Saturday, July 25, 2009

Lock Me Out & Stuff Me In

Every single word of what I am about to write is true. I believe today's blog entry is bound to become an instant classic and I only hope I can paint a picture worthy of a laugh with a snort.

Make sure to look closely at this window illustration. Take a good, hard look. Notice how small that opening looks. Uh-huh. Feel free to refer back to this photo while reading the tale. Feel free to recall my recent rantings about weight gain and changed body shape, while you are at it.

I was at work this morning (yes, I am going to speak about what I do not speak, as this technically has nothing to do with the actual work I do). I had gone in to clean one of the programming areas--I have to go in on a Saturday and clean while the staff is not present--with them there, I can't throw away one thing. (Whenever I try and throw something away, they say things like, "No! Don't throw away that moldy, coffee-stained half piece of paper--we can use it next week.") I went to the office right after walking with MJagger; suffice it to say, I was unshowered, unkempt, smelly, sweaty and wearing what I had slept in. I figured it would be fine to be so gross while cleaning for four hours.

Still looking at that window opening in the photo? Good.

I'm off to a great start--this is no time to lallygag. I'm cleaning away, stuffing loads of crap into garbage bags, throwing things out like there is no tomorrow, when I realize my pile of garbage has lots of gross, used things that people in the building might like to have. (We rent office space in an apartment building for low-income tenants.) I make a little "FREE, PLEASE TAKE!" sign, grab some scotch tape and go outside our office area to tape the sign to the wall. I stick the sign on the wall and hear....

Click.

Oh shit.

The office door has closed and I am unfortunately standing outside of the locked office door. Usually, I wear my keys on my belt loop so I don't lose them, but I'm in my gross work out clothes that don't have a belt loop. Although I know I am not wearing my keys, I reach for where my keys would usually be, anyways....but, all I feel is my pants--no keys hanging there. Shit shit shit.

Okay, so locking oneself out of a building is not that big of a thing.
I've locked myself out of various places many a-time. I shake my head and chastise myself a little bit. Just as I'm getting over my self-directed anger, I realize:

I don't have my cell phone.
I don't have a list of co-worker phone numbers.
I don't have my car keys.
I don't have my wallet or purse.
I'm seven miles from home.
I don't even have any gum.

It's just me and my smelly arm pits.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit. This is SO going to cut into my cleaning time. Just about the time I realize that this isn't going to be a really big deal--I can walk home or to MJagger's house to use her phone--I notice that I have left some of the windows open. I can't leave them open over night--this isn't the best of neighborhoods--so, I am indeed going to have to solve this problem I have created for myself.

My options, being quite limited, lead me to search for Harry Scary. Harry's this guy who lives in the apartment building and is always milling about. When I get to work, no matter what time of day, he's always out there picking up garbage or smoking someone's cigarette butt or talking to some homeless person who happens to be walking by. Harry Scary is indeed hairy and he is indeed scary. No one is going to mess with Harry Scary. Although he is greasy and smelly and dirty and hairy, he is actually very nice to have around--he may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but he always looks after me when I go to and from the building, always taking the time to make sure I am safe.

He reminds me of Hagrid in Harry Potter, but oilier and dirtier.

Now, Harry Scary doesn't have any keys but I know he might be able to get me to a phone book and phone so I can find someone who does have keys. I am just about to start my search for him (heck, I don't know his last name and I don't know what floor he lives on), when I run right into him. I explain to him I have locked myself and am hoping he can find a phone book I can use. (Side note: I can't remember the last time I used an actual phone book--I just go on line.) This was not a simple ordeal, but I'll spare the details. Once armed with the white pages, I ask if I can borrow his cell phone....which unfortunately he hands to me. Um, it is grease-coated, dirty and slippery. I didn't even want to touch it, let alone put it to my head and use it. I look at his black finger nails and his mess of a phone....ah, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I take the phone and dial the one co-worker phone number I can find in the book.

No answer.

You didn't think anyone was going to answer, did you?

I then ask if I can make another call. Harry Scary obliges, even tho he has a "Trac" phone and pays per minute. Greasy and scary or not, he is chivalrous. I call the wife, hoping she can bring me car keys and that she can find my list of employees on the kitchen table. You can imagine how excited she is about this. As she is not at home, she offers to help once she returns home and gets the car keys. I remind her I don't have a cell phone so calling or texting me will be of no use.

Harry and I go outside so he can smoke and so I can stand there and stare at the open windows, because that's really going to help me--not. I'm babbling about how I can't leave them open overnight and that I will have to find someone with keys and how stupid I feel and how this is what I get for coming to work on a Saturday, and.....

........Harry takes a big drag on his cigarette, points at one of the open windows and says, "I bet you could fit through there."

I politely tell Harry he's crazy and that there is no way I am going to fit through one of those little windows, especially with the crank thingies in the way. He bend over (full moon!) and ponders the options we have. Harry announces that if he can get those hinges un-attached and if I can push in the screen, I will be able to get into my office through the window.

