Thursday, October 28, 2010

Heat Wave

Before I get to how hot it is in here (not like the Nelly song, but in our house, thanks to our new appliance), I state: Anyone who tells you that tattoos are not addictive is probably tattoo-free. While I am sure there are a few people out there who have been able to stop after one tattoo, I do not understand this. It's on the same par as someone telling me to only eat one M&M. Are you kidding me?

Thus, when the call of the tattoo is heard, I answer.

We'll get back to that calling in a bit. First, I must apologize to the wife AND then profess my love for....

....our new furnace.

The wife wanted to get a new furnace while all those rebates were available. I wanted nothing of the sort--I wanted to be sitting on a beach during a tropical getaway. Both cost the same. She was worried that our 16 year old furnace would die at any moment; most likely it would die on the coldest day of this winter and no one would be able to help us for a week and the rebates would have ended thirty-seven seconds right before the furnace died. I am of the school "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." That means I'd be the one who had to explain why we didn't get a new furnace while we had a chance at oodles of money in rebates and while we were still warm and happy.

Suffice it to say, I was VERY wrong about this whole furnace thing. (Sometimes it is awesome to be wrong. This is one of those times. I totally own my wrongness. I am all good with it.) It was installed last week and has been running ever since--really. It's one of those new-fangled ones that runs all the time, supposedly in an efficient, wonderful way. I am here to tell you: it IS in a wonderful way.

How do I know?

We live in a tri-level. Anyone who lives in a tri-level (or has visited someone who owns a tri-level in the middle of winter) knows that the lower level is always freezing cold in comparison to the other levels; in fact, we do not spend any time down stairs at all in the winter months EXCEPT on Christmas Day when we make my family sit down there (no offense to the family--it's just where the presents are). It's just too cold. The heat doesn't get there or stay there. If we want it warm down there, we have to crank the heat to miserable-hot for the rest of the house. When we've inquired from various professionals how to address this, we've heard all kinds of things, such as "get electric heating vents installed in this room so it's warmer--the furnace will never heat this lower level." Well, the wife has been studying and learned otherwise. She schooled me on the merits of the new furnaces and told me that the new furnaces would be able to heat the whole house evenly and comfortably.

I thought she had been listening to too many sales pitches.

People of the Addiverse, she was right. The new, efficient furnace (which sadly looks LITERALLY the same as our last furnace--for that much money I was hoping it would look at least a little bit different) is heating that lower level; in fact, it is so noticeable that I can barely stand it! Used to be as you walked down the steps, you could feel the temperature dropping. Seriously. I would guess--and, I am not exaggerating here--it was five-10 degrees cooler on that level....and, since we keep our house at 67 degrees, that's a chilly 58-60 degrees down there. Now, it's the same as the rest of the house. Both of us stare incredulously at each other, oooohing and ahhhhing at the amazing transformation from this little hunk of expensive love. It's something about how the air is always moving cuz the little furnace fan is on. When I asked the wife about that this morning, she said: "It's something about how the air is always circulating. I don't get it." She then walked away, toasty warm and smiling.

The furnace is so nice that I anticipate we will be turning down the thermostat, as for some reason 67 degrees at this point is too warm. I'm not sure if it's us hot-flashing, the new thermostat being wrong, a better system making the house warmer or what-not. It doesn't matter as long as we are warm and our gas bill doesn't quadruple.

Word to my family: you won't have to wear long underwear this year when you visit on Christmas Day!

As far as tattoos.....you know I've been wanting one.....aren't I always wanting one? If I weren't with the wife, I'd have a full sleeve of a tattoo on my arm. Yum. (See? Just another reason to love the wife. She has common sense and keeps me semi-grounded...semi being the operative word). I've been wanting to get a "word" tattoo in a simple font: meaning, I wanted to look like someone took a typewriter to my arm. I am all about typewriters. The manual kind, not the electric kind. Showing my age, to be sure. Anyways, being that I remain ever-so-respectful of the wife, I need to keep it simple and not turn it into a sleeve of ink. This means I had to keep it simple & relatively small. Of course, the bonus of such a tattoo is that it is cheap.

