would have to wait. The hell if I was going back out there on that ice rink.
Garbage at the curb, it was on to feeding the birds. This didn't sound hard--just a minor pain, as the snow in the back yard is over 18 inches deep. So, I trudged through the snow, enjoying every moment of snow filling my boots, and got to business. All I had to do was fill the thistle seed sock (say that three times fast) with thistle. I didn't have too many traumas--a tree branch kept poking me in the eye and I spilled a whole lot of thistle on the ground and the snow started melting within my boots and trying to take a photo of filling the thistle sock while trying to keep the tree branch out of my eye is really tricky--but, before I knew it,I had my photo, the birds were fed and I was trudging back into the house....
...I stopped and picked up some dog poop on the way back but quickly ran out of little plastic baggies. I also realized I was picking up the neighbor dog's poop and I was not interested in doing any more work than I absolutely needed to do, so I stopped with the poop scoopin' and went back inside.
And then, it was time to do something BIG: it was time to empty the vacuum cleaner canister. This was very nerve-wrecking for the wife as she had visions of vacuum fluff filling the hallways. I knew that I had a handle on this even though I had yet to do this with this particular vacuum. I ripped that puppy right off the machine and dumped that amazing pile of dirty cotton-candy into my newly cleaned garbage bag on my newly cleaned floor. I was the master!
Other efforts for the day included going to the store for the wife to buy a card for her five year old niece (she didn't appreciate my choice as it had glitter on it), micro-waving the wife a dinner (can't exactly call that cooking), spot cleaning the puke under the bed (Lucy threw up twice last night and I really couldn't see to clean it properly last night), straightening up after our guests (Dos Marias!) left (um, cleaning up after two people have sat at your kitchen table talking really doesn't qualify as cleaning--I had to push the chairs in and line up the place mats), trying to fix the DVD player in the living room (problem with the audio wires to the television remain a problem) and I tried to groom the dogs. That didn't go so well as Lucy kept escaping and I finally gave up trying to get her from under the bed because I was just too pooped to fight. There's always tomorrow...
....after I take the recycling out and fluff the pillows and do the laundry and go to the store to buy some needed food products and clean the lint trap, I can always try to groom them again.
Or not. Maybe I'll just take a nap.
The wife? Oh, she's fine. She's practicing standing up straight and trying not to give me too many directions on my chore completion. Right now she's watching Donnie and Marie on Larry King, so you KNOW she's having a good time and is on the mend. She's got no worries--her uterus is gone, her throw rugs are clean, her card is mailed, her garbage is out, the birds are fed, the floors are washed, the laundry is done and the vacuum is ready for more action. Come visit her....
...but, call first and take your dang shoes off when you come in. I just washed the floor and those throw rugs, you know.
...Twas the Day after Christmas
and all through the house
not a creature was stirring
not even a....
WAIT A MINUTE! THIS creature was all over the house cleaning like Cinderella under the whip of those EVIL step-sisters.
I thought you Addiverse readers might enjoy a few candid photos of my frenzied efforts in Housewife Hell.....after all, some of you might be very entertained by this. Others of you may be motivated to send the wife condolences cards because I am so pitiful at doing these chores.
The first photo shows me doing the one chore I have not enjoyed during Operation Housewife--washing the floor by hands while on my knees. My beloved Lady Chiropractor might have objection to me crawling around on my newly healed knee but there was a floor to wash and knees be damned. As you can see, I believe in the casual look when cleaning. (Why I have my winter wool cap on is a mystery to me. Must have been cold.) If you look closely, you can see Freckles' head (lower portion of the photo, in front of the green bucket). That is because Freckles was staring at me doing this awful task. I crawled my way from the kitchen to the eating area to the entryway to the upstairs bathrooms to the lower room bathroom to the lower level tiled area.
I have to say I do NOT like washing floors. Give me another foot of snow any day.
Once the floors were clean and shiny, I moved on to the laundry. I was already doing laundry--and, I like doing laundry--but, today the wife informed me that it was time to wash all the throw rugs. I must confess that if left to my own devices, I would never once wash a throw rug, so I guess it is for the best that I have now learned this is a necessary part of living life. I didn't even know you COULD wash throw rugs. Forty six years and never once thought about a clean throw rug. Well, at least we now have clean throw rugs on my newly cleaned floors.
Once the throw rugs were in the dryer, I moved on to garbage day efforts. I didn't want to over do it, so I stuck with the garbage and decided to do the recycling later in the day--maybe after midnight. (Maybe next week. We'll see.) We don't usually have so much garbage, but the holidays led to triple volume--three bags instead of one. As it was very slippery out (there was a layer of ice all over the ground), it took me quite a long time to get down and then back up the driveway. At least on the way down, I had the three bags to fall on if I should slip.
Once I safely got back to the garage, I was SURE the recycling would have to wait. The hell if I was going back out there on that ice rink.
Garbage at the curb, it was on to feeding the birds. This didn't sound hard--just a minor pain, as the snow in the back yard is over 18 inches deep. So, I trudged through the snow, enjoying every moment of snow filling my boots, and got to business. All I had to do was fill the thistle seed sock (say that three times fast) with thistle. I didn't have too many traumas--a tree branch kept poking me in the eye and I spilled a whole lot of thistle on the ground and the snow started melting within my boots and trying to take a photo of filling the thistle sock while trying to keep the tree branch out of my eye is really tricky--but, before I knew it,I had my photo, the birds were fed and I was trudging back into the house....
...I stopped and picked up some dog poop on the way back but quickly ran out of little plastic baggies. I also realized I was picking up the neighbor dog's poop and I was not interested in doing any more work than I absolutely needed to do, so I stopped with the poop scoopin' and went back inside.
And then, it was time to do something BIG: it was time to empty the vacuum cleaner canister. This was very nerve-wrecking for the wife as she had visions of vacuum fluff filling the hallways. I knew that I had a handle on this even though I had yet to do this with this particular vacuum. I ripped that puppy right off the machine and dumped that amazing pile of dirty cotton-candy into my newly cleaned garbage bag on my newly cleaned floor. I was the master!
Other efforts for the day included going to the store for the wife to buy a card for her five year old niece (she didn't appreciate my choice as it had glitter on it), micro-waving the wife a dinner (can't exactly call that cooking), spot cleaning the puke under the bed (Lucy threw up twice last night and I really couldn't see to clean it properly last night), straightening up after our guests (Dos Marias!) left (um, cleaning up after two people have sat at your kitchen table talking really doesn't qualify as cleaning--I had to push the chairs in and line up the place mats), trying to fix the DVD player in the living room (problem with the audio wires to the television remain a problem) and I tried to groom the dogs. That didn't go so well as Lucy kept escaping and I finally gave up trying to get her from under the bed because I was just too pooped to fight. There's always tomorrow...
....after I take the recycling out and fluff the pillows and do the laundry and go to the store to buy some needed food products and clean the lint trap, I can always try to groom them again.
Or not. Maybe I'll just take a nap.
The wife? Oh, she's fine. She's practicing standing up straight and trying not to give me too many directions on my chore completion. Right now she's watching Donnie and Marie on Larry King, so you KNOW she's having a good time and is on the mend. She's got no worries--her uterus is gone, her throw rugs are clean, her card is mailed, her garbage is out, the birds are fed, the floors are washed, the laundry is done and the vacuum is ready for more action. Come visit her....
...but, call first and take your dang shoes off when you come in. I just washed the floor and those throw rugs, you know.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Happy Holidays
Rudolph the red nose reindeer, had a very shiny.....
.....oh! I am glad to see that this Christmas will not be She Who Must Not be Named free.
Ah, Christmas Eve. I was trying to remember if I ever experienced a "bad" Christmas Eve and I must say, off the top of my head, I am not able to recall any of which would fulfill this description. I've had the "fourth grade ear-ache-go-to-the-doctor on Christmas Eve," I've enjoyed the "OUCH! I-JUST-ZIPPED-MY-CHIN IN-MY COAT ZIPPER! Christmas Eve moment," I've had the "I've-got-mono-and-I'm-too-sick-to-function Christmas Eve," and the wife astutely reminded me I've had the "I-hate-the-holidays-I'm-going to be a big whiny-baby-cause-we-can't-be-together melodrama Christmas Eve," followed by the "take turns going to each other's families" Christmas Eves.....
Well, wait a minute--there WAS that night we spent in a hotel by O'Hare on Christmas Eve where we had NO heat in the room and they didn't have anything else to offer us and we fr-fr-froze all night (at least we were heading to the Virgin Islands the next day, where we certainly did not have to worry about freezing any further); that was an adventurous, miserably cold holiday and might qualify for a lousy holiday beginning, but since it was followed by St. Thomas and St. John's and since it was the first Christmas Eve I can remember that we were together for the blessed holiday, I think that negates anything yucky about it.
(I can easily remember a horrible Christmas Day but I won't say more as the wife and I are probably still in need of therapy over it. Suffice it to say, three hours of screaming at each other in a car is a rotten way to spread Christmas cheer.)
When I think of Christmas Eve, I think of my grandmother. I think of sitting at a kiddie table in the basement of a small house, eating lasagna. I think of my cousins, of everyone smashing into the living room and everyone opening presents at the same time. I think of the smell of my grandfather's pipe. I think of the old kind of flashbulbs--the square ones that "blew up" when taking the photo--and, of movie cameras with the blinding bright light. I think of an olive green davenport. I remember "Santa Buzzy" showing up to hand out presents. It doesn't matter that those memories are over 35 or 40 years old; it is always my first thought when I am asked to truly think about Christmas Eve. Maybe that's why I can't think of any "bad" Christmas Eves; nothing will ever "top" or "ruin" those Christmas Eves at my grandparents' house. Those yucky ones just melt into the background and are happily replaced by the warm, glowing memories of grandma in an apron, cooking and baking and organizing.
This year, we are just trying to get the wife to and from the celebration without bursting her steri-strips from here to Cheese Curd City. I'd put money on it that we'll make it, pillow seat- belted into place, pain pills in hand. We'll blow into town, stuff our faces, open a few presents and blow back out of town. It won't be quantity focused; it will be quality focused....and, there is nothing wrong with that.
Here's wishing you have a very qaulity-filled Merry Christmas Eve and an even more fabulous Christmas Day. Here's one for Grandma--ho ho ho!
Rudolph the red nose reindeer, had a very shiny.....
.....oh! I am glad to see that this Christmas will not be She Who Must Not be Named free.
Ah, Christmas Eve. I was trying to remember if I ever experienced a "bad" Christmas Eve and I must say, off the top of my head, I am not able to recall any of which would fulfill this description. I've had the "fourth grade ear-ache-go-to-the-doctor on Christmas Eve," I've enjoyed the "OUCH! I-JUST-ZIPPED-MY-CHIN IN-MY COAT ZIPPER! Christmas Eve moment," I've had the "I've-got-mono-and-I'm-too-sick-to-function Christmas Eve," and the wife astutely reminded me I've had the "I-hate-the-holidays-I'm-going to be a big whiny-baby-cause-we-can't-be-together melodrama Christmas Eve," followed by the "take turns going to each other's families" Christmas Eves.....
Well, wait a minute--there WAS that night we spent in a hotel by O'Hare on Christmas Eve where we had NO heat in the room and they didn't have anything else to offer us and we fr-fr-froze all night (at least we were heading to the Virgin Islands the next day, where we certainly did not have to worry about freezing any further); that was an adventurous, miserably cold holiday and might qualify for a lousy holiday beginning, but since it was followed by St. Thomas and St. John's and since it was the first Christmas Eve I can remember that we were together for the blessed holiday, I think that negates anything yucky about it.
(I can easily remember a horrible Christmas Day but I won't say more as the wife and I are probably still in need of therapy over it. Suffice it to say, three hours of screaming at each other in a car is a rotten way to spread Christmas cheer.)
When I think of Christmas Eve, I think of my grandmother. I think of sitting at a kiddie table in the basement of a small house, eating lasagna. I think of my cousins, of everyone smashing into the living room and everyone opening presents at the same time. I think of the smell of my grandfather's pipe. I think of the old kind of flashbulbs--the square ones that "blew up" when taking the photo--and, of movie cameras with the blinding bright light. I think of an olive green davenport. I remember "Santa Buzzy" showing up to hand out presents. It doesn't matter that those memories are over 35 or 40 years old; it is always my first thought when I am asked to truly think about Christmas Eve. Maybe that's why I can't think of any "bad" Christmas Eves; nothing will ever "top" or "ruin" those Christmas Eves at my grandparents' house. Those yucky ones just melt into the background and are happily replaced by the warm, glowing memories of grandma in an apron, cooking and baking and organizing.
