Friday, December 28, 2012

Vicki's Secret Angel

The majority of you may not know that I have NEVER, EVER stepped foot into those pink-flavored Vicki's Secret stores.  NEVER.  I figure I've made it 50 years without going into one, what's the point of starting now?  I've walked by them at the mall but I have never crossed the threshold into the land of panties and under wires.  The whole thing makes me nervous.  I'm not kidding. Obviously, one can live quite thoroughly and happily without ever stepping into a Vicki's pink pantie party, so this has not been a problem...

....then, I drew the wife's sister's name for the family Christmas exchange. My excitement of getting her name was quickly tempered when I saw the top of her list: she was asking for a sweatshirt specifically from that Vicki's Secret place.   Just reading that made me sweat.  I was going to have to expand my horizons.  This meant I would have to take drastic measures.  I was going to have to employ a professional.

I called on MJagger.

MJagger is the queen of the Pink Vicki.  She drips in that stuff.  I knew she would help me not only succeed in my mission to secure the perfect gift but she'd also respect the terror I would feel upon my virginal trip to her Mecca.

Me: So, will you go to the mall and help me get this gift?

MJagger: What does she want?

Me: A pink sweatshirt.

MJagger: A PINK sweatshirt or a pink sweatshirt?

Me: Huh?

MJagger: does she want the brand Pink or an actual pink sweatshirt?

Me: Blank stare.  Um, I dunno.  This is what is says--medium pink sweatshirt from Vicki's Secret.

MJagger: Well, you need to know which it is she wants.

Me: I guess we should go with a pink Pink sweatshirt.  That covers all bases.

We went to the mall during our lunch our.  MJagger drove as I was rather terrified and on the verge of hyperventilation. Once parked, MJagger pointed me in the right direction.  With a decisive stride and purse in hand, she took me to her home.  I dragged behind, keeping my eyes on the ground and my hands shoved in my pockets.  I took a gulp of air and....

.....I entered the store of which I had yet to ever enter.

Dear god, it was an explosion of pink.  I followed MJagger, eyes not looking anywhere but at the back of her coat.  She stopped abruptly, held up a pink Pink sweatshirt and asked me what I thought.  It looked normal enough, it was pink, it was medium.  Sold.  I asked no questions.  I did not ask to see other sweatshirts.  I just wanted out of that store.  I said it was perfect and asked where we paid.

It was at that point MJagger took a good look at me.  "You really haven't ever been in one of these stores, have you?" I shook my head "no," assuring her this was my virginal experience.  Even though she knew this, seeing my reaction confirmed that I hadn't been kidding.  I didn't even know where the registers were located.

I think I made her day.

Going to the registers was like bellying up to the bowels of lingerie hell.  I looked up to see where I would need to pay. The four salespeople working the counter were all wearing tape measures (STAY.AWAY.FROM.ME WITH THOSE THINGS!), were beautiful and had big.....blue eyes.  Behind them were giant photos of models demonstrating the magical powers of the Vicki Secret specialties. I turned to look at MJagger and noticed I was surrounded by photo after photo of scantily-clad models.  I couldn't see the front of the store.  MJagger pushed me toward the counter so I could pay.

Well, I was befuckled beyond measure.  I just wanted to pay and get out.  The lady asked me if I wanted a gift bag and gift receipt.  I kept my eyes on the counter and nodded yes.  She asked me if I had found what I was looking for.  I again nodded yes but remained speechless.  She then asked if I had an Angel card.  I looked up, quizzically and then turned to MJagger.  I asked, "you have an Angel card, don't you?" She had a REALLY confused look on her face.  She slowly nodded yes. I said, "Well, let me use it." I stuck out my hand and waited.  She slowly opened her purse, all the time with this weird look on her face. I knew she looked confused but I figured she was just so surprised that I actually would be considerate enough to "let" her get points for my purchase....

See, I thought an Angel card was like one of those reward cards.  You know, those credit-card looking cards that they are always asking if we have when we approach the check out.  I have them for pet stores, drug stores, bagel shops, sandwich shops.  I thought I was getting her bonus points toward getting some free underwear.  She handed me the pink rewards card and I handed it to the cashier.  I pulled out my charge card as the lady handed the Angel card back to me....

....Imagine my surprise to learn that an Angel card is a CREDIT CARD, NOT a rewards card.  I just demanded my friend to let me use her credit card.

I.was.mortified.