Well, cheap in comparison to the big cartoon mess on my back.

Have we ever talked about the tattoos on my back?? Here's a photo of one of the earlier additions to my back piece--my three nieces.

I walked around for a week thinking about the word I might want permanently plastered on my arm. It had to have personal meaning. Not trendy. Unusual, perhaps. A reminder. A message. I engaged the wife in the process (after all, she has to look at it, too), inquiring what word might fit the bill. The words "I love the furnace" didn't make too much sense, albeit true. Although we both loved the idea of the word "believe," but decided against it in the last minutes. I loved the idea of just putting the word "now." on my wrist--stay in there here and now, live in the now, there is only now, do it now, now is the time, now. Get ungrounded--focus back on the "now." I then thought of "SERENITY NOW!" because it makes me laugh, reminds me of a great Seinfeld episode and fits me well. I could have gotten, "THE WIFE," but she didn't seem amused.

In the end, I went with "namaste."

I am very surprised at how many people have not heard of this word or have any idea of what the word might mean. I don't know why I thought otherwise.....it's a very familiar term to me and the wife and we don't belong to a cult or anything (not that we know of). No offense to anyone for not knowing--after all, I didn't know you didn't know. Since getting tattooed, I've learned that namaste is a very difficult term to explain in one sentence. I suppose it'd be easiest to say, "it's a yoga term for when you end class," but that's not why I got it at all. I don't need a "good bye, yoga class" on my arm.

Namaste. True that it is a salutation, a greeting (both for howdy and see ya), originally Hindu in nature. Technically, I've heard it means "I bow to you," which is nice. It comes from the heart. It means, "I honor the place in you in which the entire Universe dwells, I honor the place in you which is of Love, of Integrity, of Wisdom and of Peace. When you are in that place in you, and I am in that place in me, we are One."

It is about respect, humility, equality, gratitude, honor, love, spirit, oneness. It's about seeing the good in others--when wanting to slap someone in the head, thinking "namaste" keeps me from doing it, as I focus on the good in that person.

Did you see the movie Avatar? It's like saying, "I see you." (If you didn't see the movie or didn't like the movie or didn't understand the movie, forget about that last comment. Just look at the Additar--along with the Additar-ed Xena--and laugh.) I see the good in you. I see the God in you. I respect you. I honor you. I am grateful to/for you. I am humbled in front of you. I see the Universe within both of us. I will not slap you in the head when I am pissed off at you. I SEE you.

It also means, "I will share the produce of our furnace with you."

Bet you didn't know that meaning. Trust me, that's the best one.
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Wednesday, October 20, 2010

When Duty Calls

Argo Warrior Princess recently inquired about my serving on a jury experience. I was going to point her in the direction of this esteemed blog.....but, there was nothing to point her to, as for some unknown reason, I have yet to blog about this.

I STILL cannot believe I have not blogged about this awesome-gone-horrific experience; in fact, I would have bet money on it that I had written about it three for four times. Heaven knows I still need therapy over it.

For those of you who aren't in the know, it is true: I served on a jury many a year ago. Not only did I serve on the jury, I ended up being the foreman of the jury.

The friggin' foreman!

Are you sure I haven't blogged about this before? It seems so familiar....okay, okay--flash back to the 1990's, back when I had long hair and only one or two tattoos......

It all started when I got one of those little letters in the mail indicating that my name had been chosen for jury duty. Being the foolish, proud, civic-minded American that I was, I thought this was a WONDERFUL thing. I had always wanted to be called for jury duty and now it was my time. I was a-glow with jury fever, giddy with court room delight.

This is how naive I was: the night before my scheduled jury day, I was actually worried they might not need me. Horror! I called the phone number to check my status......I was still scheduled for jury duty. Music to my jury-virgin ears.