This year, we are just trying to get the wife to and from the celebration without bursting her steri-strips from here to Cheese Curd City. I'd put money on it that we'll make it, pillow seat- belted into place, pain pills in hand. We'll blow into town, stuff our faces, open a few presents and blow back out of town. It won't be quantity focused; it will be quality focused....and, there is nothing wrong with that.
Here's wishing you have a very qaulity-filled Merry Christmas Eve and an even more fabulous Christmas Day. Here's one for Grandma--ho ho ho!
Monday, December 22, 2008
Ugly, Unbelievable Uber-Uterus
OH.....MY......GOD.
OH.
MY.
GOD!!!
You should SEE the photos of the wife's uterus and fibroids!
Those hummers were absolutely, positively, disgustingly, ginormously delightful. I've never seen anything quite like it. We counted TWELVE fibroids (all bigger than golf balls) on, in and around that mammoth uterus. I am so impressed. No wonder he said it was "impressive." It was! My week was made when I saw those photos. The wife just wanted to hear the official word 'benign' and I just wanted photos. We both got our wish.
I am in love with her surgeon. So much for my beloved lady chiropractor. All she's got is a little stick and cracking bone sounds. I'm sticking with the guy who rips parts of women's abdomens.
Dr. Pasture offered to let me take out some of her staples today, so that won him even more points. Alas, I did not get to do this, as the wife loudly objected. She's no fun.
I wanted to show you what it looked like in there but thought better of it when I thought about some of you more squeamish readers. There are awesome photos of various kinds on the web; just google "fibroid uterus" and take a gander.
HUGE!
UGLY!
UNBELIEVABLE!!!!!
I know I am prone to bouts of excessive exaggeration but I am not exaggerating here. Ask the wife. Even she took a peek at the photos. I'm not sure she knows what she was looking at that--might be better that way.
I am so proud to know her.
Anyways, the wife is healing, the snow is snowing, the holidays are holidaying. The steri-strips are in place and we are ready to go.
Is life good or what?
OH.....MY......GOD.
OH.
MY.
GOD!!!
You should SEE the photos of the wife's uterus and fibroids!
Those hummers were absolutely, positively, disgustingly, ginormously delightful. I've never seen anything quite like it. We counted TWELVE fibroids (all bigger than golf balls) on, in and around that mammoth uterus. I am so impressed. No wonder he said it was "impressive." It was! My week was made when I saw those photos. The wife just wanted to hear the official word 'benign' and I just wanted photos. We both got our wish.
I am in love with her surgeon. So much for my beloved lady chiropractor. All she's got is a little stick and cracking bone sounds. I'm sticking with the guy who rips parts of women's abdomens.
Dr. Pasture offered to let me take out some of her staples today, so that won him even more points. Alas, I did not get to do this, as the wife loudly objected. She's no fun.
I wanted to show you what it looked like in there but thought better of it when I thought about some of you more squeamish readers. There are awesome photos of various kinds on the web; just google "fibroid uterus" and take a gander.
HUGE!
UGLY!
UNBELIEVABLE!!!!!
I know I am prone to bouts of excessive exaggeration but I am not exaggerating here. Ask the wife. Even she took a peek at the photos. I'm not sure she knows what she was looking at that--might be better that way.
I am so proud to know her.
Anyways, the wife is healing, the snow is snowing, the holidays are holidaying. The steri-strips are in place and we are ready to go.
Is life good or what?
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Operation Housewife
Sick of hearing about hysterectomies yet?
Oh, but there is SO much fodder!
The wife is doing fine, thank you, holding her pillow and turtling around the house. Her mama just left after a two day stay, of which delayed my solo efforts in Operation Housewife. What a gift, indeed!
It was a very nice, appreciated visit: it allowed me to go to work for the two days and not have to worry about the wife. (I HAVE thought about buying a "Nanny Cam" and spy on the wife while I'm not around to make sure she is behaving and not doing things like vacuuming the house or moving furniture.) It also meant that I got out of making a home-made meal. (Side note: I lost points because I don't eat tuna. People insist that tuna isn't a meat and therefore I should eat it. The mama had made a tuna casserole and I politely reminded her that I don't eat meat. This was not a very happy moment as she had purposefully picked out a meatless meal she thought I would eat. I technically don't eat food that had eyes or a mama, so seafood is out. It's not like I could pick the tuna out of the noodles.)
The only thing worth really noting from the vist? The mama asking "Where did Addi Warrior Princess sleep?" Hello! Where do you think I slept? I am proud of the wife as she pointed to the empty side of the bed and said, "right here."
That ended that conversation. :-)
I wanted to take a photo of her incision and staples, but she declined as she was afraid I would post the photos on the blog. I may be a blog whore but even I wouldn't sink that low. It's just that are amazing and she can't see them (don't think she wants to, either) but what a great thing to have for posterity. Sigh. No staple photos for me...I'll just have to enjoy watching the removal of the staples on Monday and be satisfied with that.
So, today is my first official day of full duty in Operation Housewife. I've put on new pillowcases, fluffed the blankets, purchased some "special" food products (like juice bags--it's hard to be in bed and drink anything, so juice bags it is), went out and purchased gifts for my employees, put out the garbage, shoveled the walk, drove to one of my sites and shoveled the walk, wiped down the floors, heated up lunch, brought in the recycling, put the mail out for the mail lady and am doing three loads of laundry as I type. And yes, I am separating the colors from the whites. (I got busted by the mama for doing my own laundry in one load, colors with the whites--hey, it was my clothing, who cares what I do?) I am feeling very confident that I can and will succeed in this operation. Unless, of course, I get caught mixing the clothes again--then, I will flunk and will definitely need the Nanny Cam as the wife will be doing the laundry when I'm not looking......
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
You don't need no stinkin' Uterus
Well, the uterus-free wife is home, snuggled in her own bed (there's no place like home) and thus I am free to blog away. Now that it's all over, I can confess my darkest fear, celebrate the success of this whole ordeal and recall the infamous pre-op quotes from the drug-filled wife.
Before I go any further, I want you to know that I am the most grateful person on the planet right now. Really. This will be the best Christmas ever. (Well, if I live through all this cleaning and organizing stuff. I am pooped already!)
Many of you may have been thinking "geez, it's only a hysterectomy. One out of three women have one of those puppies--at least some form of hysterectomy-type surgery. My neighbor just had a hysterectomy and she was back at work in four weeks. Whaddaya getting all excited about?"
And, I would answer, "when the surgeon uses words ovarian cancer when speaking of your beloved, you too might get a bit zealous in the drama department."
See, when the wife went to the surgeon, he informed us in plain English that she presented with "classic signs of Ovarian Cancer." I'll tell you what--your heart pounds, the room spins and you want to vomit all over yourself. Trust me, being the drama queen that I am, I figured she'd be a goner and I'd be a drunken mess in some gutter. Doctors always add disclaimers such as, "I won't know until I get in there." Great. That's reassuring.
Of course, the wife being the strong, stoic woman that she is, adapted the "it is what it is" mentality, took it in stride, went on her way and assured me that she did not have cancer. She reminded me that I was the one who originally "diagnosed" her fibroids and seemed to remain focused on my very scientific ability to diagnose medical problems instead of focusing on some lousy surgeon's words who went to med school and is called a doctor for a reason. I was not so good at remaining focused or maintaining my composure. Thank god I had to learn all those chores and tasks so I had a distraction from my terror.
As I do certainly believe that thoughts have "power," I did everything I could to only think positive thoughts. I wrote positive words on my arms (so I would see the words when at work and then be reminded to focus on the positive), I chanted happy little mantras, and whenever the "C" word would pop in my head, I would literally redirect myself by sing-songing, "cancel, clear! cancel, clear! Get that "C" word out of here!" We didn't speak of the "C" word because we really didn't want to give it power and besides, the wife was sure she didn't have cancer.
Suffice it to say, the wife does not have cancer, she is no worse for the wear and she's giddy in delight that it is over. She can gloat about the size and volume of her now homeless uterus, she can challenge others to a "my fibroids were bigger than your fibroids" contest and she can flash her beautiful flat belly all across the nation. Me? I can do a happy dance and do those chores and act like the grateful being that I truly am. Bring on that housework! I am ready to fulfill my partnerish obligations.
Sooo, enough of the sappy stuff or I'll ruin my reputation. Let's get to making fun of the wife. Here are some of the quotes I've been promising. I want you to envision the wife lying on a gurnee, waiting for her turn in surgery, smiling & giggling, spitting out witty snippets, assuring me that she is ALWAYS funny. When you are envisioning this, make sure you envision a giant pooch, as the pooch was so big by this time that it was popping through the blankets. I am telling you, you would have thought she was pregnant and ready for delivery.
The blurbs bubbled forth spontaneously and usually without any precipitating trigger that I could figure. For instance, when she said, "My Wii person wouldn't say I was obese," I had no idea where that came from. One of my favorite comments--and she says she was kidding about this--was " When I get home on Wednesday, I'll have time to clean the house before my mother gets there on Thursday." A moment of truth came when she looked at me (who had just finished texting someone about her status) and chastised me: "You are addicted to your technology. You can't live without your phone or computer."
Ouch. (The truth hurts.)
This was followed by, "you are exploiting me" when I asked to take a photo of her with my camera phone. (Probably not a good idea to have asked that.) Who uses the word "exploit" before major surgery? At this point, I dropped the pen cap on the floor. She responded by stating, "so THAT'S where all the pen caps go." She was distracted from further pen cap discussion by the drip of her IV; she smiled and reported, "that drip can hypnotize you!" After making her Grey's Anatomy comment, she added, "Where's Dr. McAddi when you need her?"
Indeed.
As you know, the surgery went without a hitch and was relatively quick. She was "impressive" and no longer full of all those dang fibroids and gianormous uterus. Before we knew it, the wife was in her hospital room, groggy but aware enough to ensure me that she remembered everything she had said before surgery. Things went really fabulously until the vomiting started....
Oh dear. Can I just say vomiting after having a six inch incision made in your lower belly does NOT look like a fun thing? There was nothing that I could do but hold the barf bucket and hope for the best.
Did I mention she barfed up the Body of Christ? She took communion at 10 AM and by 10:30 AM, the communion host came a-flying out.
I got to talk to the surgeon this morning. (I got up at 4:30 AM so I wouldn't be late and miss him. Besides, I had to shovel and get the laundry going and feed the dogs and vacuum. I'm not kidding. I take my house-hold responsibilities seriously.) He showed me the incision--holy cow!--and gave us all the instructions needed to heal successfully from the surgery (all the do's and do not's of which I shall not recant). The wife goes back to the doctor on Monday to get the staples out--after that, they glue her shut and use steri-strips to make sure the healing continues. He looked at me and said, "What are YOU doing on Monday?" I assured him I would bring her to the appointment. He then turned to the wife and reminded her she was not to drive. She agreed without hesitation.
Now that she's home, it's a normal recovery process for a normal hysterectomy. No drama, no worries, no drunken binges. Just a lot of waiting on the wife hand and foot, covering my tracks, getting everything done, enjoying the view of a very flat belly and the thought of a very healthy wife.
Merry Christmas, indeed.
Well, the uterus-free wife is home, snuggled in her own bed (there's no place like home) and thus I am free to blog away. Now that it's all over, I can confess my darkest fear, celebrate the success of this whole ordeal and recall the infamous pre-op quotes from the drug-filled wife.
Before I go any further, I want you to know that I am the most grateful person on the planet right now. Really. This will be the best Christmas ever. (Well, if I live through all this cleaning and organizing stuff. I am pooped already!)
Many of you may have been thinking "geez, it's only a hysterectomy. One out of three women have one of those puppies--at least some form of hysterectomy-type surgery. My neighbor just had a hysterectomy and she was back at work in four weeks. Whaddaya getting all excited about?"
And, I would answer, "when the surgeon uses words ovarian cancer when speaking of your beloved, you too might get a bit zealous in the drama department."
See, when the wife went to the surgeon, he informed us in plain English that she presented with "classic signs of Ovarian Cancer." I'll tell you what--your heart pounds, the room spins and you want to vomit all over yourself. Trust me, being the drama queen that I am, I figured she'd be a goner and I'd be a drunken mess in some gutter. Doctors always add disclaimers such as, "I won't know until I get in there." Great. That's reassuring.
Of course, the wife being the strong, stoic woman that she is, adapted the "it is what it is" mentality, took it in stride, went on her way and assured me that she did not have cancer. She reminded me that I was the one who originally "diagnosed" her fibroids and seemed to remain focused on my very scientific ability to diagnose medical problems instead of focusing on some lousy surgeon's words who went to med school and is called a doctor for a reason. I was not so good at remaining focused or maintaining my composure. Thank god I had to learn all those chores and tasks so I had a distraction from my terror.