Despite how crazy this seems to me, I agree to at least try and help Harry Scary unhinge the hinge-crank things. He uses those black, scary fingers and pushes on the various points, muttering (but not swearing--I'm the one who is swearing) about how to get the metal bars out of the way. Incredibly to me, Harry Scary is indeed able to unhinge the thing and the window is now free to open parallel to the ground.

I then go forth and break the screen. I had intended to just push it out but the frame cracked and the whole thing crumbled. I was all good with that. Hell, I can replace the screen.

Before I go further, let me clarify: the picture to the left doesn't exactly illustrate what the window looked like when the hinge crank things were loosened--even without the metal hinge crank things, there is space over the window and under the window--the actual window pane ends up being in the middle. This means I have to pick over or under and I know I am not going to fit. There is literally no way. I'm not sure even Freckles could fit through that opening. Also, the window is at ground level--meaning, that not only would I have to squeeze myself like a sausage through a tiny opening, I'd have to do it from the cement.

Harry insists I can make it. He decides I should go under the window pane, not over, as he believes this will be easier. He repeatedly assures me it will work and I will fit. In sheer desperation and because I truly have nothing to lose and because I want to prove him wrong, I bend over to see what kind of clearance I will (or won't) have.

No. Way. No. Way. NO. WAY!

I look at Harry Scary and he points at the window. "Just stick your head in here." For some unknown reason, I do this.

Harry adds, "if you can get your head and your shoulders in the window, you can make it." This sounds strangely like something the obstetrician says as a baby is trying to exit the birth canal--"just get those shoulders out and it's smooth sailing from there." I shake my head, bend over and envision myself getting stuck. I yell out, "Harry! WHAT IF I GET STUCK!" We are on a very busy street--what if someone calls the cops because it looks like I am trying to break in? (Well, I AM trying to break in.) I assure him my ass will not make clearance even if my head and shoulders make it in.

I bend over, contort myself and stick my head through the window. I twist in an effort to get one shoulder through the opening and hear Harry Scary repeating himself, "just get those shoulders through and you're in."

I get one shoulder in, I get the other shoulder......almost in...almost in....my butt is stuck, my stomach is smashing against the window frame, I can't breathe and I can't go forward and I can't go backward, and I'm flailing, yelling at Harry Scary that I am stuck and that......

Harry picks up my feet and SHOVES me through the window. Literally. Just picks up those legs and SHOVES me in to my office. Picture a sausage being STUFFED to the brim. That's me--call me the sausage. Forget my stomach bruising, forget my juicy booty, forget my no-longer-skin-covered knees (which, by the way, no no longer feel like they are attached to my legs)--he shoves me in with brute force.

I land ungracefully on my office floor, face first.

Harry, who is now outside, calls out, "You still in there?"

WHERE THE HELL DOES HE THINK I AM
? He just shoved me through the window! It's not a portal into another dimension!

I feel all my parts to ensure nothing is really damaged. I am thankful my pants are still on. I call out to him, "I'm right here!" He's going on and on about something but I can't hear him. For pete's sake, I was just birthed through a window canal!

Although covered with window grease, dirt and god knows what else, I am no longer locked out.

Suffice it to say, I grabbed my keys, called the wife, told her to stay home, put a screen from another window into my now-missing-a-screen window, thanked Harry profusely and put my keys on my belt loop.

Wait a minute, belt loop?

Sure enough, the work out pants that I was wearing did indeed have belt loops. All this time, I could have been wearing those stupid keys like I always do.....the Universe is a cruel, cruel place.

(No, I didn't finish cleaning; no, I didn't put anything out for tenants to take for free; no, I didn't go anywhere without wearing the keys.)

I'm at home now, knees aching (how will I explain this injury to my beloved lady chiropractor?), my stomach bruised, my pride slightly damaged. But, at least Harry Scary didn't have to call the fire department to get me un-wedged from the window....and, the wife had one piece of that Lemon Cake left, so I am good to go.

.....I think I'll get an extra set of keys made and give them to the wife......
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Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Attack Robins, Marred Mustangs; Screaming Seam Lines

While dog-sitting for Cheeseball Neighbor's brown dog, a small robin hopped by.
Being a hunting dog, Brown Dog immediately (and understandably) took after the bird. As the baby bird was hopping and not exactly flying yet, Brown Dog looked a bit confused. Instead of gulping it down, she pushed the robin along with her nose.....

Suddenly, robins from all corners of the world SWOOPED down and began attacking Brown Dog. They screamed and yelled, dive-bombed, hovered, squawked and generally behaved in what I consider a scary manner. I have to say, I've never seen anything like this--that is one lucky baby bird to have all these concerned relatives. I started yelling, "RUN, BROWN DOG, RUN!" How the hell would I ever explain to Cheeseball Neighbor that her dog's eyes had been poked out by some lovely robins? Thankfully, Brown Dog came trotting to me, the birds returned to the trees, the baby bird hopped to safety and the crisis was averted.