It never dawned on me that I might want to dress up for court. Actually, not much of anything dawned on me in relation to this. I just got up, slapped on some jean-shorts overalls, t-shirt and gym shoes (I kid you not), grabbed a book and headed to the court house.

Upon arrival, I was herded into a waiting area with the rest of my potential-juror-peeps. It was not a glamorous space--dirty, dingy, yucky plastic chairs and lots of people. All kinds of people. I was still excited, so I didn't care about my surroundings or the crowd. No one looked very excited. Most people looked downright constipated. We were handed various name badge thingies with colors on them. For the record, my tag had a yellow sticky on it. I proudly clipped the tag to my overall bibs and tried to focused on my book, all the time hoping they would call our "color."

The morning came and went, me stuck in the dirty, broken plastic chair. I hadn't lost hope, as many groups had been "let go," but we yellow sticker people were still holding on. As long as I was in that room, I still had a chance to be on a jury. I thought they were going to release us for the day when the Bailiff instead announced that we would be going to the court room.

THE COURTROOM! While other people were moaning, sobbing & poking their eyes out, I was dancing. I was going to the court room!

The Bailiff paraded us down this dark hallway and then processed us into the courtroom. We were told to sit in the benches. I sat tall, proudly, attentive. I took it all in. The lawyers were busy interviewing potential jurors and we were in line for our chance to do our patriotic duty. Of course, my attention span of a flea made it impossible for me to sit and do nothing, so I opened a piece of gum, popped it into my mouth and opened my book.

I then had my first taste of the court room: the judge literally stopped what he was doing and used me as his example. No reading. No eating. No gum. We were then sternly educated on how we needed to listen to the lawyers as they interviewed people for the jury. "Contempt of court!" he bellowed. I would be contempt of court if I didn't put that book down and spit out that gum.

I spit out my gum and wondered if he had been a nun in a previous life. I slowly put my book down and stared straight ahead, trying to ignore the glares of my yellow-sticky badged peeps.

Next thing I knew I was being interviewed by the lawyers. Questions about my education, employment history, hobbies, relations with people in the medical field, legal woes. I was so excited I almost piddled. I didn't know what the hell the questions had to do with anything but I answered them proudly, loudly, clearly.

Next next thing I knew I was on the jury. SCORE!

Because the Universe has a very, very good sense of humor, it is only fitting that I was on a jury for a medical malpractice lawsuit. Being that the Universe likes poetic justice, it is only fitting that I was on a week long jury for a trial about....

.....poop.

Seriously. The hearing was about bowel surgery gone wrong. All.about.poop.

Can I tell you how very, very hard it was for me not to burst out in laughter when people were talking about pooping problems for hours on end? (Pun intended) I must admit, the hearing kept my interest. Doctors. Lots of doctors. X-rays, lab tests, photos, medical equipment, description upon description about pooping problems. Doctors arguing about poop. Experts flown in from other parts of the country to talk about poop. Demonstrations of how to actually use the medical equipment. (You have not lived until you've seen a demonstration of the endoscopy. It's like a periscope only not.) Personal stories of how the supposedly botched surgery ruined lives--yes, I said lives, for it wasn't "just" the claimant whose life was ruined--her hubby, her children, probably even the dog's lives were ruined. Stories of exploding diarrhea. Testimony from the hubby about lost opportunities for making sweet love. Lost wages. Lost lives. Lost sections of bowel.

Just for the record: the lady claiming her life had been ruined by this surgery--the lady who said she couldn't go anywhere because of her exploding diarrhea--the lady who said she could no longer eat food--the lady who said she had to keep a bucket in her car due to her inopportune bowel movements--NEVER left the court room once to go shoot shit out of her butt AND was observed by this writer to be eating a CHILI DOG for lunch during a lunch break in the trial. May I just say that if you are ever on trial and you are claiming that your life has been ruined by uncontrolled pooping problems, make sure you run out of the court room a few times for dramatic effect.

