Sunday, September 27, 2009

Down on the Farm(ville)

I wanna talk about my "eye bulbs" and my thoughts on Arm-Under for women but I am too distracted to start with such things....

By what, you might ask?

....By my wheat that needs to be harvested.

Those of you who are sucked in to "playing" Farmvillage on Face de la Book understand what this means. Those of you who do not partake in this bizarre agricultural action do not. (That's a picture of my farm, for those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about. Uh-oh! My cherry tree needs to be harvested!)

There were were, eating dinner with the gaywad neighbors at Lobster de la Red on Friday night when I realized I had to get home or some of my unharvested crops would wilt and die. I actually said something out loud about this, which really illustrates my unhealthy relationship with the world. Instead of worrying about word peace or thinking about Jillian Michael's abs, I am thinking about non-existent crops.

This is indeed a sad, sad statement on the current condition of my brain.

On a different note, I went to an opthamologist surgeon guy for a consultation yesterday. I've worn glasses since first grade, so the thought of being able to see without glasses has always been one of my dreams. For shits and giggles, I thought I'd find out what options I might have about corrective eye surgery. With my awful vision, I figured it would be very expensive and come with no guarantees. I did some homework before going, so I had an idea of what he'd probably say and how much he'd probably choke out it would cost.

Suffice it to say, my only real option is to have my lens removed and have them replaced with new, fake lens. Yes, this is exactly what they do for cataract surgery, only I don't have cataracts. As my homework had suggested this is exactly what the opthamologist guy would have to say, I was prepared with a plethora of questions.

No, the surgery doesn't change the shape of my eye, so technically I'd still have my blind-as-a-bat eye bulbs. No, it wouldn't lower my chance of having a detached retina (which is something of a concern with how myopic my eyes are). No, there is no guarantee my eyes wouldn't get worse (but, as he noted, I could always have surgery or wear glasses and get that corrected! GREAT!). Yes, I'd still have to wear "cheaters" or "readers" or whatever you call those glasses to read things up close. Good news is that I'd never need cataract surgery (because I would have basically HAD cataract surgery and cataracts don't "grow" on fake lens). Of course, because I don't have cataracts (which I am all good with), insurance does not pay for this elective surgery; so, technically....if I waited to have surgery when I do eventually have cataracts, the surgery would be covered. Hmmmmm.

Now, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my current lens--they aren't the reason I can't see. So, I'd be removing one of the working things in my eyes and would be "elective-ly" replacing them with a fake product. Double Hmmmmm.

Also, there is the price tag. Sit down, cuz the quote was $7200.00. We're talking car payment here. (I drive cheap cars. If you are driving an Escalade, you do not relate to that last sentence.) Thankfully, my homework had prepared me for that quote--it was almost exactly what I thought it would be.

Elective surgery with few guarantees besides no cataracts. Sigh. I'll stick with my $500 a year glasses and funky-shaped eyeballs for now, thank you.

Finally, Arm-Under--the wonder material that is supposed to be God's gift to athletes. The wife's brother, Tommy Hilfiger, wears it ALL the time. ALL.THE.TIME. The wife found me a a long-sleeved version (at her favorite store, the MAXX) to try out for this fall when walking with MJagger. Seemed like a good idea--wick away the persperation, feel nice and dry while walking. Yum!

I tried my new Arm-Under shirt this morning, as it was a bit cooler today. The result? Yes, it did seem to wick away the sweat, which was indeed very nice. The problem? My bra, which is not made of Arm-Under material but rather some cheap nylon product from Wallyworld, was all wet and yucky and thus the Arm-Under really didn't make much of a different. Who wants to spend all that money on Arm-Under when you're walking around with a soggy bra?

I bet Tommy Hilfiger never has to worry about a soggy bra.