On the home front: I've been so busy trying not to scratch/burn/mar/stain the new counter tops that I haven't been cognizant of other dangers. Unfortunately, I managed to scratch the wife's beloved Mustang. (Just typing that makes me want to vomit.) This is a very, very bad thing. She loves that car, caressing/washing/waxing on a daily basis, avoiding parking spaces under trees (sap is an evil thing), not driving it in any type of inclement weather. (If it ever came down to me or the car, I'm thinking I'd be pretty lonely.) I have to hand it to her--she handled my marring of her Mustang pretty well. She has managed not to disown me and she didn't make me sleep on the couch or anything. I offered to fix it but she declined. I suppose a new bumper would be mighty expensive and probably wouldn't match perfectly and that would be more of a hassle than looking at my scratch every day. At least it's on the back bumper--she can't see it when she's driving (ah, but she sees it every day when cleaning the car). Sigh. I am really sorry about this. If it's any consolation, I managed to scratch my car and the garage door, too--and, my car scratch is much worse than hers (well, damage-wise it is worse--not in real life is it worse). I suppose you want to know how I did this, but I shall remain silent on the issue. Suffice it to say I still feel sick about the whole thing and that I will have to fix my car, lest it rust before I finish my three years' of payment.

While feeling bad about the car and sweating over the almost-poked-out eyes of Brown Dog, I've had plenty of time to enjoy even more pants not fitting. I now officially have no shorts that fit, which is a bummer considering it is summer. As I haven't changed my diet and as I continue to exercise as usual, I believe it is prudent to blame this issue on perimenopause. I pulled out Christiane Northrup's book ("The Wisdom of Menopause"), hoping to find one shred of comfort, but instead I found confirmation regarding this dreaded issue of weight gain as part of the perimenopausal fun, in an aptly-titled chapter, "Making Peace with my Weight."

I hate to tell her that I do not have any peace about any of this nor do I intend to embrace my ever-expanding butt.

I quote her (with no permission from her or her publisher to do so, but hey--this is free advertising and it's a free blog, so I'm hoping for the best): "I began, inexplicably, to gain weight. Every day, the scale showed another pound, even though I wasn't eating or exercising any differently. I was horrified."

Great. Makes my day, don't you think? It's one thing to read it; it's another to live it. I am living it and I am not one bit happy.

MJagger suggests that I focus on how lucky I am to be healthy and that I should be grateful that I am battling the bulge instead of battling cancer or some other dreaded disease. My brain understands this and expresses much thanks; my wallet and my soul do not understand this. I will indeed be parting with money this weekend so I don't have to wear pants throughout the duration of the summer.

Thankfully, my pal Dr. Northrup does list "Six Steps to Midlife Weight Control" and thus I feel a little less out of control. She does suggest getting your thyroid test, and since I've been blessed with Hashimoto-goiter-ness, I suppose it is indeed time to do that. Perhaps it will turn out to be my goiter has decided it's been too much work to keep up with me and thus has stopped spewing out much-needed thyroid chemicals. Poor goiter: so big, so lumpy, so tired.

If it's not my thyroid, I am going to have to come to terms with this: eat less chocolate & ice cream, change up my exercise, embrace my expansion, take to heart some of Dr. Northrup's suggestions, be happy the wife didn't run me over with the car after I scratched it and be ever-so-thankful that Brown Dog still has two un-poked out eyes.
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P.S. don't forget to forward me those "mistaken song lyric" stories. I have a few but am awaiting more.....

Saturday, July 18, 2009

Three Point One

This morning, I did something I haven't done in over 15 years
....I participated in an organized, pay-to-enter, get-a-t-shirt 5K.

Notice I didn't say, I ran in a 5K race, as there was no running involved.

I used to be a runner, but that was a long, long time ago. I hung up my running shoes 15 or more years ago, after two herniated disks in my neck and one sorry-ass knee demanded that I stop with madness. I absolutely, positively loved running but it didn't love me.

I am no longer a runner and I am okay with that.

MJagger, illustrious walking partner and fellow Madonna whore, and I have been walking a few times a week, cruising down the bike path at a blistering 15-minute mile pace. I am very happy to be walking in general and am all good with our speed, as it will lower my cholesterol and help me be heart healthy and get in somewhat improved shape just fine. Besides, with her bad hips, bad feet, broken tail bone and recent jet-ski injury and with my not-always-fabulous knee, we had to keep our wits about us--no racing down the corridor, no sprinting to the finish, no running in general. (Both of us should bring our beloved chiropractors with us and then we'd be able to get as ignorant as we want.) To keep us motivated, MJagger suggested a few weeks back that we sign up for a "race" (I don't know what else to call it, as the event is a race even though we aren't really racing anywhere); so, we picked a local even for this morning. Our goal was to finish. As we've been walking three miles at a time, this seemed a very reasonable goal.