Soooooo, you are asking yourself, "what the hell could be the problem with this jury duty thing? This sounds like the absolutely perfect hearing for you. Who else deserves a WEEK's worth of poop talk? Who else could appreciate a week's worth of poop talk? Who else could live through a week's worth of poop? Who else could love anything about a colonoscopy?"

Oh, we'll get to that.

I must stay, one of the weird thing about juries is that you can't talk about the trial, not even with your jury peers. So, you are stuck in this jury room with a bunch of strangers with only one thing in common and you can't talk about that one thing. Go figure. Any time we would try to talk about poop or make fun of poop or make fun of anything, the Bailiff would give us the stink eye and we'd shut up. No fun at all. All this poop material and not a place to use it.

After a week of poop, it was time. The judge sent us to the jury room and told us not to come out until there was a verdict. I thought this sounded simple enough. Smile, vote, make a verdict, go home. It seemed so clear cut to me. This wasn't malpractice. This was just some skanky people looking to get money. This was a "not guilty let's go home" kind of thing.

I was very, very wrong.

Twelve people with nothing in common except they got picked for this particular jury. Twelve people with very different opinions about just about everything. Eleven people who for some unknown reason decided is should serve as the foreman.

Welcome.To.Hell.

At first, Hell doesn't look too bad. This task seemed easy enough. Ten of us were quite sure there was nothing even remotely close to malpractice--we were ready to say "not guilty" (with much confidence, I might add) and go home. But, no. Hell's beauty is a facade. Two of the jurors were in the "medical profession." Read: one was a receptionist in a medical office and the other worked in a file room. Being that they were such qualified medical professionals, they decided they knew more than the ten of us. They asked to see the x-rays. They read lab results out loud. They looked again and again at the x-rays....

The receptionist and file clerk held us hostage.

Yelling, arguing, swearing, pointing. I wasn't sure these two had all been listening to the same trial. People wanted to go home; people were hungry; people didn't give a shit. (Another intended pun) It was a nightmare. This wasn't what I pictured. This wasn't 12 people thoughtfully considering the law. This wasn't anything remotely civic duty-ish. This wasn't a jury of peers. This was a bunch of people arguing, mostly about things that weren't about the trial. Why the hell a receptionist and a file clerk were looking at x-rays was beyond me.

By midnight, we were angry, tired, sick of each other. We tried the "hung jury" approach, but the judge would have none of that. That just pissed him off. He thought about sequestering us, but in the end let us go home for a few hours. By the time I got home, it was time to turn around and go meet the Bailiff for breakfast. It was a silent breakfast, followed by more yelling, arguing, swearing. The two medical "experts" wouldn't budge. They decided the mass on the x-ray did (0r, was it didn't?) look like cancer. They pondered how this or that....they weren't budging. No matter what the ten of us said, they stood with the family.

It got butt ugly.

At one point, I got so mad, I delivered an impassioned tirade, pointing and spewing spittle, slammed my book down on the table (still carrying that contraband book around) and left to pee. It was silent when I got back. We took another vote.....10-2. So much for passionate tirades. After many hours--some silent, some loud--the two "medical experts" finally got pissed off enough and decided to "change their vote" so "we can just go home." They made it quite clear that they believed the doctors were wrong and should pay big bucks, but in our interest, they were changing their votes so we could go home.

Great. Justice served.

For about one-billionth of a second, I thought about deliberating more; after all, how could we in good conscience come to a verdict that wasn't chosen by all? How could we make this unanimous decision that wasn't in any way unanimous? How could we allow the justice system to run in this tainted way?

.....but, once that one-billionth of a second passed, I went screaming toward the Bailiff and assured him we had reached the verdict. I decided that if they said it was their vote, it was good enough for me. Who was I to judge why they had changed their vote to not guilty? Maybe they really did come to terms with things and decide this really was a not guilty kind of situation. I did my civic duty. I stood there and read the verdict of "NOT GUILTY" to all in the court room. The judge dismissed us and we went silently to our cars, never to speak to each other again, never to see each other again.