I suppose this means I have to buy a Arm-Under bra to go with my Arm-Under shirt in order to feel fresh and pretty and dry. I'm not sure I'm ready to drop money on a special bra. I have to choke up money to help pay for the washing machine repairs--special bras are not in the budget. I can't go braless, so it's either soggy bra or soggy bra. I think I'll stick with the soggy bar for now. I'm thinking an investment in Arm-Under pants for the winter make more sense...

....but, then won't I have soggy underwear? Oh, the madness!

Well, I'd love to write more but my artichokes are waiting for harvest and I've got a pig ready to be shoot out some truffles. If you don't hear from me for a few days, come look on the farm. I'm the one with purple hair, glasses and a soggy bra.....
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Thursday, September 24, 2009

Climb Every Woman

What do you mean, it's already Thursday night? Geez, the week just blew by.

I thought you blog readers would like to see what the luscious Maytag Neptune has been up to. Yum, that's a tasty hole chewed right through yet another household item. I guess the good news is that the washer is working...if it weren't working, it wouldn't be able to mangle any of our belongings.

I'm finally blogging about the song lyrics you beloved readers have "sent" in. I thank Chick-a-hello for getting me back on track with this, as she is the one who admits that she sang, "Climb Every Woman, It's all I need" as the lyrics to "I'm Every Woman," as sung by Whitney.

Actually, I'm thinking Chick-a-hello got it right--no offense to Whitney.

I received lots of little lyric tidbits from friends, relatives, my own mind. My Wild Mama emailed to say her sister used to laugh at her when she'd sing the Christmas Carol "deck the halls with bowels of holly," at the top of her lungs. Some lyrics are a bit more perverse than others ("oh oh oh it's magic you know--she thought it was--oh oh oh itch my dick you know"--I'll spare the person who sent that to me). There were simple errors, such as "would you like a ride in my beautiful room" or "somewhere over the rainbow, weigh a pie" or "I can see clearly now, I can see icicles in my way."

But, the best emails I received.....

I'm very honored to utilize an actual story from the halls of Culver Gryffendoor. I take no credit for her wit & humor. Thank you, Culver, for the great laugh!

"Ok, here's a great story about song lyrics... my best friend in high school was (Eye-oh-Wah Cow Grrrl). Her dad was the Veterinarian in town. Now, I grew up in a small farming community (what other kind is there in Iowa?) , so being a vet meant lots of cows, pigs, sheep, horses along with dogs and cats thrown in here and there. One of the things a vet gets the privilege of doing is "preg-checking" livestock. Mostly cows. Yes, that means checking the cows to see if they were with child or calf I guess. To do this the Vet would roll up his sleeves, soap up his arms and insert said arm up past the elbow into the cow's vagina to see if there was a baby calf in her uterus. Ultra sounds aren't done on farm animals. You get the picture. I personally witnessed this act many times. It was important to know so 1) you would stop sicking the bull on her and let him be more productive elsewhere 2) you would make sure the cow had all her shots, good nutrition, out of the muck etc.

"Ok...so about that time ABBA had the hit song "Take a Chance on Me." Not sure the year, I don't pay attention to that type of detail. Growing up in small town Iowa all we had was A.M. radio with farm reports and music in between the reports. If the song was a hit sometime within the last year, we got to hear it over and over and over again (I used to think the Osmond Brothers were actually at the radio station singing every time their song was on, but that's another story). So we heard a lot of "Take a Chance on Me." My friend and her two younger brothers (being of Swedish decent) that it was a really catchy tune and sang it A LOT. Especially the part where the background was "take a chance, take a chance, take a chance-chance. (Are you singing along?).....only they thought the lyrics were.....

"check a cow, check a cow, check a cow-cow." No lie, God's truth!!!!

To this day that's how I sing along to ABBA. I have not seen Mama Mia and think it would spoil the whole thing for me since I'm guessing there are no cows on the stage."