Being back at a race was exhilerating for me and brought back very fond memories. Although I knew I would not be running like in the olden days, I had a very happy feeling and truly enjoyed the process. From watching people warm up to laughing at people in teeny, tiny nylon running shorts (and literally, obscenely nothing else), it was a warm, fuzzy flashback. Pinning my little race number on my shirt, checking my shoe laces, standing in the pack waiting for the gun to start the race--it truly was wonderful.

I'm pretty sure MJagger thought me to be a freak, as my level of excitement probably made little sense to her. I'm all good with that, too.

MJagger had never in her short life participated in anything like this, so this was a virginal event for her. There is nothing that can prepare you for what happens at a race, so it was fun to be with someone who didn't know about any of it. You can't explain the weird behaviors of runners before a race--it is something that must be experienced. I warned her that it would be tough when the gun went off, as everyone would shoot from the starting line and we'd be walking. We would have to hold firm to our game plan--walk 14 minute miles and not get ignorant.

I thought it a good sign that they assigned me a number that reflected my prime age, as illustrated in the not-so-flattering photo above. (I have a really nice photo of MJagger with her number, but I know she'd kill me if I posted it, so you'll have to take my word for it.)

We did exactly what we set out to do--14 minute miles. I am so proud of us!

And so, I did something today that I haven't done in 15 years. Next stop: 13 minute miles!

Just don't tell my knee or MJagger's tail bone I said that.
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Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Doin' the Jesus Jive

I know this blog entry has the potential to greatly offend some of my "saved-again" Christian readers. I will also offend all of you who have attended and loved Christian Bible Camp in high school, as I'm sure you Jived for Jesus at such an event. I apologize in advance for this. Please pray for me. Pray also for those who had the audacity to Jesus Jive on my time.

Be honest: How many of you have done the Jesus Jive?


I am Jesus-Jive-free but I know there are some of you out there who have done the Jive for Jesus. I see you. Don't try to hide....

What is this all about and what the hell is the Jesus Jive, you ask?

It's about that thing of which I do not speak. If I did speak of the thing that I do not speak, I would tell you I SNAPPED the other day at work when I discovered the Jesus Jive was goin' on.

I can put up with a lot. I can live through the Bible-gifts and the singing of "What a Friend We have in Jesus." I can put up with the hand-written notes asking if I've been saved (got one of those last week). I can put up with the little fundamentalist Christian trinkets left on my desk. I have gotten over my anger in regards to being seen as a "moral issue" at work. I can ignore the "If You're Blessed and You know it, Clap your Hands" going on in the room next to my office....

....but, the Jesus Jive?

SNAP!


I.CANNOT.TAKE.THE.JESUS.JIVE.

No. No. NO! Jiving for Jesus is my absolute limit, the last straw. STOP THE MADNESS!

(For those of you who do not know my sad tale of religious harassment, suffice it to say, "no, I do not work at a church. No, I do not work at a faith-funded entity. ")

If I did speak of my work, I would tell you I walked in and saw the printed directions to doing the Jesus Jive hanging on the wall. It caught my eye because it was printed on hot pink card-stock paper. It was almost like Jesus reached out and yelled, "HEY! I'M OVER HERE AND I'M JIVING!" The minute I saw it, it happened--I snapped. I think I may have lost consciousness for a few seconds. I know the little veins in my temples popped out so far they touched my shoulders. I know I was filled with vile and that I had a little spittle hanging off my face. I was no longer sane.

I think my head might have spun around like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist."

I walked down the hall and barked out, "TELL ME YOU ARE NOT DOING THE JESUS JIVE!"

If I were to speak of my work, which I do not do, I would tell you I scared the piss out of my employee. I would also tell you she eked out some ridiculous babbling about the J.J. She then meekly asked how I knew of this; I assured her the stupid directions were hanging on the wall. If I spoke of work, I would tell you that I basically threatened to shove those directions up her ass and that I made it quite clear NO ONE on my clock would be Jiving anything for the big J.C.

If they like to get a paycheck, they best figure out they are there to jive their sorry asses for ME.

Since then, I have found much humor in the Jesus Jive (or, Jiving for Jesus, depending on how you look at it). I also have had time to regret not getting a copy of the Jesus Jive, as it would have been awesome to post here. (It's not like I can go back and ask for the words.) If I spoke of work, I would tell you that I have spoken to HR because Jesus Jiving is just too much. There is nothing wrong with Jiving for Jesus--it's just not appropriate at work.

I'm pretty sure no one near me at work will be doing the J.C. Jive any time soon.....the hokey pokey or the Chicken Dance, maybe. The J.C. Jive, not so much.

One, two, three-four-five, your boss says there's no Jesus Jive.

