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!

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.

  • 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.
If you think I am kidding or exaggerating, you do NOT know the wife.

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

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.......

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!








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.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

You might be a stalker if.....


 Okay, my stalker-ness has NOTHING to do with the President-elect, so don't get all secret service on me. I just loved this photo, as passed my way by China Mama Grrrrl, and wanted to immediately share it with you. I would have saved the photo for a more appropriate moment, but I liked it so much I couldn't wait. Yo go, 'Bama family! Side note to "She Who Must Not Be Named:" Don't let your advisers get your down. I don't care if you know where Africa is or not. They are being very naughty and should be spanked. I don't care if you are a terminally right winged republican...they need to stop it. BTW, don't really get serious about 2012, cuz then you are on your own. 
No, my stalking has to do with--oh, here's a surprise!-- my beloved lady chiropractor. 
I think I may qualify as a stalker as I most recently found myself studying her Book de la Face page. 

It all started with my quest to make 5o Book de la Face friends by Christmas. I'm pretty weinee when it comes to internet site friends and a goal of 50 friends is really lame but I'm old and probably shouldn't even have the 28 friends that I do have so I don't want to set my goal too high. I mean, what the hell are all of us old people doing on Book de la Face? (Shout out to band nerds from 1980. Love that we've found each other!) So, I started entering names of people that I thought might be on Book de la Face. This is hard because when you are from an era where typerwriters were the way of the day, it takes some time to think of people of the same era who might actually have made the leap from typewriter to computer and then you type in their name and...sigh. I know my niece is on there and she has like three million friends but I am not going to ask her to be my friend--some things need to be private and she deserves not to have her old, crusty aunt reading her page. I have some scruples. I tried co-worker names, I tried friends' names, I tried college-peer names.....

....and then, for some reason, I typed in my beloved lady chiropractor's name.... .......and, her profile popped up! 

I gasped. 

It felt wrong but I didn't let it deter me. After all, if one makes his/her page public, all bets are off. I took a gander, was disgusted that she has over 300 friends (I'm such a pathetic loser!) and then....I enjoyed her wedding photos. 

THAT is definitely when I crossed the stalker line. One should not be looking at profile pages of those who have the potential to rip one's head right off the neck. I wanted to turn away, click a button, go back to my own profile page. But, I didn't. I stayed until I digested the wedding photos, THEN I turned away. May I add that she did indeed make a beautiful, blushing bride? Of course I can. I promise to stay away from her Book de la Face pages as it really is no place for me to be, so my stalker-dom is short-lived. 

Speaking of my beloved lady chiropractor, my knee has been hurting again. It was my shoes. I love my shoes but I can't wear certain pairs any more--the heel are too high and make my knee ache. That so sucks. (I guess this gives me more reason to go out and buy more shoes, so that's good but still--it sucks when the shoes you like and that are comfortable are no longer part of the wardrobe options due to pain issues.) So, there I am on that funky chiropractor table and I'm all about my knee and I'm all ready to have my hips cracked from here to Atlanta.....but after adjusting my pretty perky patella, MBLC adjusted my neck. 

If you have never had your neck "adjusted," you have no idea what this is like. Basically, it is like putting your head in someone's hands and letting that person RIP your head off its base. Picture a trained killer snapping someone's neck. NOW you get it. I have never had my neck adjusted until today. I am here to tell you that when she ripped that neck to the right, the cracking of the bones (or whatever cracks when one is adjusted) was so loud that I'm thinking people in the parking lot heard it. 

Holy smokes! And, I thought my hips made a lot of noise when they cracked. The only thing better than getting one side of your neck adjusted is to get the other side of your neck adjusted. It was just as good--and as loud--as the first time. The heavens parted, the angels sang and I was in chiropractic glory. My neck felt like butta! I am one with chiropractic treatment, waiting for the next adjustment..... 

Not only do I qualify as a stalker, I qualify as a crack addict. Great. Not only am I a stalker, I'm a crack addict. Think that will help me make more friends on Book de la Face???

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

This and That

Happy Election Day! I shall not speak of the election but instead whine about my need to buy new underwear. 

Bigger underwear. I know, I know. The wife says I have body image problems. There's no news flash! Of course I have body image concerns. But(t), there is NOTHING that will feed those neuroses faster than needing new--read: bigger--underwear. God danged bigger underwear! (I wanted to say swear words but I am really trying not to swear, in honor of those I work with and in honor of the Baby Jesus, who continues to hound me.) 

I have realized for a week or two that the current undies just aren't making the grade. For instance, today while visiting my beloved lady chiropractor, I noticed my undies were basically in my butt crack. As they are not thong undies, they are certainly not supposed to be there in that ol' butt crack, but there they were. I tried to inconspicuously pull them out but those puppies were WEDGED in there. As I lay there, bones cracking in sheer delight as my beloved lady chiropractor is jumping on me, I'm thinking "dear god, I hope she can't see my underwear lines showing my undies are in my butt crack." Because I was so concerned about this underwear thing, I forget to monitor myself and instead of remaining calm and quiet, a big ol OOOOOOOHHHHHH! moan-sound fell out of my mouth as she cracked my hips/back. I apologized, meekly indicating it felt good. She didn't look too mortified but then again I can't see her because she takes away my glasses and for all I know, it might be Dr. Jesus jumping on me, so I am not totally sure she wasn't make grossed out faces. She gave me another appointment, so she must be used to stupid sounds coming out of her clients. 

So, I go to work (not that I ever talk about work) and I am pulling my undies out of my ass AGAIN because they have creeped back where they do not belong....and, then I realize I am standing in front of the building security cameras. Since they monitor the activities outside the building quite closely, I am pretty sure the receptionist is having a good laugh at my expense. 

When you are pulling your underwear out of your butt in front of security cameras, it is time to give in and admit bigger underwear is paramount to survival. I won't be going out tonight for undie shopping--I'll save that for the weekend. Tonight, I will do a Leslie Sansone walking tape and pull my undies out every half mile or so. I take Jillian's name in vain, I'll curse that third cookie I ate at lunch, I lament about projections from the media about who is winning the presidency. I'll tell the wife to turn off the TV so I don't have to listen to the political nonsense and I'll indeed whine about my butt and my too-small underwear..... 

In closing, I would like to say one election-related thing: If Obama loses, I will NEVER vote for a presidential candidate again. Loyal readers understand that I have a 0% winning rate with voting for presidential candidates. President Clinton should send me a thank you note for being out of town when he was running. Senator Obama, I am so sorry. I did indeed vote for you, so if you lose, I am to blame. With love and underwear lines, addi warrior princess, bleeding liberal.