It was at that very moment I decided that if it ever came down to it, I would NEVER have a jury trial. Never. Never. Never. It is impossible for twelve people to agree on anything. I'd rather have my life in the hands of one elected person rather than twelve crazed know-it-all citizens. I've seen what goes on in the jury room and I don't want any part of it.

The trial part? All good. Fabulous! Loved it. Poop for days! Heaven.

The deliberation? Like they ask in A Bug's Life, "Who ordered the poo poo platter?" Hell.

I like poop--I like poop A LOT--but not when it's served in court room by a jury who is full of more poo than is found on a poo poo platter. And so, the next time I get called to jury duty, I will make sure they know I was the foreman of a trial and how I believe I fulfilled my civic duty. If that doesn't work, I'll let them know how much I really do not want to ever serve on a jury again.

If that doesn't work, I'll read a book and chew gum in the courtroom. I'll talk in a hysterical manner about court-poop experience. I'll start quoting the movie, "12 Angry Men." I'll bring in a letter from my psychiatrist. I'll develop a spontaneous, previously-undiagnosed case of Tourette's. I will speak in tongues. I will burst into a hormone-driven hot-flash blaze of perimenopausal glory. I will scream, "I HAVE A POOCH AND I KNOW HOW TO USE IT!"

Any lawyer with a lick of sense and any judge who has seen the wrath of a woman with recent pooch development will send me right home.

Just sayin.'
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Saturday, October 16, 2010

Hoochie Poochie

This is indeed a photo of a pooch in pink, but it is not exactly the hoochie poochie I was thinking about when considering the topic for today's blog. (How can you not love a pooch in pink?) Actually, both pooches took part in today's Breast Cancer Awareness walk, so this is about pooch squared. (The walk, by the way, was inspirational and makes me feel very shallow for what I am about to bitch about. More about the walk in a dot.) The pooch I was thinking about is my newly developing "perimenopausal pooch," the pooch of which gives away my age and makes it impossible for me to wear my old jeans.

I have been pooch-ified.

This is not really a good or bad thing--it is a fact. Take a women my age and you will see that the majority of us have been pooch-ified. Skinny or not, the pooch is a hormonal gift of which we really can't say no. It's not about being overweight or out of shape or anything like that. It is what it is. It's a pooch and it says, "you are in your late 40's and you are running out of eggs. Talk to the pooch, perimenopausal mama!"

So, my pooch and this pooch went walking today.

Last night, the wife and I went jeans shopping, as I have no jeans that fit...and, since I can now wear jeans to work (as I am at my new-old job and no longer at the job of which I do not speak--praise the baby Jesus!), you bet your bippy that I am going to wear jeans. Problem is that there is little more depressing in life than going jeans shopping.

Jeans are unforgiving. They laugh in your face.

I do not like jeans shopping. I'd rather poke my eyes out. Not only do you have to worry about things like, "are these things going to shrink? how much are they going to shrink?" you have to figure out what KIND of jeans you need. There are so many shapes and kinds and brands and colors and sizes. I remember when there were only two kind of jeans: Levi's and disco jeans. That was it. You either wore your Levi's (before they became button down flies--this was a simpler, gentler time) or you wore your waist-high disco jeans. I don't know what the hell brand or kind to buy. I know to stay FAR away from the skinny jeans. I know to stay out of the Juniors section. I know I don't want "sits at the waist" jeans. I don't know if I want stretch kind or dark kind or ripped kind or low-rise, mid-rise, or high waist kind.

I am jeans ignorant. I mean, the last time I had to buy jeans, I was two sizes smaller and wearing the really low riders from a teeny bopper store.

I thought about having the wife just hand me jeans while I was in the fitting room, not showing me the sizes or talking about the brands....I'd just try on anything she handed me and just go by what fit and what didn't....those numbers and brand names mess with my mind. It's shallow, I know. In the end, I muttered and puttered and whined, picking out all sorts of jeans to try on, looking at the tags and fighting back the angst.