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Saturday, July 11, 2009


So
Much for the Planet
Say What?

I couldn't fall asleep last night.
You know why? Because I kept hearing Michael Jackson singing, "You're a vegetable." Seriously. You try going to sleep with "You're a Vegetable" circling in your brain.

Don't think MJ is signing those words in that wanna/gotta be startin' something song? I have the album with lyrics to prove it. I went down in the basement and dug out the album to check what the hell he was singing. Sure sounded like he was saying vegetable, but you never know.....

You're A Vegetable, You're A Vegetable
Still They Hate You, You're A Vegetable
You're Just A Buffet, You're A Vegetable
They Eat Off Of You, You're A Vegetable


Why he is singing about being a vegetable is not included in the liner notes. Of course, the vegetable reference is in the same song as the "Mama-se, mama-sa, ma-ma-coo-sa" babbling, so it all makes perfect sense. Or not.

Yesterday was a big beetle banner day. A Japanese Beetle bounced off my nose. No kidding. You know what this means? This. Means. War! (This morning, a bird pooped on my head when we were walking and I ran over a cardinal while driving to meet MJagger. Nature is trying to tell me something. What, I am not sure.) The beetles are here in droves--you can see clouds of them flitting around the tops of trees. Picking them off one by one is officially over. There are just too many. If the wind dies down, I'll be breaking out the poison. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha! Mama-se, mama-sa, ma-ma-kill-the-bug.

Harry Potter Movie Time! I am stoked, although I am not a big fan of Book Six; in fact, my dislike was strong enough that I gave the book away to a friend. I'll get over it and will be going to see HP during the first week it's out. I am all about Book Seven. You go, Dumbledor!

Welcome, Culver Gryffendor, GSI, to the Addiverse! In honor of the HP movie and in great effort to pay proper homage to a dear friend (and blog reader!), I want to officially introduce you to "Culver Gryffendor, GSI." This wonderful friend, whom I'll cll CGg for purposes of this blog, is spectacular enough to rate her own logo. Wow! All family & friends in the Addiverse get nick names--but, only a very few every get some form of visual representation, so I hope she feels very special, indeed. (I also hope she is not singing that friggin' vegetable song.) Nick names are the best because they always have such meaning behind them for me--most names make sense in context of the person's relation to the Addiverse: "Cheeseball Neighbor" is labeled such b/c she lives next door and was the host of the New Year's Eve Cheeseball Attack; "Grand Canyon Black Toes (aka GCBT)" earned his nick name from a trek down and up the trails at the Grand Canyon (I hope his toe nails have grown back by now). As for Culver? Suffice it to say it encompasses her work, street location, birth place, some semblance of her last name and her passion for reading (although I do not know that she would be a HP fan; rather, she is an avid reader and JK Rowling's books certainly fall on many a reader's list of consumed books. If I could have Incorporated a cook book title or chef, that would have been the ultimate nick name. Sigh.)

While out to dinner with CGg last week (eating orgasmic Mexican food, I might add), we were talking about song lyrics and how stupid (naive?) we were as kids (and possibly as adults) in relation to such lyrics. This was triggered for me when I was walking on Wednesday night and was listening to AC/DC singing "let me put my love it to you, babe." Wait a minute--let me put my love into you babe, let me cut your cake with my knife?" Talk about almost walking into a parked car. It only took me 47 years to realize what the hell this guy was singing.

Although I am a huge music whore, I don't pay much attention to lyrics--I hear the beat and melody and sing along but it's about the gestalt, if you will, of the musical experience, not just the words (thank god or I'd NEVER be able to listen to even one Shania Twain song). The words are mindless dribble that I don't even consider on most occasions until I am shocked into realizing what the hell I've just been singing. CGg, the wife and I had some pretty good laughs about how we totally missed all those sexual connotations in the music of our childhood. Even our most beloved movies (read: Grease) went way above our head. Yeah, Grease is the word, all right. Rod Stewart's spreading her wings, Starland Vocal Band is getting some Afternoon Delight, the Rolling Stones make a dead man you-know-what, AC/DC's giving the dog a bone (THOSE are some vulgar lyrics!), we won't even talk about what Queen is doing. (Side note: how the hell did we miss why Queen was named Queen? Not once in 40-some years did I ever think about that. Duh!)

At least I knew what "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" was about.

Today's lyrics seem so obliviously, overtly vulgar--but, I don't think the nine year old boy who is singing about someone licking his lollipop knows exactly what he's saying.....and so, the trend continues.

By the way, for a good laugh after reading this blog (I should say, if you need ANOTHER good laugh after reading this blog), remember: if this isn't the best song ever, I'll fight you:
http://www.youtube.com/afternoondelightanchorman

Lyrics in general are always hilarious when misunderstood. The Spatzies thought, "When Smoky Sings," was "When You Smoke Your Cigs." That's pretty funny. I thought Christopher Cross was singing "all-ey boo-la" but he was really singing, "I'll live alone." I could go on for days with this....and, will glady print any of your misunderstood lyrics if you send them to me. Think of the fun we can have with this!