Nothing I can say--or sing or write--can top that......so, I leave it here. Mooooo.
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Saturday, September 19, 2009

Runaway Grandma




Oh dear, I witnessed the most....most.....incredible?..... unexpected?..... awesome?.... incidents yesterday. I was at an event for the place of which I do not speak (but if I did speak of it, you know it would be about my place of employment, of which I certainly do NOT speak about and would totally deny speaking about if questioned), surrounded by persons of older stature. If I did speak of work, I will tell you that due to the nature of the crowd, there were many electric scooters, electric wheelchairs, walkers, canes and other supportive devices. It was more like an obstacle course than special event and it took much artful dodging when weaving through the crowd.

My only words of advice to those who attend such ordeals: GET.OUT.OF.THE.WAY.

Anyways, I was standing near one of the "back" walls when I saw something that really didn't register with my brain. I was staring out into the crowd while doing a job of which I shall not speak, but suffice it to say it involved me babbling on a microphone, when I saw things start to topple like dominoes, only in very slow motion. When I say "things," I mean the vendor booths. One by one, from the outside working the way in, vendor curtains/signs/booth poles were falling slowly away from me. Mid sentence, I stopped making my overhead announcement and instead stood there, mouth open, brain not comprehending.

I saw a guy standing next to me sprint toward the toppling curtains and poles. A display table went toppling. WTF? My brain finally realized something was very wrong. My master's degree came into big help in figuring out something had happened on the other side of the vendor booths.

I quickly ran over to provide some semblance of help. A quick scan of the area (because that is what one is supposed to do when approaching a dangerous situation--see? I paid attention in first aid training--visually scan the area) suggested that no one was seriously hurt or in danger of being hurt. I proceeded to the end booth where one of the vendors was sprawled out on the floor, not hurt but rather completely stunned.

The issue?

RUNAWAY GRANDMA!

Seems that an elderly participant in an electric scooter/wheelchair vehicle/apparatus (of which I am not sure because it was such a blur) had gone CRASHING through the end booth, never slowing down, never never veering off course.....and, continued to bullet her way out of the area and on to the exit.

A hit and run!

Someone get that license plate number!

Grandma never looked back--she kept speeding along on her own private mission. Did.not.slow.down.one.bit. Grandma didn't miss a beat. VRRRROOOOOOM! From the looks of things, Grandma had no idea she had just taken down a slew of vendor booths and one vendor.

I'm thinking Grandma shot out the door and returned to her car, hopefully not to drive herself home. Hell, Grandma might have thought she WAS at home and didn't even know she was at this event....

As noted and quite thankfully, there were no injuries (except psychological, I'm guessing) and thus it is deemed VERY funny. It's one of those things that you had to "be there" to truly appreciate. But, c'mon--how often do you see a hit-and-run-runaway-grandma in a wheelchair? I'm sure you are having a visual!

I need to add another quick tidbit about a guy having a runaway walker, so the men readers of this blog don't make wisecracks about women drivers.....

I was once again standing, staring at the crowd, when I saw a man using one of those really fancy walkers--leather seat, two brakes, metallic red. I could tell he was REALLY unsteady and having a hard time keeping up with his wheels. He was leaning at a 45 degree angle, feet flying under him as he traveled forward, way too fast for his own good. I could tell he had no control of where he had been or where he was going. His wife chased along, many steps behind.....

....A quick survey of his path of motion indicated he was heading straight toward one of the beautiful (quite awesome, I might say) antique cars on display.

Metal on metal, only seconds away. His trajectory suggested he would run into the car, bounce and then scrape along the side. I had to act quickly!

In those few milli-seconds I had to react, I realized I had to intercept the walker but also knew that because I was behind him, I'd have to "sneak" up on him, grab the walker to re-direct it and might accidentally knock him over. He might fall when I grabbed the walker. No matter, the car had to be saved.

Broken hip or ruined paint job? Man, this was a sucky choice.

No time to contemplate the merits of injuring a guy over explaining to the owner of a car about the dent and ruined paint job, I ran up to him, just as he literally got to the car. Just like Grandma in the runaway wheelchair, this guy didn't slow down......in fact, he was gaining speed.