As I do certainly believe that thoughts have "power," I did everything I could to only think positive thoughts. I wrote positive words on my arms (so I would see the words when at work and then be reminded to focus on the positive), I chanted happy little mantras, and whenever the "C" word would pop in my head, I would literally redirect myself by sing-songing, "cancel, clear! cancel, clear! Get that "C" word out of here!" We didn't speak of the "C" word because we really didn't want to give it power and besides, the wife was sure she didn't have cancer.
Suffice it to say, the wife does not have cancer, she is no worse for the wear and she's giddy in delight that it is over. She can gloat about the size and volume of her now homeless uterus, she can challenge others to a "my fibroids were bigger than your fibroids" contest and she can flash her beautiful flat belly all across the nation. Me? I can do a happy dance and do those chores and act like the grateful being that I truly am. Bring on that housework! I am ready to fulfill my partnerish obligations.
Sooo, enough of the sappy stuff or I'll ruin my reputation. Let's get to making fun of the wife. Here are some of the quotes I've been promising. I want you to envision the wife lying on a gurnee, waiting for her turn in surgery, smiling & giggling, spitting out witty snippets, assuring me that she is ALWAYS funny. When you are envisioning this, make sure you envision a giant pooch, as the pooch was so big by this time that it was popping through the blankets. I am telling you, you would have thought she was pregnant and ready for delivery.
The blurbs bubbled forth spontaneously and usually without any precipitating trigger that I could figure. For instance, when she said, "My Wii person wouldn't say I was obese," I had no idea where that came from. One of my favorite comments--and she says she was kidding about this--was " When I get home on Wednesday, I'll have time to clean the house before my mother gets there on Thursday." A moment of truth came when she looked at me (who had just finished texting someone about her status) and chastised me: "You are addicted to your technology. You can't live without your phone or computer."
Ouch. (The truth hurts.)
This was followed by, "you are exploiting me" when I asked to take a photo of her with my camera phone. (Probably not a good idea to have asked that.) Who uses the word "exploit" before major surgery? At this point, I dropped the pen cap on the floor. She responded by stating, "so THAT'S where all the pen caps go." She was distracted from further pen cap discussion by the drip of her IV; she smiled and reported, "that drip can hypnotize you!" After making her Grey's Anatomy comment, she added, "Where's Dr. McAddi when you need her?"
Indeed.
As you know, the surgery went without a hitch and was relatively quick. She was "impressive" and no longer full of all those dang fibroids and gianormous uterus. Before we knew it, the wife was in her hospital room, groggy but aware enough to ensure me that she remembered everything she had said before surgery. Things went really fabulously until the vomiting started....
Oh dear. Can I just say vomiting after having a six inch incision made in your lower belly does NOT look like a fun thing? There was nothing that I could do but hold the barf bucket and hope for the best.
Did I mention she barfed up the Body of Christ? She took communion at 10 AM and by 10:30 AM, the communion host came a-flying out.
I got to talk to the surgeon this morning. (I got up at 4:30 AM so I wouldn't be late and miss him. Besides, I had to shovel and get the laundry going and feed the dogs and vacuum. I'm not kidding. I take my house-hold responsibilities seriously.) He showed me the incision--holy cow!--and gave us all the instructions needed to heal successfully from the surgery (all the do's and do not's of which I shall not recant). The wife goes back to the doctor on Monday to get the staples out--after that, they glue her shut and use steri-strips to make sure the healing continues. He looked at me and said, "What are YOU doing on Monday?" I assured him I would bring her to the appointment. He then turned to the wife and reminded her she was not to drive. She agreed without hesitation.
Now that she's home, it's a normal recovery process for a normal hysterectomy. No drama, no worries, no drunken binges. Just a lot of waiting on the wife hand and foot, covering my tracks, getting everything done, enjoying the view of a very flat belly and the thought of a very healthy wife.
Merry Christmas, indeed.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Impressive
I don't have much time to write, as I have to shovel snow, feed the dogs, change the water bowls, wash the clothes, read the mail, clean the snow-watered floor, put away the recycling, change the garbage and get ready for tomorrow.
Those of you who have been getting my emails already know that the wife is fine, that the surgery was successful, that she remains in the hospital and that she has now ceased the projectile vomiting.
It's only fair warning to her that I was writing down quotes while she was on various medications. I shall share them in future blogs because the quotes are definitely blog-worthy. There is no way I could make this stuff up. (Example: "It never takes this long on Grey's Anatomy." Great thing to say to the people who are about to wheel you into the operating room. Or, how about, "Is this when I profess my love for you?" That was a big hit with the OR nurse.)
Suffice it to say the surgeon said her biggest fibroid was "impressive." Really. His description of her fibroid-filled abdomen left me in delight (well, once I heard she was okay it was delightful). So impressive that he literally took photos. One of her fibroids was so big and so high up in her belly that he literally had to reach in there and rip that puppy out. Woof.
He later told her he found the surgery to be "fun" (I knew I liked this man) as she was literally filled with fibroids and one giant-fibroid-filled uterus.
I have much to say about the surgery and related happenings and trust me, I will blog in great detail--with the wife's approval, of course. But, tonight I am on the move, so you are stuck with this quick diddy. Thank you to all for the support, the emails, the calls, the texts, the patience, the understanding that no visitors were wanted or why she wasn't answering the phone (it's hard to talk on the phone and vomit at the same time).
Impressive. The wife excels at everything. Even in making impressive fibroids.
Well, I've always found her impressive.
I don't have much time to write, as I have to shovel snow, feed the dogs, change the water bowls, wash the clothes, read the mail, clean the snow-watered floor, put away the recycling, change the garbage and get ready for tomorrow.
Those of you who have been getting my emails already know that the wife is fine, that the surgery was successful, that she remains in the hospital and that she has now ceased the projectile vomiting.
It's only fair warning to her that I was writing down quotes while she was on various medications. I shall share them in future blogs because the quotes are definitely blog-worthy. There is no way I could make this stuff up. (Example: "It never takes this long on Grey's Anatomy." Great thing to say to the people who are about to wheel you into the operating room. Or, how about, "Is this when I profess my love for you?" That was a big hit with the OR nurse.)
Suffice it to say the surgeon said her biggest fibroid was "impressive." Really. His description of her fibroid-filled abdomen left me in delight (well, once I heard she was okay it was delightful). So impressive that he literally took photos. One of her fibroids was so big and so high up in her belly that he literally had to reach in there and rip that puppy out. Woof.
He later told her he found the surgery to be "fun" (I knew I liked this man) as she was literally filled with fibroids and one giant-fibroid-filled uterus.
I have much to say about the surgery and related happenings and trust me, I will blog in great detail--with the wife's approval, of course. But, tonight I am on the move, so you are stuck with this quick diddy. Thank you to all for the support, the emails, the calls, the texts, the patience, the understanding that no visitors were wanted or why she wasn't answering the phone (it's hard to talk on the phone and vomit at the same time).
Impressive. The wife excels at everything. Even in making impressive fibroids.
Well, I've always found her impressive.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Graduation from Housekeeping Boot camp for Slugs
In final preparations for graduation from housekeeping boot camp, I made a list of the things I think the wife does in a day. I remembered everything from changing the dog bowl water twice a day to cleaning the dryer lint trap. I then added the tasks I realize she does weekly and monthly, which was a little harder as many of the things will not need to be done during her recuperation from the Favre-roid-ectomy on Monday--thankfully, I will not need to wash & wax the three cars by hand nor will I have to wash all the windows (inside and out). I was just about feeling pretty impressed with myself and ready to pat my back when.....
I've learned in the wife's little world there is always something else, something more. As we walked through the garage this morning, the wife pointed out that she sweeps out the garage "when it needs it." I asked for clarification, as I would think the garage floor would need to be swept once a year. Her answer? "When it needs it." I quickly remind her that it is ME she is talking to and that I need more specific direction than that. The wife indicates she sweeps the garage floor at least once a week in the winter--or, when it needs it. I inquired what makes a garage floor qualify for cleaning. I didn't get a very clear answer but I'm thinking it needs sweeping when the snow boogers falling off my car start piling up or when road salt starts to take over the cement.
As I am pondering the meaning of sweeping a garage floor in winter, I notice the wife is doing something else....she is off to fill the bird feeders in the back yard. IT NEVER ENDS! No, I didn't think the bird feeders were magically filled by the ornithologist ferry, but I didn't exactly think about how this event occurs. Put that on the list for next weekend.
Where's my list??!! I can't find my list! How can I pass my test if I can't find my list?!
I find my list (shoo!) and take a very serious look at it. I take a deep breath, trying not to hyperventilate and take another long look at the wife's household tasks. I realize that not only am I a slug but also that all this gobbly-gook written on my list is all Greek to me. It is so foreign I might need to order one of those Rosetta Stone language kits so I can truly figure out what all these tasks mean.
At this moment, the wife is busy running around doing as many tasks as she can do before Monday's surgery. She is doing the laundry--washing all the bedding and then washing all of the dogs' bedding--she is talking about giving the dogs baths (tomorrow I beg!), she has filled the snow blower with the "special gas" that it needs, she has organized the freezer with all the new food I purchased this morning, she is shaking out rugs and calling her mother and reading the Internet on how to heal after a Favre-roid-ectomy and she's researching brands of televisions and she's wrapping presents and she's paid her bills and.....
....and me? I'm sitting here writing this blog and I'm drinking my Dunkin' Donuts coffee and I haven't even showered yet.
There really is something wrong with this picture. Not only am I a bad, bad dog mama, I remain a slug. I reassure myself I have done an excellent job in housekeeping boot camp and that I am just saving up my last few bits of energy for when I must swoop into action but I am not sure this is entirely true.
I am savoring my last moments of slugdom, that's what I am doing.
The wife assures me I am doing great but she's just being nice. This is no time to be nice to me. My graduation has to be by Monday morning and I can't earn my stripes if I am not in top shape for this post Favre-roid-ectomy assignment.
Today, the wife will go once again and look for a little TV (she figures if she's stuck in the house she might as well have a new TV to enjoy), she'll make a casserole for when her mom is here after surgery, she'll badger me to bathe the dogs, she'll solve world crises and probably find world peace. My goal is to take a shower, answer email and study the master for one last time.
Maybe we can squeeze in a nap.
I don't know when I'll be writing next, so patience, dear blog reader. It may be Monday night, it might be a week from next Monday. I have no idea what to expect. I'm thinking I will be too busy & exhausted doing the wife's work and hanging out at the hospital, but you never know. You know I am a blogging whore.
As for now, we go through waves of great confidence followed by moments of sheer terror, but in the end we both know it will all be fine. We take Brett Favre's name in vain. I laugh about my failure to exercise for the entire week. We take another gander at my list. We take peeks at Freckle Warrior Princess' little ripped off dew claw. I'll Christmas shop for my staff and the wife will get that TV. And, in the infamous words of Addi Warrior Princess, "it's all good."
Because it really is. Garage floor swept or not.
In final preparations for graduation from housekeeping boot camp, I made a list of the things I think the wife does in a day. I remembered everything from changing the dog bowl water twice a day to cleaning the dryer lint trap. I then added the tasks I realize she does weekly and monthly, which was a little harder as many of the things will not need to be done during her recuperation from the Favre-roid-ectomy on Monday--thankfully, I will not need to wash & wax the three cars by hand nor will I have to wash all the windows (inside and out). I was just about feeling pretty impressed with myself and ready to pat my back when.....
I've learned in the wife's little world there is always something else, something more. As we walked through the garage this morning, the wife pointed out that she sweeps out the garage "when it needs it." I asked for clarification, as I would think the garage floor would need to be swept once a year. Her answer? "When it needs it." I quickly remind her that it is ME she is talking to and that I need more specific direction than that. The wife indicates she sweeps the garage floor at least once a week in the winter--or, when it needs it. I inquired what makes a garage floor qualify for cleaning. I didn't get a very clear answer but I'm thinking it needs sweeping when the snow boogers falling off my car start piling up or when road salt starts to take over the cement.
As I am pondering the meaning of sweeping a garage floor in winter, I notice the wife is doing something else....she is off to fill the bird feeders in the back yard. IT NEVER ENDS! No, I didn't think the bird feeders were magically filled by the ornithologist ferry, but I didn't exactly think about how this event occurs. Put that on the list for next weekend.
Where's my list??!! I can't find my list! How can I pass my test if I can't find my list?!
I find my list (shoo!) and take a very serious look at it. I take a deep breath, trying not to hyperventilate and take another long look at the wife's household tasks. I realize that not only am I a slug but also that all this gobbly-gook written on my list is all Greek to me. It is so foreign I might need to order one of those Rosetta Stone language kits so I can truly figure out what all these tasks mean.