Of course, some times lyrics are actually what they are, which brings me back to those damn vegetables. And, that brings me back to Beetles (Japanese kind, not the British invasion kind) It is time for me to go outside and poison something--hopefully the beetles. Someone suggested I use a grill lighter to fry them. I say, "Don't. tempt. me."
Final Lap from Daytona: Alas, the fun had to come to an end. Daytona D & family are taking the long way home and are now in hell...er, I mean Kentucky. It's the end of the trail tomorrow, so we thank her now for the family vacation updates. Can't wait to see the photos! Daytona D writes: "... like most years, the vacation has lasted about two or three days too long. Not that I want to get home and get to work, but the togetherness may kill us all. 5 family members all in one hotel room, one car, with only one bathroom for 14 days is just a little too long. Especially when Captain Morgan isn't typically home more than two days in a row. The "she is looking at me," "she's touching me," "she's on my side of the bed," etc..... is getting pretty bad."

Sounds like it's time to come home. Mybe the nieces need to be singing about vegetables. Think they have Japanese Beetles in Kentucky?

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Thursday, July 09, 2009

Prime Time

This bird has a problem. It lives under our deck and does not fly. Every once in awhile its mom flies in, shoves a worm down its throat and leaves it to fend for itself. I don't think it has long for this world. It hurts my heart. Nature is so cruel. (It is NOT cruel not to kill Japanese Beetles in any capacity.)

The poor wife--she remains distracted by the whole MJ thing. I may have to pry her away from the T.V. soon or she will turn into a one-gloved, white-socked blob of pop music.

While driving from Wally World to work this morning, my head was swirling with work issues, social engagements scheduled over the next four days, blogging, beetles, being in my prime, how I'm thinking the Republicans in Illinois might actually have it right about working a budget (the horror, the horror!), etc. Sure, last night I was a coach potato with nothing firing in the brain; this morning, I am a-fire with ideas.

My Beloved Lady Chiropractor has been on my mind, not only because my knees are aching today (don't ask) but also because MJagger asked if I wanted to go to her gym yesterday--the same gym My Beloved Lady Chiropractor goes to. As I know it's MBLC's day off (I am a true stalker) and as I hadn't shaved my legs or brought any work out clothes worthy of being out in public, I declined. I really wanted to go but it wasn't worth the cost of being seen looking like a homeless person posing as a health club member. MJagger and I continue to prep for our upcoming 5K walk, only two weeks away. I may be in my prime, but I am not in prime shape. Man, life sure is different at 47--when I was 27 and running 13 miles at a time, it took me 1.5 hours to recover. Now, it takes me two days to recover from a 14 minute mile. I am SO not aging gracefully. Perhaps I should ask MBLC to be standing at the finish line to help us with first aid as needed. Is there a doctor in the house?

Hey--did you hear me on the radio Tuesday around 5:30 PM? That was me, sounding like a moron on a pop-music radio (of which I will deny listening to), winning a trivia quiz prize. Don't get excited--I won a four-pack of tickets to attend a local festival--but, I'm a winner, so that's what matters. I was talking on the phone while driving, which really isn't a good idea. Worse, I couldn't remember what radio station I had called, so when the DJ asked me, "What radio station just made you a winner?" I had a brain fart and couldn't say a word. Great. I'm sure he's glad a 47 year old lady talking on a cell phone who can't remember more than her name just won his prize on live radio.

The question was lame and I had heard the same question the day before on the morning show, so it was a no-brainer....well, besides which radio station I was listening to at the time....

Thinking about cell phones while driving got me thinking about my walk last night, where I was walking and texting. This is a very bad idea--not only because you walk slower, but because you miss seeing important things like curbs, cracks in sidewalks, parked cars. The wife informed me that one of the most common visits to the ER these days is due to people walking and texting at the same time. I love to multi-task but seems this may not be the avenue to do such activity. I narrowly missed an unscheduled visit with a side view mirror due to my inability to enjoy one thing at a time. (If it matters, I was texting my nieces, who are now in Alabama--in a Target parking lot. Haven't heard from Daytona D for a dot, so who knows what they were doing at Target.)

I'm busy labeling all my blog entries, so it will be easier to find things you might be looking for (I know you have nothing better to do than go back and read my old entries), so I can remember what the hell I've written about and so I can remember all those nick names I've slapped on family, friends, service providers, political figures, sources of irritation. Organization. It's all about organization and consolidation. (And, labeling--I'm all about labeling people--ha ha!) Well, it's a really slow, boring, painful process. Had I kept up as I went along, I wouldn't be in this pickle. In true grandiose fashion, I tell myself this organization will come in handy when I write my book....