I grabbed the fancy red walker and as gently, as firmly as I could, I maneuvered him away from the car. It almost was disastrous for the car, as my action--if I failed--would now mean he would SCRAPE his walker along the entire side of the car. Grandpa never realized that I had commandeered his wheels. Thankfully, thankfully, thankfully, my swift action (and I do mean swift--I haven't moved that fast since college), allowed Grandpa to only ever-so-slightly tap the car and then veer off into the empty space now in front of him...

There was no visible damage of any kind to the car. Grandpa kept going but at least now there was nothing in his path of motion (well, except for a wall but that was at least twenty yards away and I really didn't care about the wall).

His wife? She was ten paces behind. She looked at me, shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes. (Thanks for nothing, lady. You could have at least said thanks or "oh my!" or "nice catch!" or something acknowledging I just saved you a shitload of money.)

I sighed, turned away from the cars and ventured back to complete my assignments, having only one thought for the rest of the day.....

.....Man, it sucks to get old.
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Saturday, September 12, 2009

Have Baggage, Will Travel

I dedicate this blog entry to Mrs. DeRosa....not because the blog entry has anything to do with her but because she is a visitor of the Addiverse and thus she deserves recognition. Now, if we could just get Mr. DeRosa back from the Cards....

Aren't these "yearbook" photos a riot? As you can see, you just go to this link, stick your face in the various yearbook photos and wa-la! Instant 1980's. The scary thing is a few of the photos I made actually looked like how I looked in the 80's.... This one is my "on-the-bubble-of-the-Madonna-age." No, I didn't have this hair do but it sure does look purdy on me. Go ahead--try it! I know you want to....

And now, I shall share the story of how an Ultra-Conservative Catholic came to my rescue yesterday. Apologies to those of you who have already heard me tell this story, but I just couldn't pass up putting it in the Addiverse.

As always, I mean no offense to true Christians....to the spiritually-inclined....and to those who have had a sex change operation or might be carrying baggage of any kind.


It was just another day at the place of which I cannot speak....if I did speak of such place, I would tell you that I was in a meeting with St. Maddy, ultra-conservative (think: opus dei) of the Catholic persuasion. I'm her boss, so she has to listen to me babble. I was talking to her about a specific situation of which I cannot speak, but suffice it to say St. Maddy and I got on the topic of persons who have had a sex change and then, when in the later stages of Alzheimer's, "revert" back to their previous-before-sex-change sexual identity. (Who'da thunk? This is going to require research on my part. I know we "go" backwards as we age and that is even more evident in the throws of dementia but this is a whole new, exciting topic of which I have much to learn. I have SOOOO many questions about this.) St. Maddy explains that the particular client (of whom I cannot share what relation he/she/he has to the place of which I do not speak) was technically (as evidenced by external sex organs) born a man, had a sex change operation as a young adult, lived and was a woman for many years and then, upon the advent of progressing Alzheimer's, became very upset when people referred to her as a woman, as he/she/he now saw himself as a man, not woman. This was very troubling for everyone involved, as you can imagine.

I swear to you this conversation was very much based on the clinicial nature & programmning regarding the place of which I do not speak. It was an unusual conversation, to say the least, made more unusual by the religiousness of St. Maddy. Refreshingly, St. Maddy was totally non-judgmental and considered this issue in a very scientific, professional manner. I was very impressed. (As regular readers know, I have not been impressed by any of the religious zealots at the place I do not speak.)

In the mean time, Ms. Piggy (of who I do not want to waste my time talking about nor explain why I have given her the title Ms. Piggy...a pastor's wife and reportedly good Christian woman--ugh! I am plagued with uber-religious employees) plops herself down next to me and joins in the conversation, uninvited and definitely unwelcomed. This woman, who has less social skills than the computer I am typing on, listens just for a dot and then chimes in, "That's just like gay people."