At this moment, the wife is busy running around doing as many tasks as she can do before Monday's surgery. She is doing the laundry--washing all the bedding and then washing all of the dogs' bedding--she is talking about giving the dogs baths (tomorrow I beg!), she has filled the snow blower with the "special gas" that it needs, she has organized the freezer with all the new food I purchased this morning, she is shaking out rugs and calling her mother and reading the Internet on how to heal after a Favre-roid-ectomy and she's researching brands of televisions and she's wrapping presents and she's paid her bills and.....
....and me? I'm sitting here writing this blog and I'm drinking my Dunkin' Donuts coffee and I haven't even showered yet.
There really is something wrong with this picture. Not only am I a bad, bad dog mama, I remain a slug. I reassure myself I have done an excellent job in housekeeping boot camp and that I am just saving up my last few bits of energy for when I must swoop into action but I am not sure this is entirely true.
I am savoring my last moments of slugdom, that's what I am doing.
The wife assures me I am doing great but she's just being nice. This is no time to be nice to me. My graduation has to be by Monday morning and I can't earn my stripes if I am not in top shape for this post Favre-roid-ectomy assignment.
Today, the wife will go once again and look for a little TV (she figures if she's stuck in the house she might as well have a new TV to enjoy), she'll make a casserole for when her mom is here after surgery, she'll badger me to bathe the dogs, she'll solve world crises and probably find world peace. My goal is to take a shower, answer email and study the master for one last time.
Maybe we can squeeze in a nap.
I don't know when I'll be writing next, so patience, dear blog reader. It may be Monday night, it might be a week from next Monday. I have no idea what to expect. I'm thinking I will be too busy & exhausted doing the wife's work and hanging out at the hospital, but you never know. You know I am a blogging whore.
As for now, we go through waves of great confidence followed by moments of sheer terror, but in the end we both know it will all be fine. We take Brett Favre's name in vain. I laugh about my failure to exercise for the entire week. We take another gander at my list. We take peeks at Freckle Warrior Princess' little ripped off dew claw. I'll Christmas shop for my staff and the wife will get that TV. And, in the infamous words of Addi Warrior Princess, "it's all good."
Because it really is. Garage floor swept or not.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Buh-Bye, Blago!!!
This photo collage is from chicagomag.com and I couldn't have done it better.
I'd like to take a few minutes away from the wife's pending hysterectomy and Freckles' recent injury....
See that happy dance I'm doing? It's because the feds have arrested the deluded pompous ass of a supposed governor.
Actually, pompous ass is an understatement but this is a family blog so I'll leave it at that.
When I got that email from the Chicago Tribune indicating that the governor had been arrested, I was so happy I piddled on myself. I couldn't hold my glee in for one mini-second. Oh, how I have waited for this day!
I celebrated the day I didn't vote for him and I celebrate today. For Pete's sake, I voted Green Party last governor election so I wouldn't have to vote for him. (There are several Addiverse Blog entries expressing my disdain for the Governor, my disgust with his policies and in regards to my choice to vote Green Party, so no one in the Addiverse should be surprised by my strong emotions regarding Blago.)
That man. The man with a 12% approval rating. Twelve friggin' percent!!!
The slime ball of a man who has done his best to ruin the great state of Lincoln.
The brazen man who was sure he would be President.
The most deluded man on the planet.
The disgusting man who is an embarrassment to the Democratic Party and to the people of Illinois.
The man who is a narcissist extraordinaire, a pathetic excuse for a penny head.
That man.
Maybe Blago thought it would be fun to hang out in prison with former Governor Ryan.....what IS up with all these corrupt Illinois Governors?
I'd suggest he get a dose of anti-psychotics to address his delusions but there isn't a pill that cures anti-social narcissism.
It's no secret that the corruption in Illinois politics runs deep and that the history is long. This man took it to a whole new level. He reminds me of Nixon. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Blinded by their own glory.
Over the years, I've been very vocal about my lack of faith or support of this man. I've often lamented out loud about his policies, his budget disasters, his ridiculous notions. I don't think I've ever uttered a positive word about him and I'm not about to change my tune now. I am really trying not to gloat but it's really hard. I need not to gloat......but.....
.....Blago is going to prison. I'm having a vision. It's a happy one.
Tomorrow, I will go back to worrying about Freckles' missing dew claw and the wife's pending surgery. But, for today, I shall savor this "victory" for Illinois. And what a tasty victory it is.
This photo collage is from chicagomag.com and I couldn't have done it better.
I'd like to take a few minutes away from the wife's pending hysterectomy and Freckles' recent injury....
See that happy dance I'm doing? It's because the feds have arrested the deluded pompous ass of a supposed governor.
Actually, pompous ass is an understatement but this is a family blog so I'll leave it at that.
When I got that email from the Chicago Tribune indicating that the governor had been arrested, I was so happy I piddled on myself. I couldn't hold my glee in for one mini-second. Oh, how I have waited for this day!
I celebrated the day I didn't vote for him and I celebrate today. For Pete's sake, I voted Green Party last governor election so I wouldn't have to vote for him. (There are several Addiverse Blog entries expressing my disdain for the Governor, my disgust with his policies and in regards to my choice to vote Green Party, so no one in the Addiverse should be surprised by my strong emotions regarding Blago.)
That man. The man with a 12% approval rating. Twelve friggin' percent!!!
The slime ball of a man who has done his best to ruin the great state of Lincoln.
The brazen man who was sure he would be President.
The most deluded man on the planet.
The disgusting man who is an embarrassment to the Democratic Party and to the people of Illinois.
The man who is a narcissist extraordinaire, a pathetic excuse for a penny head.
That man.
Maybe Blago thought it would be fun to hang out in prison with former Governor Ryan.....what IS up with all these corrupt Illinois Governors?
I'd suggest he get a dose of anti-psychotics to address his delusions but there isn't a pill that cures anti-social narcissism.
It's no secret that the corruption in Illinois politics runs deep and that the history is long. This man took it to a whole new level. He reminds me of Nixon. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Blinded by their own glory.
Over the years, I've been very vocal about my lack of faith or support of this man. I've often lamented out loud about his policies, his budget disasters, his ridiculous notions. I don't think I've ever uttered a positive word about him and I'm not about to change my tune now. I am really trying not to gloat but it's really hard. I need not to gloat......but.....
.....Blago is going to prison. I'm having a vision. It's a happy one.
Tomorrow, I will go back to worrying about Freckles' missing dew claw and the wife's pending surgery. But, for today, I shall savor this "victory" for Illinois. And what a tasty victory it is.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Bad, Bad Mama
I am a bad, bad mama.
Please don't call the "Bad Mama Dog Police."
Poor Freckles Warrior Princess. I've been talking about getting her deformed dew claw clipped...I had planned on doing it this week....but, it must have been one day too long, as illustrated by the bleeding of her paw all over the kitchen floor. I tried to see the injury but Freckles had other ideas. I could tell she was in pain, as she kept sticking her paw in the air and waving it like she was bringing in a 747. It was obvious the blood was coming from her dew claw area. I felt bad, bad, bad. I figured it meant that the nail had grown into the skin and now was bleeding.
Did I mention I felt really bad?
The wife and I fretted about a game plan; after all, calling your vet on a Sunday is not exactly an option. I knew that the teenagers at PetSmart wouldn't be able to cut the nail-it's a tricky one and takes two people to do it while at the vet. A search of the phone book led us to the only open place: the animal hospital. Now, I didn't think a bleeding dew claw would be worth an emergency vet visit, but it was certain something had to be done. I called the hospital and the lady confirmed that I should bring Freckles in. Sigh. She warned me it was $85 just to walk in the door.
I realized at this moment that this was going to be the most expensive nail clipping in the history of the Addiverse.
I packed Freckles into the car and we were off to the doggie emergency room, her paw wagging in the air.
Once we got there, I realized that this was REALLY a place for emergencies. I am not exaggerating when I tell you about what transpired while we were there in. I felt really stupid bringing in a dog due to a bleeding dew claw.
The first thing we saw was a little schnauzer who obviously was not feeling well. He kinda looked like Freckles when she was sick two weeks ago--pacing, miserable, shaking. Then, a giant glob of blood SHOT out of the little guy's butt. I'm not talking a little blood. I am talking about pure, liquid blood--and, lots of it. I decided he was a lot sicker than Freckles was when she was vomiting in the puke-a-torium. I picked Freckles up and stayed far away from that little guy. FWP was shaking so hard she was blurry. I squeezed her tighter and assured her everything was all right, even though everything was not all right.
Next, two grown men came out of the exam room. They looked like farmers or hunters or something to do with the rugged outdoors. The younger man had obviously been crying, red eyes giving him away. The shorter, older man (probably his dad) kept saying, "Thank you. Thank you for all you did." It didn't take a brain surgeon to tell their dog had just been put to sleep. They get to the door to leave and the older guy just starts sobbing. Gut-wrenching sobs. He had to stop because he couldn't even walk he was sobbing that hard. I choked back a tear and squeezed Freckles a little tighter. What the hell are we doing here?
The lady sitting next to me explained that her cat had been "in the back" for an hour and a half, something about not being able to pee (the cat, not the lady). She was getting nervous. They called her back and I never saw her again. A little prayer to St. Francis seemed important at that moment.
The next was a giant dog who was hacking like there was no tomorrow--I'd guess kennel cough but who knows--it was awful and loud and echoed through the place. At least that didn't seem too scary, although it was really loud. As the dog was hacking, a frantic call came in--the receptionist was calm and said things like, "now, take a deep breath for me." That can't be good. I began thinking we should just leave and call the regular vet tomorrow, but the assistant came and took Freckles temp and pulse. She thanked me for waiting so patiently. I said, "are you kidding? This is nothing compared to what is going on out there!"
Then....then came in the dog who had just been saved by its owner via mouth to mouth resuscitation. No kidding. The dog had bitten through an electrical cord, literally electrocuted itself and was not breathing, no pulse--and, the husband had gotten down on his hands and knees and brought that dog back to life. The wife was hysterical (understandably) and the man kept trying to calm her down. I sat there in terror and in awe--for god's sake, this man just saved his dog's life! The dog, by the way, walked in under it's own power but I have to say it did look very unsteady on its feet. Swoosh! They swooped the dog away to the back.
I was SOOOO sure we should leave at this point.....but, in walked the vet, a 12 year old female who I thought was the vet tech. I confessed that I felt like a moron for being there; she assured me it was fine that we were there (and why shouldn't it be? That's a lot of cash for two minutes and a clipping of a dew claw). Freckles waved the paw frantically, avoiding all attempts to take a peek at the wound. She took Freckles away, waving paw still in the air, assuring me as she walked down the hall that they would give the dog something for the pain.
As I waited for Frecks, I was "treated" to more of the same: sick dogs, hurt dogs, dead dogs. I got to hear about choices in cremation, how to call the county to dispose of the body, of how to call poison control. This bad, bad mama felt horrible. It really was too much. It took everything in me not to burst into tears. How DO these people do their jobs? They are dog angels in human form.
The vet returned Freckles Warrior Princess to me after only a few minutes, cute little cast covering her paw. (Cute being a relative term: no cast is really cute when you consider there is a reason the cast there.) Um, it wasn't her dew claw digging into her skin like usual--it was that the dew club had RIPPED OFF.
I am such a bad mama I want to throw up.
The vet says to keep a baggie on it when she's outside. I take a baggie out of my pocket (always ready for an unsuspecting poop) and borrow some scotch tape to secure it for our ride home. We are return to our own vet in four or so days. (Ca-ching!) Anti-biotics and a huge vet bill later, we are ready to go. I am more ready to go than necessary, but that's because Freckles has just pooped on me. Really. Pooped out some goo all over my bright yellow coat. I stink. She stinks. I thank to the receptionist and add, "That was the most expensive nail clipping I've ever paid for!" She comments, "Lesson learned."
Indeed.
The Addiverse is an awfully exciting--and expensive--place to be these days. Anyone who would like to make financial contributions to "The Addiverse Dog & Wife Medical fund" may do so at any time. It won't be tax deductible but we promise to use it exclusively toward medical expenses.
Well, that and chocolate.
On a funnier, parting note, we've decided that the wife is getting "spayed." After all, our dogs don't have their parts, so why not call the wife's surgery the same thing? It gives us something to laugh about.
Oh, and Lucy's nails? You bet I'm taking her in this week to get those diddies clipped.
I am a bad, bad mama.
Please don't call the "Bad Mama Dog Police."