As you may be able to tell, I am feeling nostalgic this morning, of which I do not have time to do. I was thinking about how we've been in our house for 14 years and how we lived in the same apartment for 10 years before that. What this has to do with anything is beyond me, but it's what is in my brain, along with those four billion other things in there. Maybe buying buying baby wipes at Wally World (not for babies) triggered some long lost thoughts. Maybe the excitement of going to a Brewer's Game this weekend has warped my brain (focus on Cubby Blue!); perhaps the need of coffee left things fuzzy enough that there was room for thoughts about inconsequential dribble. Maybe it's the realization that we are going out to dinner tonight with a person from a job from my distant past. Actually, I think all that time on the couch last night, staring at Book de la Face, put me on memory lane.

Ah, the joys of being a prime in her prime. Unlike those-non-babies who need the baby wipes, I still have a memory lane to walk down...and, for that I shall be grateful today.
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Sunday, July 05, 2009

Turning Japanese 2009
(With Bonus Report from Daytona D)

THEY'RE BACK!

The bane of my existence, the scurge of my summer....the Japanese Beetle is creeping back into the Addiverse. I saw the first few most-hated creatures on the ferns last night. My blood pressure went up so high my eye balls swelled when I saw that first beetle. I. HATE. THEM. Exasperation overload. They, as far as bugs go, are pretty and don't bite and don't seem to get in the house. It's what they do to our poor foilage every year that makes me crazy. C.R.A.Z.Y. Certifiably crazy..

Bug bags, schmug bags--forget the bag-a beetle traps....

....I am ARMED and DANGEROUS this year!

Screw the environment, I am fighting back. A quick tour of the Internet and a jaunt down the bug aisle at Homo Depot armed me with the chemicals I need to win this war. Sevin! Well, maybe not win the war--improve the odds the tree might live, I'm guessing.

Of course, bug spray tends to be uber-poisonous, and I probably shouldn't be messing with anything poisonous, but I am one desperate woman and I can't take those bugs any more. I am all about chemicals. Poison the bastards, I say! I'll spray them one by one if I have to.....

Yesterday, when applying the first round of Sevin, I was thinking that spraying leaves above my head without having a mask or gloves on was probably a bad idea. It wasn't windy out, so I figured it probably wouldn't kill me. At least I wasn't on a ladder or anything. I didn't smell anything wafting toward me and my glasses weren't getting spritzed with anything, so I took that as a good sign. It was only later when I was in bed, I started to freak myself out about the sinus headache that was developing. It was only a matter of seconds before I went from a normal sinus headache to "oh my god, I've poisoned my mucous membranes with Sevin!"

I think I'll wear a mask next time.

I'm also doing the "pick-one-at-a-time-off-the ferns-drop-them-in-the-soapy-water" method, but that's only until the masses arrive. So far, I've only had to pick five beetles off, as there have only been five Japanese beetles in the Addiverse. Don't even tease me that maybe this year they will go somewhere else. I hear them smacking their lips in anticipation of devouring our flowering cherry tree. I will not be able use the pick-one-method once the entire bug party arrives. Remember: last year, we were changing the beetle bag at least once a day. Overflowing, crawling, swarming, swimming on each other. Makes me want to vomit. THAT'S a bug party.

This has become an annual event. I promise there will be photos to be had regarding "Turning Japanese 2009."
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Bonus material: Daytona D has struck again, this time post-race. Picture three crabby teenage girls and one sun burnt husband on a road trip when reading this. Upon reflection, I don't know which would be worse: the level of Nascar love or the level of hormones in that car.

Daytona D writes: "How about a quick Daytona quiz?

Question: Why should you not pick up thing in the ocean with your toes?
Answer: Because they might be alive!

Middle Child and Eldest Daughter were out on the sand bar, and of course you can't see the bottom of the ocean. ED stepped on what felt like a cool shell but couldn't quite get it with her toes, so MC tried. When MC picked it up, it was a live Hermit Crab. I didn't hear them scream from the beach or anything, but the crab did not make it to shore.

Question: If a NASCAR race takes 3.5 hours to run, how long does it take to get back to the hotel?Answer: the same amount of time it took for the race - or about 3 times longer than it took to get there--3.5 hours

Yep, we went to the Daytona 400 last night. We arrived early enough for Captain Morgan, not early enough for ED and way too early for the rest of us. All things considered it was an ok race. There was a huge crash at the end which took out Kyle Bush-who was in the lead. It is amazing how many fans don't like Kyle. The heat was not as bad as it could have been, since it was a night race. We would have been baked lobsters during the day. We sat in the very top row. According to Captain, they are the best seats in the house.

Question: Who is the crabbiest child in our family at 3:00am? Answer: Who knows, they aren't speaking to each other by then!