St. Maddy and I look at each other, very confused. We aren't talking about gay people. We're talking about gender identity and we are certainly not talking to Ms. Piggy, anyways.

The very educated, loving, non-judgmental Ms. Piggy (COUGH! COUGH!) continues on about how all gay people have all this emotional baggage. She continues on, stating that due to this baggage (of which these gay people just won't let go of) and because of all the emotional trauma gay people have endured in their lives (kind of like I'm enduring while she's saying all this, I guess), those gays have chosen to be gay and if they would just have a healing and leave their baggage behind, they would no longer be gay.

Silence.

Poor St. Maddy looks like she is going to vomit. St. Maddy is no fool. Despite my "don't ask, don't tell" ridiculous policy at the place of which I do not speak, she is smart enough to know that her boss is one big gaywad. I must say, for an Opus Dei kind of gal, she has handled this quite well, albeit silently. I think she prays for me daily at Mass....and, I am all good with that. At least she never tries to "save" me.

You'd think Ms. Piggy would stop talking (especially since St. Maddy and I are just staring at her, not reacting at all besides our mouths hanging open), but because Ms. Fetal Pig has no social skills and because she is a self-righteous bigot and because she is too uneducated to realize that gender identity issues do not equal sexual orientation issues, she doesn't stop babbling. The ol' pastor's wife keeps churning out balls of judgmental stupidness. Baggage, trauma, choice, blah blah blah. She is quite animated--and serious and passionate--about all this. At one point, I do remember her saying, "I've known LOTS of gay people over the years..." but didn't hear the rest of it because I think a vein in my temple exploded and I could no longer function in any rationale capacity but to think, "it's her opinion, it's her opinion, it's her opinion."

I have had enough. Don't ask, don't tell is going to hell in a hand basket. I have had it with respecting all these people's beliefs and boundaries. I. am. over. it. They can kiss my big old, baggage-filled ass.

Ms. Piggy finally rests her case. I turn toward her, as I can no longer tolerate being a well behaved gay boss, ready to spew out something I probably need not to spew, when St. Maddy literally and loudly blurts out....

"I just don't understand why the tomatoes in my garden taste like grapes and look like potatoes!"

This bizarre question/statement from the gardening Catholic (who really has had some bizarre happenings in her vegetable output this year) totally throw Ms. Piggy off the "heal the gays" topic and knocks me off track of spewing hateful venom. Ms. Piggy, none the wiser and still as clueless is the day is long, gets up--smiling and full of some form of Christian-based satisfaction-- and happily rolls on her way.

I look at St. Maddy, who is looking at me.

I can't help but to burst out laughing. I reach for a piece of paper, which happens to be a form I give to employees at the place of which I do not speak when they've done something above and beyond, special, inspirational, etc. I quickly fill it out and hand it to her. It reads:

"For the best change of subject EVER on the job. One point. Thank you!"

I stand up and half-heartedly grumble, "Me and my baggage are going back to my office."

As I leave the office, St. Maddy giggles and then meekly squeaks out, "you're welcome." With my back to her and while still carrying my "baggage" down the hall, I call out,

"Score one for the Catholics!"

I enjoyed the rest of my day.
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Thursday, September 10, 2009

Pillow Talk, Trash Talk

I believe this blog entry will be interruption free, as the politician from South Carolina is nowhere in the vicinity.

Well, the tapeworm is no longer and Freckles is quite the perky pup. Who knew she was feeling less than 100% over the past few weeks? She's like a new dog--hopping around, smiling, generally looking younger than her years. Here she is wearing some perky potholders. (Some people ask why....I ask, why not?)

I must say that the one pill really did the trick. Nothing has shown up in her poop, quite to my relief and dismay. I mean, really--I thought there would at least be one little piece of something tape-worm-ish, but I guess it really does disintegrate and leave me wanting for something a little more gross than a pile of warm dog poop. (Not that I'm complaining.)