Poor Freckles Warrior Princess. I've been talking about getting her deformed dew claw clipped...I had planned on doing it this week....but, it must have been one day too long, as illustrated by the bleeding of her paw all over the kitchen floor. I tried to see the injury but Freckles had other ideas. I could tell she was in pain, as she kept sticking her paw in the air and waving it like she was bringing in a 747. It was obvious the blood was coming from her dew claw area. I felt bad, bad, bad. I figured it meant that the nail had grown into the skin and now was bleeding.
Did I mention I felt really bad?
The wife and I fretted about a game plan; after all, calling your vet on a Sunday is not exactly an option. I knew that the teenagers at PetSmart wouldn't be able to cut the nail-it's a tricky one and takes two people to do it while at the vet. A search of the phone book led us to the only open place: the animal hospital. Now, I didn't think a bleeding dew claw would be worth an emergency vet visit, but it was certain something had to be done. I called the hospital and the lady confirmed that I should bring Freckles in. Sigh. She warned me it was $85 just to walk in the door.
I realized at this moment that this was going to be the most expensive nail clipping in the history of the Addiverse.
I packed Freckles into the car and we were off to the doggie emergency room, her paw wagging in the air.
Once we got there, I realized that this was REALLY a place for emergencies. I am not exaggerating when I tell you about what transpired while we were there in. I felt really stupid bringing in a dog due to a bleeding dew claw.
The first thing we saw was a little schnauzer who obviously was not feeling well. He kinda looked like Freckles when she was sick two weeks ago--pacing, miserable, shaking. Then, a giant glob of blood SHOT out of the little guy's butt. I'm not talking a little blood. I am talking about pure, liquid blood--and, lots of it. I decided he was a lot sicker than Freckles was when she was vomiting in the puke-a-torium. I picked Freckles up and stayed far away from that little guy. FWP was shaking so hard she was blurry. I squeezed her tighter and assured her everything was all right, even though everything was not all right.
Next, two grown men came out of the exam room. They looked like farmers or hunters or something to do with the rugged outdoors. The younger man had obviously been crying, red eyes giving him away. The shorter, older man (probably his dad) kept saying, "Thank you. Thank you for all you did." It didn't take a brain surgeon to tell their dog had just been put to sleep. They get to the door to leave and the older guy just starts sobbing. Gut-wrenching sobs. He had to stop because he couldn't even walk he was sobbing that hard. I choked back a tear and squeezed Freckles a little tighter. What the hell are we doing here?
The lady sitting next to me explained that her cat had been "in the back" for an hour and a half, something about not being able to pee (the cat, not the lady). She was getting nervous. They called her back and I never saw her again. A little prayer to St. Francis seemed important at that moment.
The next was a giant dog who was hacking like there was no tomorrow--I'd guess kennel cough but who knows--it was awful and loud and echoed through the place. At least that didn't seem too scary, although it was really loud. As the dog was hacking, a frantic call came in--the receptionist was calm and said things like, "now, take a deep breath for me." That can't be good. I began thinking we should just leave and call the regular vet tomorrow, but the assistant came and took Freckles temp and pulse. She thanked me for waiting so patiently. I said, "are you kidding? This is nothing compared to what is going on out there!"
Then....then came in the dog who had just been saved by its owner via mouth to mouth resuscitation. No kidding. The dog had bitten through an electrical cord, literally electrocuted itself and was not breathing, no pulse--and, the husband had gotten down on his hands and knees and brought that dog back to life. The wife was hysterical (understandably) and the man kept trying to calm her down. I sat there in terror and in awe--for god's sake, this man just saved his dog's life! The dog, by the way, walked in under it's own power but I have to say it did look very unsteady on its feet. Swoosh! They swooped the dog away to the back.
I was SOOOO sure we should leave at this point.....but, in walked the vet, a 12 year old female who I thought was the vet tech. I confessed that I felt like a moron for being there; she assured me it was fine that we were there (and why shouldn't it be? That's a lot of cash for two minutes and a clipping of a dew claw). Freckles waved the paw frantically, avoiding all attempts to take a peek at the wound. She took Freckles away, waving paw still in the air, assuring me as she walked down the hall that they would give the dog something for the pain.
As I waited for Frecks, I was "treated" to more of the same: sick dogs, hurt dogs, dead dogs. I got to hear about choices in cremation, how to call the county to dispose of the body, of how to call poison control. This bad, bad mama felt horrible. It really was too much. It took everything in me not to burst into tears. How DO these people do their jobs? They are dog angels in human form.
The vet returned Freckles Warrior Princess to me after only a few minutes, cute little cast covering her paw. (Cute being a relative term: no cast is really cute when you consider there is a reason the cast there.) Um, it wasn't her dew claw digging into her skin like usual--it was that the dew club had RIPPED OFF.
I am such a bad mama I want to throw up.
The vet says to keep a baggie on it when she's outside. I take a baggie out of my pocket (always ready for an unsuspecting poop) and borrow some scotch tape to secure it for our ride home. We are return to our own vet in four or so days. (Ca-ching!) Anti-biotics and a huge vet bill later, we are ready to go. I am more ready to go than necessary, but that's because Freckles has just pooped on me. Really. Pooped out some goo all over my bright yellow coat. I stink. She stinks. I thank to the receptionist and add, "That was the most expensive nail clipping I've ever paid for!" She comments, "Lesson learned."
Indeed.
The Addiverse is an awfully exciting--and expensive--place to be these days. Anyone who would like to make financial contributions to "The Addiverse Dog & Wife Medical fund" may do so at any time. It won't be tax deductible but we promise to use it exclusively toward medical expenses.
Well, that and chocolate.
On a funnier, parting note, we've decided that the wife is getting "spayed." After all, our dogs don't have their parts, so why not call the wife's surgery the same thing? It gives us something to laugh about.
Oh, and Lucy's nails? You bet I'm taking her in this week to get those diddies clipped.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Energizing the Addiverse
Life in the Addiverse has become a boot camp. I am in training for post hysterectomy house detail. Today I got up and shoveled snow at 6 AM, followed by holiday card making and mailing, followed by laundry duty and dishwasher loading for beginners. Later, I will vacuum, shovel again (as it is still snowing) and clean "my" bathroom. After that, it's off to finish all the holiday shopping. I know that my final chore will be "swiffering," which the wife assures me is very fun. (Whose definition of fun are we using here? (I'll let you know how fun swiffering really is after I've tried a swipe or two.) I'll then give the dogs a quick groom (read: trim their paws and clean the crusties out of their ears) and then it will be time for lunch. I don't have time to work out but I do have plenty of time to eat--I've figured out that you can do all these things and eat at the same time.
It's all good as I am passing housekeeping boot camp with flying colors. Well, I think I am. I haven't earned my stripes yet. The wife may have other opinions but one cannot be picky when it comes to chores-upon-uterus removal. Things won't be perfect like when she does it but my efforts will suffice.
Last night, we visited some friends who live way out in the country and who have much experience in using "energy medicine" as a means of healing. I shall call them Three Hawk Grrls for purposes of this blog (3Hgrrls, that is). They had invited us over to help the wife get her energy flowing between her second and third chakra. They used the "Brazilian Toe Technique" (stop that laughing--this is serious) as described by Donna Eden, energy expert extraordinaire. I was also given the Brazilian Toe Technique and am happy to report it was very relaxing. For the wife, it made her stomach gurgle, which was a very good sign as it meant the energy (or, at least her dinner) was on the move.
I know, I know. Some of you are scoffing at this. Some of you are thinking we are as crazy as I make us sound. Others of you are intrigued. Some of you have stopped reading and have gone to change the kitty litter. But, who can argue with the fact that we as humans are basically energy (and water)? So, if your energy is stuck or blocked, you end up with things like giant uteruses from hell.
Western medicine has a lot to learn from the "kooks" in the Not-all-Western Medicine World. Look at Dean Ornish and Christiane Northrup, both medical doctors, gurus in their fields--they've figured out things like meditation, yoga, positive thoughts all increase our wellness. And, 3Hgrrl #1 is actually using her energy work skills & yoga teachings at a local (prominent) hospital--she's PAID to do it. The doctors are buying into it, as they see concrete results: lower stress levels, improved health, improved self esteem, faster healing time. They aren't putting down their scalpels but they are recognizing the importance of alternate techniques in conjunction with their surgical interventions.
I am ALL for the use of anything that helps with healing, so bring on the Brazilian Toes! The Favre-o-rectomy will go on as scheduled, but how can it hurt to use some energy work in preparation and as part of the healing process? It can't.
Energy work isn't any different than prayer. (No offense to those of you who have just spit soda out of your nose when choking over that last sentence. Raise your hands over your head and reach for the stars, just like your mother taught you to.) Prayer is energy flowing. So, if you don't want a Brazilian toe, go with a good old-fashioned prayer.
I'd like to write more but I just heard the washer "ding," so I must go put the wash into the dryer. Just like Pavlov's dog, I've learn that when I hear the bell, my mouth salivates and I go running into the basement. Only difference is I give myself a treat instead of a scientist giving me a treat. I feel a Dove Dark Chocolate in my future as part of the laundry process. After that, I am going to massage my K-27, do a hook up and zip up. And, watch out for my triple warmer efforts....and, I'll add a good old prayer for good measure.
If I don't earn my housework stripes today, at least my triple warmer will be sedated. And, yes--that is a good thing.....
Life in the Addiverse has become a boot camp. I am in training for post hysterectomy house detail. Today I got up and shoveled snow at 6 AM, followed by holiday card making and mailing, followed by laundry duty and dishwasher loading for beginners. Later, I will vacuum, shovel again (as it is still snowing) and clean "my" bathroom. After that, it's off to finish all the holiday shopping. I know that my final chore will be "swiffering," which the wife assures me is very fun. (Whose definition of fun are we using here? (I'll let you know how fun swiffering really is after I've tried a swipe or two.) I'll then give the dogs a quick groom (read: trim their paws and clean the crusties out of their ears) and then it will be time for lunch. I don't have time to work out but I do have plenty of time to eat--I've figured out that you can do all these things and eat at the same time.
It's all good as I am passing housekeeping boot camp with flying colors. Well, I think I am. I haven't earned my stripes yet. The wife may have other opinions but one cannot be picky when it comes to chores-upon-uterus removal. Things won't be perfect like when she does it but my efforts will suffice.
Last night, we visited some friends who live way out in the country and who have much experience in using "energy medicine" as a means of healing. I shall call them Three Hawk Grrls for purposes of this blog (3Hgrrls, that is). They had invited us over to help the wife get her energy flowing between her second and third chakra. They used the "Brazilian Toe Technique" (stop that laughing--this is serious) as described by Donna Eden, energy expert extraordinaire. I was also given the Brazilian Toe Technique and am happy to report it was very relaxing. For the wife, it made her stomach gurgle, which was a very good sign as it meant the energy (or, at least her dinner) was on the move.
I know, I know. Some of you are scoffing at this. Some of you are thinking we are as crazy as I make us sound. Others of you are intrigued. Some of you have stopped reading and have gone to change the kitty litter. But, who can argue with the fact that we as humans are basically energy (and water)? So, if your energy is stuck or blocked, you end up with things like giant uteruses from hell.
Western medicine has a lot to learn from the "kooks" in the Not-all-Western Medicine World. Look at Dean Ornish and Christiane Northrup, both medical doctors, gurus in their fields--they've figured out things like meditation, yoga, positive thoughts all increase our wellness. And, 3Hgrrl #1 is actually using her energy work skills & yoga teachings at a local (prominent) hospital--she's PAID to do it. The doctors are buying into it, as they see concrete results: lower stress levels, improved health, improved self esteem, faster healing time. They aren't putting down their scalpels but they are recognizing the importance of alternate techniques in conjunction with their surgical interventions.
I am ALL for the use of anything that helps with healing, so bring on the Brazilian Toes! The Favre-o-rectomy will go on as scheduled, but how can it hurt to use some energy work in preparation and as part of the healing process? It can't.
Energy work isn't any different than prayer. (No offense to those of you who have just spit soda out of your nose when choking over that last sentence. Raise your hands over your head and reach for the stars, just like your mother taught you to.) Prayer is energy flowing. So, if you don't want a Brazilian toe, go with a good old-fashioned prayer.
I'd like to write more but I just heard the washer "ding," so I must go put the wash into the dryer. Just like Pavlov's dog, I've learn that when I hear the bell, my mouth salivates and I go running into the basement. Only difference is I give myself a treat instead of a scientist giving me a treat. I feel a Dove Dark Chocolate in my future as part of the laundry process. After that, I am going to massage my K-27, do a hook up and zip up. And, watch out for my triple warmer efforts....and, I'll add a good old prayer for good measure.