Suffice it to say, I got some new jeans which are big enough to house my pooch.

I am proud to say that I did not cry once while being tortured by jeans shopping.

Alas, I did not get Levi's, even tho MJagger says Ellen wears them every day and even tho I have a fond history with them. I love Ellen's wardrobe and would love to copy her style, but it is going to have to be without the Levi's. I looked ridiculous.....and, that's only when I could actually zip the things. Levi's did nothing for me or my pooch. I went with the "old lady jeans" from a department store. At least they don't involve an elastic waist.

I have news for my pooch: you are big enough and I'm not giving you any latitude to get bigger, hormones be damned. I only have so much money for new jeans, hoochie poochie, so be warned. Try to get bigger and I'm gonna sit-up and crunch you right off the planet.

Well, I'll sit-up and crunch after I get done eating this DQ Blizzard.

Back to the walk. I don't know how many of you remember Harvey from 2006, but I walked in her memory today.

Side note: When done reading this entry, why not go back and read about Harvey: http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2006/06/not-every-day-in-addiverse-is-filled.html
-and-
http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2006/06/godspeed-harvey-and-now-my-therapy.html

Our team, Pink Pride, was in honor of a very much alive and very amazing friend who is beating cancer like there is no tomorrow, so technically I was walking WITH her and FOR Harvey. I am proud to say that Harvey made it the whole four miles without stopping to smoke a cigarette. (Harvey would like that I said that.) She strolled along, safely tucked in my hat so she could have a good view of the giant crowd. (She would have HATED the crowd.) I had planned on keeping her safely in my pocket for the duration of the walk but then decided it was too nice of a day to be stuck in someone's coat. I will be sending photos to her mom who lives on the West Coast so she can know that Harvey is still near and dear to my heart and that Harvey had a very nice walk with thousands of supportive, caring friends today.

The breast cancer walk really is an overwhelming thing. You cannot imagine how many people take part--thousands upon thousands. It is overwhelming on many accounts--the actual number of people taking part, the actual number of people affected by breast cancer, the actual number of survivors, the magnitude of the disease, the strength of the survivors, the monies that need to be raised. We all know people who have been diagnosed with breast cancer, who have had treatment for breast cancer, who have beaten beast cancer, who weren't able to slap that breast cancer into shape.

Puts whining about jeans into perspective.

As you can imagine, there were signs and balloons and hats and t-shirts and ribbons and music. Those are the things you can see in the photos I took and those are the things you will see in the photos they'll publish in tomorrow's paper. Much more importantly, there was love and friendship and camaraderie and support and hope. Those are the things you cannot see in the photos, but trust me when I say those things were "visible" to those of us in attendance.

Our team of 50 sported pink hand-knitted hats (complete with tassels), made by the partner of the team captain. FIFTY friggin' hats! That's a lot of knitting--1.5 hours per hat. She must have been knitting every waking moment--while on the toilet, while making dinner, while driving to work--that's 75 hours of knitting! She must have callouses on her little knitting hands. Thank you, knitter grrrrrl! Please know that I like my hat so much that I am going to wear it to church tomorrow.

You know, the more I wear the hat, the less people will notice I have a pooch.

Monday, I will wear my new jeans to work. I'll put Harvey back into the photo frame on my desk. I will celebrate our friend's victory over this disease. I'll celebrate Harvey's memory and my poochiness. Every time I have a shallow thought about my jeans, I will rub my gratitude tattoo, I'll look at that photo, I'll laugh about those hats and I'll celebrate all the wonderful things in my life. I'll kiss my dogs and kiss my wife. I'll be grateful to have a job so I can buy new jeans.

Take that, pooch. You've got nuthin' on me.
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Monday, October 11, 2010

Number Four's Number One

I was going to blog about something very serious but I've decided to go with sophomoric humor. I can be serious another day.