As for the Maytag Neptune top-loading washer, oh dear. The Oprah washer has betrayed us and the wife is on the verge of suicide/homicide (I'm not sure which). It keeps getting stuck at 11 minutes and then refuses to go forward--no spinning, no rinsing, no finishing, no nothing. If you read reviews about this machine, you will see it is not well loved. Of course, if you keep reading reviews of various sorts, you soon learn that the average life of a washing machine is something like five years.

FIVE years! Are you kidding?

We really do live in a disposable society.

Well, the wife is not a professor for nothing. Somehow, some way she figured out that if she stuffs two couch-throw pillows into the washer when it gets stuck at minute 11, it finishes the cycle. Go figure. It goes like this: Throw wash into machine. Run the cycle. Watch machine get stuck with 11 minutes to go. Open lid, throw in two couch pillows. Resume cycle. Watch the cycle complete. If the wife tries to skip the pillow part, the whole thing comes to a crashing halt and she remains stuck on 11.

If you are like me, you are wondering how the hell she came up with that very bizarre way of temporarily solving the washing machine issue. If it were me who came up with this, you might understand. But, her? Hmmm. I guess the most important part is that it works. Thankfully, the service repair man will be here tomorrow....otherwise, our pillows would be toast by the end of the month.


Enough pillow talk; it's trash talk season. I mean football pool trash talk. I love fantasy football. This year, I've somehow managed to get into three different football leagues, so I figure I'll have plenty of time for trash talking. One league is a real-draft-fantasy football league; one is a confidence pool; and, one is a semi-fantasy-no-draft football league. I have possibly the worst-ever drafted team, so I know I'll have plenty of fodder for trash talking. You can't imagine how bad my team is. I can only hope I do better in the other two pools OR that the Gods of Gridiron take pity on me and ensure that all the favorite starting quarterbacks are injured for the majority of the season. I guess it's good that I am more interested in having fun than winning because winning is not exactly on the horizon.

Ah, the weekend after a short week. How stressful this weekend will be depends on three things: (1) what the repair man says; (2) how the Packers do against the Bears; and, (3) how poorly Brett Favre does during his first real game as a Viqueen. Here's hoping the repair man says it's a $25 part, that the Packers win the game (I shudder just saying that, being from Chicago and all, but love before team) and that Brett's throwing arm literally falls off his body. THAT will be a really good weekend.

And tapeworms. No more tapeworms. That'll be the icing on our (cup)cake.

Saturday, September 05, 2009

Tasty Taenia

Tapeworms. The Addiverse has been infested with tapeworms.

Thankfully, it is not me or the wife who have the tapeworms.....

.....at least, I certainly hope we have joined the world of tapeworms. It's Freckles.  (And, most likely Lucy, too--why keep all the fun to one dog?)

BTW, when I hear the word "tapeworm," I always picture people lying in bed, trying to sleep, with a bowl of sour milk on their pillows, so the tapeworms within them will crawl out of some orphace and go to the milk. I have no idea if that's how they REALLY get tapeworms out of a human, but that's what I've been told from the olden days.

Back to Freckles and her taenia. This illustration is from "dr-dan.com," so props to him. It shows how the tapeworm comes to be in the life of a canine. His website also features a great description of "those disgusting tapeworms," so I am all about Dr. Dan.

But how, you might be asking, did we figure out Freckles has a tapeworm? Sit down and don't be eating while reading this.

I was walking by the river this morning with MJagger, trying to get three miles of exercise done before the adventures of Labor Day, when my cell phone chimes. (Yes, I carry my cell phone when we walk. What if I drop over with a heart attack or one of us breaks a leg during our 13 minute mile-blistering pace? Gotta be able to call 911. Safe walking. That's me.) It's the wife and she's texting me: "Plz come home after walking. Call me when ur done."

Okay, that can't be a good sign. I decide to call when we are done, as we are 2.5 miles into our 3 mile walk at the time of the text.