If I don't earn my housework stripes today, at least my triple warmer will be sedated. And, yes--that is a good thing.....
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
The "E" Word
The Addiverse is like Alphabet Soup. First it was the "H" word for hysterectomy, now it's the "E" word..... ....for enema.
Um, there has never been an enema in the Addiverse, so this is quite traumatic. If you think the wife and/or I have even a teeny clue about the procedure required to remove poop from the poop chute by sticking a tube up a rectal opening, you are sadly, sadly mistaken.
MJagger says that I, Addi Warrior Princess, should administer the enema. She says that if I truly love the wife, I would do this for her.
Um, love is blind but there are limits. Even I, lover of poop and of colonoscopies, want no part in helping anyone perform enema-related duties.
Thankfully, we have full access to the Internet and friends, so I am sure the wife will succeed in this enema endeavor.
If you are bored, type in the word "enema" and Google away.
The opportunities for enemas are limitless.
Of course, SEEING how to do an enema is much more helpful than reading about it or looking at photos. So, what does every good America do for such visuals? You go to YouTube and search for enemas.
Oh dear.
I thought this coffee enema looked promising but the wife doesn't like coffee. Ha ha.
So, grab a cup of coffee and check out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHttmR3YEpI
I'd say more but I gotta go. Double ha ha.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
The "H" Word
I am about to be bitch-slapped from here to Timbuktu. Remember that last post where I said I was a lazy, pathetic slug? That is ALL about to change. The wife is already giving me lessons on "Floor-washing 101."
Hope you had a nice Thanksgiving, by the way. We enjoyed gorging ourselves at various family & friend gatherings.
The wife and I went to the doctor yesterday--to the specialist who was going to tell us about the Favre-a-roid & offensive line living in the wife's belly. I weaseled my way in, notebook and pen in hand, ready to record information as it was spewed forth. I tried to blend in but it's kind of hard to blend when you are in a teeny exam room. No matter, Dr. Pasture (a name that is understood by the wife, I am sure and NOT because he's going to put her out to pasture, although that is funny when you think about it in a warped way) was not distracted in the least by my presence. He shook my hand, introduced himself, even gave me a business card. He didn't ask stupid questions about who I was, so that won him accolades from me. Dr. Pasture also won big points for being a graduate of our beloved collegiate alma mater & for knowing several people that the wife knows from the field of education. He also won points for his bedside manner and his gentle but direct approach. The wife really liked him and felt quite at ease with him, which is very important when picking a doctor who is going to be looking at your hoo hoo (or, as Oprah would say, your Va-Jay-Jay) and parts.
Dr. Pasture had our number in more than one way. When speaking to the wife, he addressed her probable obsessive compulsive ways (I almost fell off the chair on that one), her scheduling around work, her interest in fertility. He was very serious when questioning her about if fertility was a concern to her. I think we both probably looked like deer in the headlights. Like, does he think she still might want to shoot out a baby? Big eyes and a big shake of the head "no" alerted him to the lack of maternal instincts brewing within the wife.
He then incredibly asked about MY interest in fertility. Um...what? He nonchalantly confirmed that we are partners (we both still had that stupid deer in the headlights look, now followed with two nods "yes" and an even bigger stupid look on our faces) and explained that if we wanted, he would work with me to ensure I could have a baby if we wanted. I assured him this was not the case--I wanted to scream out: "I'M 46 FRIGGIN' YEARS OLD! I'M NOT SHOOTING NO BABY OUT OF THESE PARTS AT THIS STAGE OF THE GAME!" but, instead I politely declined fertility help. He reassured us several times of his willingness to work with us on that should we change our minds.
Then came what I consider to be the not so happy parts of the consultation. I'm not sure it is even remotely appropriate to make fun or talk lightheartedly about what transpired in that doctor's office, but it is a coping skill for me and much cheaper than anti-anxiety medication and/or visits to the psychiatrist and I've already started to tell you lovely readers about the Favre-a-roid so there is no turning back....
.....Out spit the "H" word.
Like, as in "you need a hysterectomy and there are not any options" kind of "H."
Dr. Pasture spoke of sizes and shapes, of scary words and terms, of reasons why this and that alternative would not be possible. He could tell we were well versed in the "let's talk about all the alternatives before saying the "H" word" and he seemed understanding but there didn't seem like a lot of options. He was able to explain why each method the wife asked about would not be an option. (Did you know Condaleeza Rice just had a giant fiboid taken care of? Where have I been?) Unfortunately, the wife's uterus is giagantic--as in five month pregnant big--and that doesn't leave a lot of options. Add to that a whole bunch of golfball sized fibroids, you've got yourself a problem. We knew he was going to say the "H" word and we knew that doctors always say the "H" word but we didn't know that the options would be so.....limited. (One option is the ultimate of limited, don't you think?)
I'll spare you the details. I refuse to put out one shred of negativity in the Universe. I refuse to give fuel to any negative speck of anything. Suffice it to say that the wife will be calling the surgery scheduler on Monday and it will be only a matter of a week or two before the "H" word comes to fruition....
So, a Favre-roid-ectomy it is.
I'm sending the bill to Brett Favre. I'd send it to the Packer Offensive line, too, but it's not their fault Brett left Green Bay and that they got left behind in there.....
....and so, I am going to be doing the laundry and washing the floor and dusting the house and paying the bills and changing the dog water and cleaning the toilet and monitoring the water softener salt and doing all those zillion things the wife does and I do not do. I'll be so domestic my head will spin. I won't need to work out because I will be getting quite a work out doing the wife's jobs. Trust me, I am all good with this. I will probably just suck at it. I'm all good with that, too. I'll do my absolute best....
and at least I won't have to mow the lawn or wash all three cars by hand on any given afternoon....
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Addiverse Leftovers: The Great Turkey Disaster of 1996
Why write a new entry when this old rerun will taste just as good this year as it did two years ago? Gobble Gobble!
http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2006/11/great-turkey-disaster-of-1996-as.html
Happy Thanksgiving!
Why write a new entry when this old rerun will taste just as good this year as it did two years ago? Gobble Gobble!
http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2006/11/great-turkey-disaster-of-1996-as.html
Happy Thanksgiving!
Monday, November 24, 2008
Attitude of Gratitude
Shout out to Tall Ori and Little Ori, with the hopes you find your Dori.
I am a pathetic slug.
(No offense to the slugs of the world)
Some of you are thinking, "You just figured that out?" while others are thinking, "what the heck are you talking about?"
I am here to confess my horrifically lazy ways and to pay a debt of gratitude to the wife. It IS Thanksgiving, after all, and that's what got me to thinking. I am really grateful to and for the wife. I am thankful for her and for all she does around the house & in my life.
I was in the shower (where I do my best thinking and where I had just figured out that my beloved lady chiropractor is 26 years old and where I realized that I'm not really sure the Posh Spice Pixie is really for me) and started thinking about how grateful I am for the wife, Favre-a-roid and all. This led to me recognizing what a pathetic slug I truly am. It is my penance to publicly humiliate myself and to publicly declare my gratitude to the wife and...well and....change my pathetic ways, as pathetically impossible sounding as that might be.
I'd love to say I do my share around the house but this is not even remotely true. I vacuum once a week, I clean "my" bathroom when I notice spots of food particles on the mirror (bad flossing incidents), empty the dryer lint trap whenever I empty the dryer and iron my own clothes. I do the grocery shopping but that only happens once every two weeks so I'm not sure that should count. Blogging doesn't pay any money (not yet, at least), so it's not like I can say I am doing something for the good of the household (beyond providing free therapy to me, which I suppose does save us money). I help bathe the dogs when they smell like vomit and I do love a good snow-blowing episode but how often do I need to snow blow in the spring, summer or fall?
I'd love to say I am going to change my ways, but I know this might not be as true as I'd like it to be. I DID make a resolution in 1997 that I would ALWAYS change the toilet paper roll any time it was empty and I have stuck to this resolution to this day, so I know I can mend my ways. I think I'll start small. In the Twelve Step program, they stay admitting you have a problem is the first step, so I guess I am on my way to Step One. I will start by posting this blog entry and admitting my character defects. From there, it might be folding the clothes or putting my belongings away or even--gasp!--changing the furnace filter.....
Until then, I express my true heart-felt gratitude to the wife and wish her a very thank-filled Thanksgiving. Thank you. Please know that you are loved & appreciated. Gobble Gobble!
Shout out to Tall Ori and Little Ori, with the hopes you find your Dori.
I am a pathetic slug.
(No offense to the slugs of the world)
Some of you are thinking, "You just figured that out?" while others are thinking, "what the heck are you talking about?"
I am here to confess my horrifically lazy ways and to pay a debt of gratitude to the wife. It IS Thanksgiving, after all, and that's what got me to thinking. I am really grateful to and for the wife. I am thankful for her and for all she does around the house & in my life.
I was in the shower (where I do my best thinking and where I had just figured out that my beloved lady chiropractor is 26 years old and where I realized that I'm not really sure the Posh Spice Pixie is really for me) and started thinking about how grateful I am for the wife, Favre-a-roid and all. This led to me recognizing what a pathetic slug I truly am. It is my penance to publicly humiliate myself and to publicly declare my gratitude to the wife and...well and....change my pathetic ways, as pathetically impossible sounding as that might be.
- During the time it takes me to write a blog entry, the wife has washed & waxed all three cars, "swiffer-ized" the entire house, changed the furnace filter and re-filled the water softener.
- While I am pondering whether to have oatmeal or cold cereal for dinner, the wife has emptied the dishwasher, started a load of laundry, vacuumed the upper level, changed the dog water and paid the bills.
- While I am trying to decide what to wear tomorrow, she has mowed the lawn, edged the sidewalk, cleaned the interior of all three cars, made a crock pot meal and has written yet another power point presentation, talked to the neighbors and taken out the trash.
- While I am doing my Leslie Sansone walking tapes, the wife has watered the plants, cleaned up the salt & little grounds of coffee I spilled (AGAIN), finished the wash, changed the sheets, scrubbing-bubbled the shower, put gas stabilizer in the mowers, checked her email and washed the tile floors by hand.
I'd love to say I do my share around the house but this is not even remotely true. I vacuum once a week, I clean "my" bathroom when I notice spots of food particles on the mirror (bad flossing incidents), empty the dryer lint trap whenever I empty the dryer and iron my own clothes. I do the grocery shopping but that only happens once every two weeks so I'm not sure that should count. Blogging doesn't pay any money (not yet, at least), so it's not like I can say I am doing something for the good of the household (beyond providing free therapy to me, which I suppose does save us money). I help bathe the dogs when they smell like vomit and I do love a good snow-blowing episode but how often do I need to snow blow in the spring, summer or fall?
I'd love to say I am going to change my ways, but I know this might not be as true as I'd like it to be. I DID make a resolution in 1997 that I would ALWAYS change the toilet paper roll any time it was empty and I have stuck to this resolution to this day, so I know I can mend my ways. I think I'll start small. In the Twelve Step program, they stay admitting you have a problem is the first step, so I guess I am on my way to Step One. I will start by posting this blog entry and admitting my character defects. From there, it might be folding the clothes or putting my belongings away or even--gasp!--changing the furnace filter.....
Until then, I express my true heart-felt gratitude to the wife and wish her a very thank-filled Thanksgiving. Thank you. Please know that you are loved & appreciated. Gobble Gobble!
Thank you, Keith Olbermann
It's over six minutes long but hang in there.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhrNjMgmrds
It's over six minutes long but hang in there.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhrNjMgmrds
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Welcome to the Puke-a-torium
Things have been all messed up in the Addiverse, which I will now shall refer to as the "Puke-a-torium." Poor Freckles Warrior Princess has been sicker than....well, sicker than a dog. In the past 72 hours, I think I have secured about 8 hours of sleep. I look like poop. Like dog poop. That's because Frecks has some kind of puking-pooping-grass/carpet licking disease of unknown origin. It's either the fertilizer on the lawn OR she swallowed a chunk of a rawhide bone OR she has a virus. No matter the cause, the puke has been a-flowing. Do you know what a house smells like after a dog has thrown up TEN times in one night? Or, what the actual dog smells like after all that puking? Or what your wife looks like after cleaning up puke all night? It's horrible. Add to that some pooping and peeing in the house and you've got yourself a cornucopia of odoriferous delights.
You can't fault the dog for the poop, pee & puking thing as she really does look miserable and she's not sleeping any more than I am. She pants, paces and then starts licking the carpeting. What's up with that? Forget sending her outside without a leash, as she tries to eat the grass as soon as her paws hit the earth. Freckles will even try to lick the grass in an effort to help herself. She won't eat anything--not even her beloved Alpo Sticks or Mc Donald's hamburger. No treats, no cottage cheese, no rice, no broth, no nothing. Since she is the Fatty Patty, this is very distressing to me.