Yep, that is the time we got back to the room, and the bed wars began. It was kind of comical. Youngest child went to bed. ED stood there, and MC sat in a chair. I had had enough and went to bed. Captain Morgan came in the room and thought they were nuts and told them no switching spots, go to bed. Amazingly, they did and no one got hurt. Of course, they are still sleeping and the feud will continue today, I am sure.

Question: Who was the first one to become a lobster in our family? Answer: Captain Morgan!

Yes, “Mr. Man” doesn't need sun screen. He'll also tell you it doesn't hurt; but, I have to help him keep lotioning his back.

Thanks for taking my little Daytona quiz. We are going back to the track today. Captain and ED are going to get to ride in a race car. They aren't doing driving experiences today. Tomorrow it's off to Alabama. What's in Alabama you say? I don't know, I'll have to let you know."

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Friday, July 03, 2009

Daytona D's Diaries

Happy 6th anniversary, Appendix! As always, I tie the Fourth of July with my appendectomy in 2003. What an event it was! As it's now been six years, you are so on your own to go back and read previous appendix blog entries in all those July entries over the years. New blog readers: it is up to you to go back and read all those entries. If you don't, I'll cry. Sniff.

Lucy is here to say "Happy Independence Day!" Man, I hate it when dogs have those scary eyes in photos. What IS up with that? She is ready to party, despite the scary eyes.

By the way, what's up with "She Who Must Not be Named" resigning as Governor of Alaska? Just saw that on TV. Does this mean I should resign as president of her fan club? Or, should I gear up for that run at 2012? I've heard the world is ending in 2012--this might be a harbinger of that actual event.....

Damn, I didn't get a lottery ticket for MJ's funeral. I'll have to moonwalk in my own living room in his honor instead of moon walking surrounded by 11, 000 other moon walkers.

We spent today gardening. We had toyed with the idea of going to Summerfest in the Land of Cheddar but somehow ended up gardening. The wife would like it to be known that it was not her idea to take up such a project and thus I do take full responsibility for the new area of the garden. It wasn't exactly Summerfest but I did manage to get both Dunkin' Donuts AND Starbucks today, so all is well in the world.

My sister, whom I shall call "Daytona D" for this entry, is on the road with her family. They are headed to--you can guess--Daytona. Now, I'd like to think I'm the only writer in the family, but I'd be sadly mistaken if I said that. Wild Mama and Daytona D can both hold their own in the creative writing department. Because many of you might be having thoughts of taking a road trip this summer, I feel it's my moral obligation to I post some of what my sister has written...it is imperative to remind people that road trips are not for the feint of heart.

You have to understand that this driving trip is comprised of my sister, her three Nascar-loving teenage girls and one Nascar-loving husband. That's a lot of Nascar love.

I must've missed the Nascar-loving gene.

If you are considering a road trip this summer, remember things like speeding tickets, construction and traffic. For those of you who scoff at this, here's Daytona D's report from the road to remind you. Hope you have a great holiday and remember to honor my appendix.....


"We have made it to Atlanta, Georgia. What was an 11.5 hour drive was an 18 hour adventure. We left the house at 5:00am to miss the Chicago traffic. And might I say, we pulled out of the driveway at 5:01am. Hubby Captain Morgan drove and we dozed. Just outside Indy, Captain said something and I looked up out the front window and there is this guy on the left hand shoulder pointing at us. Now we are doing 65+ and this guy is pointing at us and at the side of the road. I realized it was Mr. Police officer. I thought maybe it was a safety check or something…it was just weird how he pointed at Captain and then the side of the road.So we pull over and lo and behold Captain Morgan had been doing 71 in a 55 mph zone. Mr. Officer was giving him a ticket. So, this trip his ticket was in Indy.


We stopped for breakfast shortly after and he declared he was done driving.


After breakfast, Eldest Daughter drove and Captain Morgan went in the back seat next to Middle Daughter- not her preference of seat mates.


So we are be bopping along and there is a sign that says - watch for back up, road construction 60 miles. Who pays attention to something 60 miles away????? So we get closer and it says 71 detour, but there is nothing in sight and we proceed onward and lo and behold about 2 miles later, we stop. And crawl a few feet….wait….crawl…wait…crawl, and finally stop.


People are actually walking around because our cars were parked and off. Yes we sat on the highway for over 2.5 hours No air conditioning and No bathroom!!!! Captain went wandering down the road to see what happened and never returned. No phone, no water, just walked off leaving his wife and children to fend for themselves.


When we started moving, we found him sitting on the guard rail. Yes, we stopped and picked him up. There had been an accident with three semi trucks over an hour before we got there and the highway was still closed down. So off we go, first exit to a bathroom. Never tell a woman she can't go to the bathroom, because then she needs to go!


We continued on the road, three hours behind schedule, which of course made us hit Nashville at rush hour. So, we crawled another 20 or 30 miles at 10 miles an hour before getting through that mess. We ended up arriving at 10:30pm Chicago time, only four or so hours later than anticipated.


Amazingly, we are all still alive."