MJagger and I are stretching (don't want any injuries from our efforts) while I am on the phone. The wife informs me, in no uncertain terms, that Freckles has a tapeworm. I ask how she knows this, as it's not like either of us are well-versed on canine parasites. She describes the little white moving piece of rice in said canine's poop this morning, adding how a similar piece-of-rice-maggot-thing jumped onto the laptop monitor the other day and she had no idea where it came from or how it jumped up there. (You would think she would have mentioned this to me, but for some reason, she didn't. It's not like little maggots jump on your computer monitor every day.) I don't like to hear the word "maggot" and poop, as there is a horrible, horrible story (of which I shall not speak) from MJagger and my past, and thus this maggot thing is greatly upsetting to me. The wife assures me she has consulted the "Hound Health Handbook" by Betsy Brevitz (our bible of the "what-the-hell's-wrong-with-the-dog-now?" investigations) and that the little white moving piece of rice is part of the tapeworm.

We both then start to think of all clues we've had that something might be amiss: the rumbling tummy I made mention of last week; the gross-looking poop over the past few days; the strange episode of diarrhea in the house.....have we had our heads in our asses or what? I drive home and scamper into the house.

What do we do when I get in the house? Why, we get into a fight, yelling and screaming at each other, as that's ALWAYS so helpful when faced with stress. I'm yelling about the maggots, she's yelling at my yelling, I'm yelling that we have to throw everything away to de-flea the house, she's yelling that she is not going to flea-bomb the house, etc.

It is absolutely moronic and does nothing to address the situation but I'm guessing the neighbors loved it. (Note to self: shut front door when screaming at each other.)

The wife calls the vet while I quickly shower. Yes, yes--the description confirms the tapeworm presence. The key is medication. The vet seems to think the wife and I are not infected with a tapeworm, but I have to tell you, it's hard to think otherwise.

I don't want a sour bowl of milk on my pillow!

I go to the vet and pick up the prescribed Droncit. It will de-worm the dogs in one serving. I am skeptical about this one-pill thing but trust that the vet knows what she's doing. Besides, a quick peek at the Internet (because the Internet is ALWAYS full of correct information) confirms that Droncit is the choice medication for getting rid of tapeworms and that the dose provided is the dose indicated on all the websites I check.

It's easy to get the pill into the dogs, as they LOVE peanut butter and I am able to hide the pill in the gob of cherished goo.

The next issue are the fleas. If tapeworms come to be in a dog via fleas (ingested or bites, I am not here to figure that out), this means at some point or at this point the dogs have fleas. I've never seen a flea on them (I do look quite often when combing them), but that doesn't mean they don't or haven't had them. Besides, dogs go outside and fleas can jump on and off whenever they dang well please. I've never missed a dose of topical flea medication but that doesn't keep fleas from jumping on and it certainly doesn't keep the dogs from eating fleas. Bomb the house? Throw away everything? Wash everything? Move out? I assure the wife that my parents had to flea-bomb their house once a month when living in California and no one was worse for the wear. This does nothing to de-stress the situation and on the fighting continues. We drop the subject.

The next, next issue is the now-non-functioning Oprah washing machine. The wife has been a washing fool and has been running the washing machine non-stop since this all surfaced. Next thing I know, she stomps up the stairs, obviously very pissed off. It seems that the Oprah washing machine (you know, the one she got free when on the Oprah show a few years back and the exact same model that died at Pastor Master Reiki and Blue Eyes' house just a few short weeks ago) is no longer working. It is stuck in the middle of the cycle and won't spin, won't go, won't rinse, won't do anything. As this is the same issue PMReiki and Blue Eyes experienced before the death of their machine, it does nothing to make the wife feel one shred better. (Side note: do NOT ever buy the same washing machine we have--Oprah was really wrong about this "favorite thing" of hers. I suppose she doesn't do her own laundry so she doesn't really know it is a sucky machine, so we can forgive her for now.) This means, as the wife coldly says, means we now have to go to the Laundromat.