The vet didn't seem too concerned--gave the Warrior Princess a shot of something that cost me $25 and sent us on our way. As long as the dog is drinking water, it's all good. Kind of. I bet her dog isn't puking all over the house.
Last night, in sheer desperation, I grabbed her (the dog, not the vet) in a death grip and held on for dear life while trying to keep her on the couch with me. It worked fabulously until I fell asleep....and was awoken a few minutes later to the delightful smell of fresh sick dog poop. Freckles had pooped a nice little pile of diarrhea poo....after all, there can't be much left in her since she is not eating anything.
I thought things were looking up during lunch today as she didn't try to eat the grass when I let her out. She even ate some morsels of Alpo Stick....but, when I got home, I knew--there was the runny poo and one sad looking dog. I again brought her a McDonald's hamburger but she would have none of it. (Lucy, on the other hand, was so excited she almost gave birth.) I will watch her again tonight--and probably not sleep--and then all bets are off. I will take her to the vet and sit there until they do something. None of us can go on like this. (The wife and her Favre-a-roids are out of town for the night at a convention. She's probably deliriously happy not to be here.)
When we go outside, Poor Lucy is so confused. I take the dogs out and I'm yelling "GO POTTY!" to Freckles, followed by loud, mean "NO!" because she's trying to eat grass and then I yell "GO POTTY" followed by another scream of "NO!" and Lucy's like, go potty--no, don't go potty? Go potty? No, don't go potty? She's gonna need therapy.
On a happier note, I saw my beloved Lady Chiropractor today and for a few moments, it didn't matter that I haven't been sleeping. A new challenge was set before me--I got to ride an exercise bike while four electrodes were strapped to my knee. I want you to imagine the scene: me on a bike in my dress clothes, wearing my dress shoes, trying to pedal a bike with four things strapped to my leg. I could barely keep my feet on the pedal--they kept slipping off due to my shoes. For ten minutes, I did my best and then I was freed from further torture....and, off to get my neck cracked. I suppose I should be all about my knee, but I am not. My knee is fixed as far as I'm concerned. In fact, it's the best it's been in probably 20 years. Seriously. No, now I am all about how great I feel. Crack, crack, crack. Since this whole adjustment thing started, I haven't had many headaches at all, I don't have aches and pains in general and I feel taller (although I am most assuredly am not).
As I was getting ready to leave, I noticed a little bulletin board right by the front door. There was a photo of some guy and my Beloved Lady Chiropractor. I took a closer look, as it was a very nice photo. This guy was deemed "Patient of the Month" because of referrals he made to the clinic and because he recognized the importance of chiropractic treatment. Now, I am a poster child of this chiropractor thing and I KNOW I can get a few of you to go get a free consultation, can't I? This could be your Christmas present to me--go get a consultation and tell her I referred you. Next thing you know, I'LL have MY photo with my Beloved Lady Chiropractor.
I'd write more but I just got a whiff of a dog excrement of some kind. I'm thinking it must be poop on FWP's butt but I'm thinking it seems more reminiscent of puke....which means I have to stop writing and start looking for the culprit. It's hard to tell one smell from another when you live in the Puke-a-torium.......
Things have been all messed up in the Addiverse, which I will now shall refer to as the "Puke-a-torium." Poor Freckles Warrior Princess has been sicker than....well, sicker than a dog. In the past 72 hours, I think I have secured about 8 hours of sleep. I look like poop. Like dog poop. That's because Frecks has some kind of puking-pooping-grass/carpet licking disease of unknown origin. It's either the fertilizer on the lawn OR she swallowed a chunk of a rawhide bone OR she has a virus. No matter the cause, the puke has been a-flowing. Do you know what a house smells like after a dog has thrown up TEN times in one night? Or, what the actual dog smells like after all that puking? Or what your wife looks like after cleaning up puke all night? It's horrible. Add to that some pooping and peeing in the house and you've got yourself a cornucopia of odoriferous delights.
You can't fault the dog for the poop, pee & puking thing as she really does look miserable and she's not sleeping any more than I am. She pants, paces and then starts licking the carpeting. What's up with that? Forget sending her outside without a leash, as she tries to eat the grass as soon as her paws hit the earth. Freckles will even try to lick the grass in an effort to help herself. She won't eat anything--not even her beloved Alpo Sticks or Mc Donald's hamburger. No treats, no cottage cheese, no rice, no broth, no nothing. Since she is the Fatty Patty, this is very distressing to me.
The vet didn't seem too concerned--gave the Warrior Princess a shot of something that cost me $25 and sent us on our way. As long as the dog is drinking water, it's all good. Kind of. I bet her dog isn't puking all over the house.
Last night, in sheer desperation, I grabbed her (the dog, not the vet) in a death grip and held on for dear life while trying to keep her on the couch with me. It worked fabulously until I fell asleep....and was awoken a few minutes later to the delightful smell of fresh sick dog poop. Freckles had pooped a nice little pile of diarrhea poo....after all, there can't be much left in her since she is not eating anything.
I thought things were looking up during lunch today as she didn't try to eat the grass when I let her out. She even ate some morsels of Alpo Stick....but, when I got home, I knew--there was the runny poo and one sad looking dog. I again brought her a McDonald's hamburger but she would have none of it. (Lucy, on the other hand, was so excited she almost gave birth.) I will watch her again tonight--and probably not sleep--and then all bets are off. I will take her to the vet and sit there until they do something. None of us can go on like this. (The wife and her Favre-a-roids are out of town for the night at a convention. She's probably deliriously happy not to be here.)
When we go outside, Poor Lucy is so confused. I take the dogs out and I'm yelling "GO POTTY!" to Freckles, followed by loud, mean "NO!" because she's trying to eat grass and then I yell "GO POTTY" followed by another scream of "NO!" and Lucy's like, go potty--no, don't go potty? Go potty? No, don't go potty? She's gonna need therapy.
On a happier note, I saw my beloved Lady Chiropractor today and for a few moments, it didn't matter that I haven't been sleeping. A new challenge was set before me--I got to ride an exercise bike while four electrodes were strapped to my knee. I want you to imagine the scene: me on a bike in my dress clothes, wearing my dress shoes, trying to pedal a bike with four things strapped to my leg. I could barely keep my feet on the pedal--they kept slipping off due to my shoes. For ten minutes, I did my best and then I was freed from further torture....and, off to get my neck cracked. I suppose I should be all about my knee, but I am not. My knee is fixed as far as I'm concerned. In fact, it's the best it's been in probably 20 years. Seriously. No, now I am all about how great I feel. Crack, crack, crack. Since this whole adjustment thing started, I haven't had many headaches at all, I don't have aches and pains in general and I feel taller (although I am most assuredly am not).
As I was getting ready to leave, I noticed a little bulletin board right by the front door. There was a photo of some guy and my Beloved Lady Chiropractor. I took a closer look, as it was a very nice photo. This guy was deemed "Patient of the Month" because of referrals he made to the clinic and because he recognized the importance of chiropractic treatment. Now, I am a poster child of this chiropractor thing and I KNOW I can get a few of you to go get a free consultation, can't I? This could be your Christmas present to me--go get a consultation and tell her I referred you. Next thing you know, I'LL have MY photo with my Beloved Lady Chiropractor.
I'd write more but I just got a whiff of a dog excrement of some kind. I'm thinking it must be poop on FWP's butt but I'm thinking it seems more reminiscent of puke....which means I have to stop writing and start looking for the culprit. It's hard to tell one smell from another when you live in the Puke-a-torium.......
Monday, November 17, 2008
Favre-aroid
First, I must give credit: This photo is from mswisher.blogspot.com for this photo. Second, don't get used to me writing two days in a row. You know I am a two to three times a week kind of blogging gal. But with all the fibroid developments, it is only fitting I go back to back with entries.
If you haven't read the last post about the wife's fibroid woes, please go back and read that first because I don't want you to miss one little bit of the Fibroid Follies.
Keeping you in the loop: the wife's hoo hoo test today didn't involve her hoo hoo, so she was very relieved. It was a pelvic-- external-- sonogram, so she was quite relieved, indeed. More on that in a bit.
I am here to tell you: the fibroids are all Brett Favre's fault.
Freida Fibroid is a Favre-aroid. It's kind of like a hemorrhoid only better. I think.
We decided that Frieda was a Favre-oid while watching the Packer-Bear game yesterday with Master Reiki, Blue Eyes and Cinder-ella. As we are all rather oujui oujui (read: wee-gee, wee-gee) in our holistic beliefs, it was only natural (pun intended) that we would consider alternative approaches to addressing the grapefruit-sized Frieda. Everything we consulted--on line and in books--suggested that the wife was holding on to something that she needed to let go of....like a dead end relationship. We lamented over this, as the wife insisted I was NOT the problem (well, I'm a problem but not that kind of problem). We contemplated many interpretations of the issue when it came to the wife.....
....she cannot let go of the whole Brett Favre retire-unretire-now-a-NY Jet thing.
I'm serious here.
The wife has been obsessed, possessed, distressed about Brett Favre since the moment he announced his retirement. She then became a crazed woman when he had the balls to un-retire(as I have previously blogged in depth many a blog ago). How dare he! How could he be so disloyal? She was SURE he was different than all those other crusty players who didn't know when to say when.
And now that the season is here? The wife continues to struggle, wrestle, be consumed with ol' Number 4. She wants him to suck. She wants him to hurt. She wishes he had never left the Packers, yet the new guy is doing just fine. She really doesn't want him to suck. She doesn't want him to hurt. She wants him to retire. How could he un-retire? It's all too much for her little Cheesehead brain.
Loyalty. The wife is all about loyalty and now she can't let it--him--go.
Some of you are thinking: IT'S A GAME. You are right, it IS a game. But, if you are saying this, you are not from Wisconsin. They are a different breed. They talk about the Packers in terms of "we." Brett Favre has a direct impact on the Cheesehead nation. Some have been able to move on....others....not so much.
A Favre-aroid. She needs a Favre-oid-ectomy.
So, the wife is practicing her new mantra about letting go and about healing. In the meantime, she'll be doing some reflexology, reiki, herb-taking and castor oil packing (it's an external thing, not internal, so don't panic just quite yet). Scoff if you must. It can't hurt to try, her "team" believes in it and it's something to do while waiting for the doctor appointment and it's a hell of a lot better than fretting about a hysterectomy at this point of the game.
As for the sonogram....the wife was not pleased to learn that she has MANY fibroids, not just one. She also learned that her poor ol' uterus is jumbo. While this is rather distressing to learn, it is a nice thing to hear in terms of why the "pooch" might be poochier than it has been. It's a fibroid filled pooch. Damn that Favre-oid. He has friends in there! It's the whole offensive line!
The wife doesn't see the doctor until November 29th. That's 12 days away. That's a long time to wait for an appointment....but, it gives us time to shrink those puppies. I believe we can help. I believe the wife can help. I believe the castor oil can help. I believe the Universe can help. I believe drinking less diet pop can help (I threw that last one in for a hint to the wife).
I just don't think Brett Favre will help. So, Brett, we release you. The wife releases you. The Packers release you. The entire state of Wisconsin releases you. It's time to move on.
WE don't have time for you. It's time for Dancing with the Stars and some Castor Oil. I can't think of a better way to spend a Monday night......
.....unless it's doing a Favre-roid-ectomy. Reiki, here I come!
First, I must give credit: This photo is from mswisher.blogspot.com for this photo. Second, don't get used to me writing two days in a row. You know I am a two to three times a week kind of blogging gal. But with all the fibroid developments, it is only fitting I go back to back with entries.
If you haven't read the last post about the wife's fibroid woes, please go back and read that first because I don't want you to miss one little bit of the Fibroid Follies.
Keeping you in the loop: the wife's hoo hoo test today didn't involve her hoo hoo, so she was very relieved. It was a pelvic-- external-- sonogram, so she was quite relieved, indeed. More on that in a bit.
I am here to tell you: the fibroids are all Brett Favre's fault.
Freida Fibroid is a Favre-aroid. It's kind of like a hemorrhoid only better. I think.
We decided that Frieda was a Favre-oid while watching the Packer-Bear game yesterday with Master Reiki, Blue Eyes and Cinder-ella. As we are all rather oujui oujui (read: wee-gee, wee-gee) in our holistic beliefs, it was only natural (pun intended) that we would consider alternative approaches to addressing the grapefruit-sized Frieda. Everything we consulted--on line and in books--suggested that the wife was holding on to something that she needed to let go of....like a dead end relationship. We lamented over this, as the wife insisted I was NOT the problem (well, I'm a problem but not that kind of problem). We contemplated many interpretations of the issue when it came to the wife.....