Here's a non-news flash: the wife remains obsessed with the Favre/Moss debacle. This was exacerbated by the Packer loss on Sunday. She is so distraught over all the Packer injuries combined with the circus going on in Minnesota that I swear I heard her say, "I'm going to root for Detroit for the rest of the year." Oh dear.

If she starts wearing orange and blue, I am going to call her family and have them come rescue her from her own insanity.

(Of course, they won't be able to drive this far, as they too are beside themselves with Aaron Rogers being all concussioned and Clay Matthews being hammied--they should not be driving a moving vehicle.)

Actually, the wife has found some solace in all the hoopla going on right now about the alleged naughty behavior by ol' Number four--involving sending photo texts of his man parts.

I can't go further without stating the obvious: MEN! DUH! WHY DO YOU TEXT PHOTOS OF YOUR MAN PARTS? DON'T YOU KNOW THAT PEOPLE CAN ACTUALLY SAVE THOSE PHOTOS AND USE THEM AGAINST YOU?!!! STOP THINKING WITH YOUR MAN PARTS!

It was a pretty hilarious moment when the wife was watching a video on line about the whole Favre ordeal when suddenly she started pounding on her computer keys and loudly exclaiming "OOOOH! OOOOOOH! OOOOOH! I DON'T NEED TO SEE THAT!"

Seems the video includes actual footage of Number 4's number one. She couldn't get that pee pee off the screen fast enough. (I refuse to use the correct anatomical name for the said man part, as I am in no mood to get a whole bunch of spam, which is exactly happens when I use any actual words.) Suffice it to say, she did NOT watch that video again, although she has told countless people about the website.

There are some things that we really don't need to see in life. A 41 year-old man part is one of them. Stuff like that can burn your retinas out.

The wife's new dream? Her dream is that ol' Number four will be given a suspension by the NFL.....and, thus his consecutive starting streak will be broken. She delights in what poetic justice it would be that a guy with such an awesome record would have the streak broken because he was stupid enough to text a photo of his privates to someone. I've caught her giggling a few times this week and I know that is what she is thinking.

So, here's to an NFL ruling to the wife's liking and a whole new color scheme in our life: out green and gold; in blue and silver.

And, no man parts, no matter what color the jersey. 'Nuf said.
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Thursday, October 07, 2010

"Just Another Reason to Hate the Vikings Even More"

I didn't write that title. The wife did. That's what she said when I asked her about what I should title this blog entry. I told her I was going to write about Randy Moss returning to the Vikings, home of that guy whose last name starts with an "F."


Those of you who know the wife--the ultimate, obsessed, consumed Packer Backer who bleeds green and gold, a Cheddar head through and through, a woman who talks about "her" team in "we" and "our," a fan whose blood pressure rises just at the mention of the number four--are not surprised by her title suggestion.

"Bitter--table for one." That's the wife.

The wife's ultimate sporting nightmare is now underway. For those of you who actually have lives and aren't paying attention to the world of football (American football, not soccer football--don't even toy with me), please know that Randy Moss has been traded back to the Vikings. His illustrious (and I use that term loosely) career started in purple and gold and looks like it will end in purple and god (see mooning photo here to refresh your memory of MIP--Moss in Purple).

I suppose we could look at this like my return to my old job. I was there, I left, I returned there. Moss was there, he left, he returned. Not such a bad thing in itself....unless you are a Packer Fan.

The wife laments "he has always been a thorn in 'our' side."

This photo of our boyfriend number four is basically what the wife looks like when she starts talking about the Packers these days. I am waiting for her to hyperventilate and pass out. She is so distracted that she constantly mutters about this ultimate nightmare, unable to think of anything else besides this travesty.

"He OWNS the Packers!" she cries.

When I mention that this is ONLY a game, she gives me this incredulous, blank stare.