Oh goody. This is shaping up to be one fun Labor day weekend.

Suffice it to say, I best stop blogging and best start doing something about the whole tapeworm fiasco. I don't know what fun is in store for us but I'm guessing there will be some gross poop, a whole lot of unwashed items and a lot of scowls and silence.

As long as the wife and I don't have tapeworms, all will end up being well in the Addiverse. The washer can be fixed or replaced, the dogs will be de-wormed before we know it. But us? I am so afraid of that sour bowl of milk......who wants a tapeworm crawling out of our mouth or nose while we are sleeping???

I can't think about this. Someone get me a Dove Dark Chocolate and a working washing machine. That or a whole bunch of quarters. Those laundromat machines are gonna suck down a whole chunk of change.......

I am so sending the bill to Oprah.
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Tuesday, September 01, 2009

Out of Control


Janet Jackson and she's in Control.
Me? Not so much.

This album by Ms. Nasty, by the way, was awesome. It features "What Have You Done for Me Lately?" and "Nasty," both of which had killer videos on MTV (back when MTV actually played videos). Big (BIG!) hair, big coats, big dancing. If you have a few minutes, check out this NINE minute video from Janet
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4EleKwkt_fU Don't you dare click on this link to you've paid appropriate homage to the Addiverse, though.

Ah, 1986: I was an orthodontic assistant, I had platinum blonde hair with a foot long tail ('Til Tuesday, anyone?), I was MTV loving, tattoo-free, beer-drinking carnivore and I was in control......

....well, not really, but at the time and at that age it seemed like I was in control of everything. Besides, when you are twenty-something, you are too stupid and naive to realize you are really in control of absolutely nothing. (In 1986, the wife was still in college. Boy, that puts things into perspective for me.) Those were the days of softball leagues, softball tournaments, softball drama, softball intra-team dating, softball injuries, softball road trips.

Did I mention I played softball in 1986?

Top Gun was the hot movie, the Chicago Bears were in their glory, we were walking like Egyptians with the Bangles and one of my all time favorite songs ("Kiss" by Prince) was playing over and over on the radio. I liked 1986. Well, most of it.

Here we are, camping in 1986. I think this is the last time the wife and I ever went camping, as the wife really hates to camp. Talk about being out of control--camping is one big uncontrolled festival. (Not quite out of control as those short shorts with hi-tops. Yum.)

Things have really seemed out of my control in the Addiverse, especially at that place of which I do not speak. And, as it is in the Universe, the more in control I try to be, the more out of control everything gets. Funny how that works.

And, so here I sit, trying to get some control. In the meantime, I've literally just burned the biscuits. Damn.

Because my attempts to control everything/something/one thing in my life seem to have fallen on the Universe's deaf ears, I've decided to surrender and take a "First step" approach: the Addiverse is unmanageable and I'm pretty powerless about the whole thing.

Universe, I am waving the big, white flag!

Powerless and looking around for that long lost higher power. Hmmmm, I know I saw him sometime last year....behind the sofa? At the Madonna concert? On the lawn mower when I blew it up? In the recycling bin with the Bible I threw away/wife recycled? On the ice cream truck that drove down the street a few weeks ago? This powerless thing isn't going to work if I can't find my misplaced higher power. Okay, so I'll wave the white flag and surrender with the hopes that the Higher power will see me waving the big white flag and thus he'll/she'll/it'll come back to stay with me for awhile.

Just so we are clear: I am NOT seeking the Jiving Jesus.

I'm hoping my "new I'm-not-in-control-I'm-powerless-I surrender" approach will help.....

.....um, I was going to say "my new approach will help gain control in the Addiverse" but that would mean I really hadn't surrendered to anything, now would it?

Forget it. I'm gonna go get my Janet Jackson C.D. and do a nasty dance. At least if I'm gonna feel out of control, I'm gonna have fun with the in-control Janet Jackson while doing it.
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P.S. Yeah, Wild mama for such a quick recovery!
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