....she cannot let go of the whole Brett Favre retire-unretire-now-a-NY Jet thing.
I'm serious here.
The wife has been obsessed, possessed, distressed about Brett Favre since the moment he announced his retirement. She then became a crazed woman when he had the balls to un-retire(as I have previously blogged in depth many a blog ago). How dare he! How could he be so disloyal? She was SURE he was different than all those other crusty players who didn't know when to say when.
And now that the season is here? The wife continues to struggle, wrestle, be consumed with ol' Number 4. She wants him to suck. She wants him to hurt. She wishes he had never left the Packers, yet the new guy is doing just fine. She really doesn't want him to suck. She doesn't want him to hurt. She wants him to retire. How could he un-retire? It's all too much for her little Cheesehead brain.
Loyalty. The wife is all about loyalty and now she can't let it--him--go.
Some of you are thinking: IT'S A GAME. You are right, it IS a game. But, if you are saying this, you are not from Wisconsin. They are a different breed. They talk about the Packers in terms of "we." Brett Favre has a direct impact on the Cheesehead nation. Some have been able to move on....others....not so much.
A Favre-aroid. She needs a Favre-oid-ectomy.
So, the wife is practicing her new mantra about letting go and about healing. In the meantime, she'll be doing some reflexology, reiki, herb-taking and castor oil packing (it's an external thing, not internal, so don't panic just quite yet). Scoff if you must. It can't hurt to try, her "team" believes in it and it's something to do while waiting for the doctor appointment and it's a hell of a lot better than fretting about a hysterectomy at this point of the game.
As for the sonogram....the wife was not pleased to learn that she has MANY fibroids, not just one. She also learned that her poor ol' uterus is jumbo. While this is rather distressing to learn, it is a nice thing to hear in terms of why the "pooch" might be poochier than it has been. It's a fibroid filled pooch. Damn that Favre-oid. He has friends in there! It's the whole offensive line!
The wife doesn't see the doctor until November 29th. That's 12 days away. That's a long time to wait for an appointment....but, it gives us time to shrink those puppies. I believe we can help. I believe the wife can help. I believe the castor oil can help. I believe the Universe can help. I believe drinking less diet pop can help (I threw that last one in for a hint to the wife).
I just don't think Brett Favre will help. So, Brett, we release you. The wife releases you. The Packers release you. The entire state of Wisconsin releases you. It's time to move on.
WE don't have time for you. It's time for Dancing with the Stars and some Castor Oil. I can't think of a better way to spend a Monday night......
.....unless it's doing a Favre-roid-ectomy. Reiki, here I come!
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Fibroid-a-go-go
Before you go and get all nervous, please know that I have permission--blessing, if you will--to write and post this blog entry. I may be dumb but I'm not stupid--I knew that writing this without explicit permission would lead to only bad, bad things.
I am here to talk about....the wife's new friend, Frieda Fibroid.
Friend really is no friend but since she's here and since she's quite....demandingly large, we figure naming her is only fair.
How do we (and now YOU) know about Frieda Fibroid? Because the wife is home to grapefruit sized, feel-it-in-the-belly Frieda and there are some things in life that are hard to miss, being a fibroid of that magnitude one of those things.
This is not a happy time in the Addiverse, as uninvited Fibroids cause lots of turmoil and stress, not because they are fibroids but because of what they might have been before being diagnosed and because of what you have to do to get rid of said fibroid.
We are fibroid-ignorant, so we have been reading lots of materials on removal of fibroids. Of course, the first thing the wife's primary care physician says involves the word "hysterectomy." He must be living in the dark ages, as every book and web site we've perused has said that if the doctor's first words involve hysterectomy, you should go get another opinion and/or doctor.
Now Frieda IS really kind of friendly as she really doesn't do anything except sit there. She's probably growing, but otherwise, she's not causing any symptoms. All the info out there suggest that friends of Frieda can cause quite the havoc but Frieda is just a big fat blub of nothing...well, a big fat whatever fibroids are made of (and we DON'T want to go there).
Being that Frieda is so large, the doctor has ordered all sorts of fun tests for the wife to endure. For those of you who actually know the wife, you know she is rather...um....um....wuzzy when it comes to medical things. She doesn't like anything to do with blood, pain, hospitals, testing, etc. In fact, she would me bleeding on the sidewalk if it came down to it. (Did I ever tell you the story of the time she left me lying on the softball field, bleeding all over first base? I have to get around to that.) Her first test is scheduled for this week and has the wife all frenzied, not that I can blame her. It's the "drink til your bladder is going to burst and then drink some more while we shove this probe up your hoo hoo and push on your bursting bladder" test. Yummy. She is not thrilled or entertained by this process. Her next event will be meeting with a specialist who will undoubtedly shove this and that up the hoo hoo and come to the brilliant conclusion that yup, it's a fibroid.
After all the testing, it's on to treatment, which from what we've read may include doing absolutely nothing, which is cheap, non-invasive and involves no blood. I can tell this is the wife's first choice, although she realizes this means she will have to go to the doctor more often. (I won't go into that lecture.) A growing grapefruit might demand attention, so we are looking into all sorts of holistic options, from reflexology to taking herbs. I am thinking I will ask My Beloved Lady Chiropractor if she has any treatment that would work for a fibroid. (I'm sure she'll have something to say as it seems to me that the posters on her office walls suggest that chiropractics can cure everything.)
The wife is also looking into how stress or life issues may be contributing to the problem. Many sources have indicated that life issues seem to add to the fibroid fun. My guru, Dr. Christiane, does indeed suggest (and I am poorly paraphrasing here) that the wife is either blocking her creativity or that she needs to look at a dead end relationship...
....hey, wait a minute! That better not be ME causing that fibroid. I ain't no dead end relationship! (This thought does cause me to behave appropriately when interacting with the wife.)
Anyways, I think the best therapy is what we are going to do right after I finish this blog entry: we are going shopping. It' "door buster" day and I can't think of anything more therapeutic for the wife than shopping. I'm hoping Frieda likes to shop but not enough that she wants to stick around. Frieda has got to go but we'll love her for the moment.....
....and I'll be on my best behavior while shopping so I don't get called a dead-end nuthin.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Tangential Tuesday
I know it will not come as a surprise to any regular reader that I have terminal tangential thinking. I start one place and end up somewhere else. It's like a sport or adventure. Here's what thirty seconds in my brain is really like.
(By the way, the photo to the left has nothing to do with anything except it is a man with a bowl and I took the picture and I like it but that's about all it has to do with anything.)
I'm driving home and I see gas prices.....as it's now at an incredibly cheap $2.29 a gallon, it costs half as much as it did just a few months ago and that makes me want to stop and get gas even though I don't need gas. How is that possible? How can a barrel of oil be at an all time low when just weeks ago it was at an all time high? And, why does Exxon get to make a gazillion dollars profit while consumers get smoked? I'll bet Dick Cheney's been doing a happy oil dance with all that profit. That man is naughty. Way naughty. Maybe the "First Dude" is doing an oil dance along with Dick and "She Who Must Not Be Named," who is busy not banning Harry Potter books. Let's think about that. Wait, let's not. Let's think why am I still hearing so much about "She Who Must not be Named?" Why is anyone talking about her in 2012? We haven't even got W out of the White House yet and people are talking about 2012. Isn't the world supposed to end in 2012? NOW I understand.
This gets me thinking: Why do all these greedy bastards and greedy companies get to be bailed out while I have to all my bills on time and I have to cough up money to pay for their greediness? I know I'm a financial moron when it comes to the big picture, but it doesn't take a financial wizard to see that greed caused the problem and maybe those greedy nimrods should feel a little--no, a lot--of pain. This makes me question bailing out the car industry but Obama is all about that and the government has done that before so even though it pisses me off that all these companies are getting bailed out, there must be something more there than I can even begin to comprehend...kind of like the wife can't comprehend what happened to her retirement fund.
That leads me to ask: What's up with Starbucks? I hear they got pounded by financial losses this quarter. Oh, wait--I know! It's called McDonald's! I love a frappaccino almost more than anyone, but I have to tell you, when a Iced Coffee at the Golden Arches is half the cost of the Starbucks iced mocha and there are a lot more McD's around my neck of the woods that Buck de la Stars, I know where I'm going to go. Of course, I'd really prefer to go to Dunkin' Donuts but that's nowhere near my Beloved Lady Chiropractor's office and I'm not driving out of my way to get something that I can get within one block of where I am, especially after paying for another office visit. Well, unless it's Sunday. Then, I will drive to any Dunkin' Donuts as a Sunday is not complete without DD coffee.
Which gets me to thinking, because I get a Iced Coffee after visiting my beloved lady chiroprator: Why DO I literally put my head in the hands of someone who has only been a chiropractor for 11 months? Oh, wait--I know! Because getting your neck cracked is almost as good as having a frappaccino while filling up your gas tank at $2.29 a gallon.
I'm back to gas prices, so that's not tangential--that's circumstantial thinking. I stand corrected. Well, I'm sitting down, so I sit corrected. Which reminds me--I need to go sit in front of the TV and see who gets booted off of Dancing with the Stars. That is, if I can turn on the TV and manage NOT to see any She Who Must Not be Named on every channel. Hey, there's an idea: Let Sarah be on the next edition of Dancing with the Stars! I'm having all sorts of thoughts about THAT! Come on, you can picture it, too. Sarah Samba, here we come.
I know it will not come as a surprise to any regular reader that I have terminal tangential thinking. I start one place and end up somewhere else. It's like a sport or adventure. Here's what thirty seconds in my brain is really like.
(By the way, the photo to the left has nothing to do with anything except it is a man with a bowl and I took the picture and I like it but that's about all it has to do with anything.)
I'm driving home and I see gas prices.....as it's now at an incredibly cheap $2.29 a gallon, it costs half as much as it did just a few months ago and that makes me want to stop and get gas even though I don't need gas. How is that possible? How can a barrel of oil be at an all time low when just weeks ago it was at an all time high? And, why does Exxon get to make a gazillion dollars profit while consumers get smoked? I'll bet Dick Cheney's been doing a happy oil dance with all that profit. That man is naughty. Way naughty. Maybe the "First Dude" is doing an oil dance along with Dick and "She Who Must Not Be Named," who is busy not banning Harry Potter books. Let's think about that. Wait, let's not. Let's think why am I still hearing so much about "She Who Must not be Named?" Why is anyone talking about her in 2012? We haven't even got W out of the White House yet and people are talking about 2012. Isn't the world supposed to end in 2012? NOW I understand.
This gets me thinking: Why do all these greedy bastards and greedy companies get to be bailed out while I have to all my bills on time and I have to cough up money to pay for their greediness? I know I'm a financial moron when it comes to the big picture, but it doesn't take a financial wizard to see that greed caused the problem and maybe those greedy nimrods should feel a little--no, a lot--of pain. This makes me question bailing out the car industry but Obama is all about that and the government has done that before so even though it pisses me off that all these companies are getting bailed out, there must be something more there than I can even begin to comprehend...kind of like the wife can't comprehend what happened to her retirement fund.
That leads me to ask: What's up with Starbucks? I hear they got pounded by financial losses this quarter. Oh, wait--I know! It's called McDonald's! I love a frappaccino almost more than anyone, but I have to tell you, when a Iced Coffee at the Golden Arches is half the cost of the Starbucks iced mocha and there are a lot more McD's around my neck of the woods that Buck de la Stars, I know where I'm going to go. Of course, I'd really prefer to go to Dunkin' Donuts but that's nowhere near my Beloved Lady Chiropractor's office and I'm not driving out of my way to get something that I can get within one block of where I am, especially after paying for another office visit. Well, unless it's Sunday. Then, I will drive to any Dunkin' Donuts as a Sunday is not complete without DD coffee.
Which gets me to thinking, because I get a Iced Coffee after visiting my beloved lady chiroprator: Why DO I literally put my head in the hands of someone who has only been a chiropractor for 11 months? Oh, wait--I know! Because getting your neck cracked is almost as good as having a frappaccino while filling up your gas tank at $2.29 a gallon.
I'm back to gas prices, so that's not tangential--that's circumstantial thinking. I stand corrected. Well, I'm sitting down, so I sit corrected. Which reminds me--I need to go sit in front of the TV and see who gets booted off of Dancing with the Stars. That is, if I can turn on the TV and manage NOT to see any She Who Must Not be Named on every channel. Hey, there's an idea: Let Sarah be on the next edition of Dancing with the Stars! I'm having all sorts of thoughts about THAT! Come on, you can picture it, too. Sarah Samba, here we come.
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