I thought it was bad the other night when the Packers lost to the Bears on Monday Night football. The wife was so distraught that she couldn't sleep. "EIGHTEEN PENALTIES!" she would growl. "EIGHTEEN PENALTIES!" She had to go sleep on the couch she was so upset. She radiated angst.

But, this. THIS is so much worse. I think I might have to stage an intervention.

Thankfully, the wife will be surrounded by supportive, loving Packer fans during this Sunday's Packer game. I may have to pay Argo Warrior Princess and Three Hawk therapy fees for inviting us over to watch the game.

As I type this, there is muttering in the distance.... something about bad behavior being rewarded, then a final:

"He and Favre: two selfish divas! They deserve one and other."

Yup. "Bitter--table of one. Your table is ready."

Saturday, October 02, 2010

Homecoming

As it is homecoming season for all the high school-ers in the area, I thought I'd crash their party. Going "home" to an old job to make it the new job is certainly a homecoming of sorts, minus the formal dress and expensive dinner. (You know, it would be great fun for me to post some old homecoming photos. Or, maybe not. I don't think my homecoming date would find that amusing. Heck, he won't even be my Book de la Face friend. Ouch.)

This smiling goat
really has nothing to do with homecoming activities except that this particular photo of this particular goat was taken at my previous-now curret job. I wanted visual representation of the old-new job and thought this perfect. Some people ask why; I say baaaaaaah!

(Kind of makes me want to say "they got my goat." Baaa-a-a-a-a-ad grrrl!)

For those of you wondering, my first day of work at my old-new job went swimmingly.

"How swimmingly?" you ask.

Here's a concrete example of how swimmingly it went: A client (who hasn't seen me in over two years, mind you) slowly saunters towards me, gives me a hug and asks, "how's your special friend?" Now, I suppose I should have been pissed off that he did not ask how I was doing first (ha ha!), but instead I was so touched that he asked--that someone related to my employment--actually inquired about the wife....

.....remembered the wife, knew about the wife, liked the wife, accepted the wife, probably liked the wife better than me.

I got a tear. After two years of basically the opposite, this was so refreshing, such a surprise, so incredibly soothing to my beat-up soul.

Thank you, baby Jesus for such a welcome back gift.

It was almost as good as getting two bags full of chocolate (illustration here taken again from when my new job was my old job--who leaves a job that affords you the opportunity to buy two bags full of chocolate?).

I went out of my way to remain VERY respectful as I left my now-previous job, as they did indeed do me right in so many ways, I met a few very nice, genuine people and they did afford me an arena to learn about seven billion life lessons. Even though I remained respectful and professional (well, besides wearing jeans on the last day, which was only semi-professional), it made me snort when I received an email from Spotted Owl the night before my last day of employment at my now-previous job.....encouraging me to "pull a Linda Blair," complete with head spinning & pea soup spewing; to speak in tongues, and, to open a can of "inner lesbian" to "tap dance all over their closed minded little hearts." I love you, Spotted Owl!

In fact, the day turned out to be basically "Old Gay Day," with everyone here and there asking about the wife and the dogs (not always in that order--don't want her to get a big head).
There were points in the day that I literally thought, "Are you kidding me?"

The whole day was surreal....kinda like I never left, kinda like I hadn't been there in 25 years, kinda like I didn't remember anyTHING but remembered everyBODY. I was unexpectedly nervous--more like the excited nervous you feel when you go back to school after summer vacation, not the scared nervous you get before opening your quarterly retirement fund report.

And so, I came home with a lighter heart. Free therapy--one day traded for two years. They undid two years of nonsense in one single day. Good odds, if you ask me. Oh, it will most certainly not be perfect and I still have a long, long way to go and I will still be a pompous ass now and again (hard to teach an old pompous dog new tricks), but I believe those old-job life lessons will help keep me focused on what is important, on what I have, on how I would like to be....the Universe slapped some humility, gratitude and wisdom into me and for that I can never thank my old job enough.

Now, about those high school homecoming photos.......
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