It was too late.  The transition was complete.  I stood there feeling like the biggest ass on the planet. Why MJagger said nothing, I do not know. I wish she would have barked out, "hey asswipe, use your own charge card."  I blame the lace and under wire madness.....

I didn't catch on to what happened until the pink bag with the pink tissue paper with the pink handle with the pink Pink sweatshirt was being handed to me.

I took my pink bag with the pink tissue with the pink handle with the pink Pink sweatshirt and skulked out the door.  I wasn't sure what the hell I could possibly say that would explain demanding of her Angel card or how she had just paid for my Christmas gift purchase.  I am sure I muttered out a few words but they probably weren't in the English language and they certainly didn't convey my thought process.

I'm not sure MJagger will go shopping with me again for a long, long time.

Well, not at least until her charge card bill has been paid.


Saturday, December 22, 2012

Festive Buns

We're still here!  I spit on the Mayans and their stupid round calendar.  I guess it's time to start Christmas shopping.  I'd like to say I put it off due to the Mayan rumors or the winter storm, but I'd be lying.  I cannot lie to you, my beloved readers.  I'm just behind schedule.  How did this happen?

The 2012 Not-so-Great winter storm Draco has come and gone, leaving us with a meager three inches of snow.  Judging from the pre-storm media panic, you would have thought we were in the path of certain doom; in fact, my cell phone let out an earth-shattering warning blare at 3:48 AM (yes, you read that right--3:48 AM) to warn me that a blizzard warning had been posted for NOON.  It scared the bejesus out of us.  We'd never received a weather warning from our phones before.  I still am flummoxed as neither of us have changed our phone settings. I'm telling you, that warning was LOUD and had a tone I had never emit from my iPhone....

....the wife sprung out of bed to see what was the matter, because out on our phones rang out such clatter.

The wife: "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"

Me (falling out of bed, reaching desperately for my glasses and cell phone): "Dear god, I don't know! I think it's my phone! Your phone is doing it, too!"

Will someone please alert the powers-that-be that I would appreciate a warning like that if a tornado or violent storm is heading my way in a few minutes, but I really don't want a blizzard warning in the middle of the night for something eight hours from starting.  Just sayin.'

It's three days until Christmas.  That means I do indeed have to get a move on with my shopping. I did most of my holiday shopping on line (dear goodness, I adore the Internet), but there are things that (1) I've forgotten and now it's too late to order on line; (2) I changed my mind about and now have to get something else; (3) I couldn't buy ahead of time--think perishable; or, (4) I've just been filled with even more Christmas cheer and I feel a need to spend money that I didn't spend before the predicted end of time. I've also got some gifts to return--can you believe I have returns to make before the holiday actually happens? Poor MJagger.  She's top of the must-return-her-gift list.

Now that there is snow on the ground and carols on the radio and lines at the store, I am once again reminded of Christmases past.  I know I've blogged about many of them, recalling favorite memories, favorite foods and favorite gifts. I'm not sure if I have ever blogged about favorite holiday fights, but I think I'll skip those since I'm in such a festive mood.  After all these years of couple-dom, the holidays are actually rather boring in a very welcomed manner.  Christmas planning in the early days used to feature yelling and glaring, blaming and crying, silent treatments and hurt feelings.  Now, as evidenced in the previous blog entry, it's all candy canes and gay apparel, only a silent argument now and again, only about money.  Thank you, Baby Jesus, for bringing use peace and cheer for the holidays!

Back in the early 1990's, the wife and I decided to skip our usual bout of holiday angst by skipping town.  We were sick of not being together for the holiday, so we scheduled a trip to a tropical island where we would finally have our first Christmas Eve and Day together. By flying out in the wee hours of Christmas morning, we'd be able to avoid the "who is going where on Christmas Eve" screaming match--we had to stay at a hotel near O'Hare on Christmas Eve in order to get to the airport on time for our flight.  I will never forget that night because (1) both of us were feeling rather miserable that we weren't with our families; and, (2) the hotel had no heat.  How the hell a hotel in the Midwest in winter doesn't have heat, I don't know, but we had none.  They were nice enough about it but that get us any heat--"I'm sorry, but none of the rooms have heat." Since we'd only be there for a total of seven or so hours, we decided to stick it out. We were cold in a non-descrip, non-decorated, sad and lonely hotel room. It was a lonnnnng, very cold, strangely sad, mostly sleepless night, not exactly the way we had planned on starting our tropical trek.

Thankfully, we were cured of our holiday blues as soon as we exited the plan on said tropical island. It was a marvelous but confusing. After all, two Midwestern girls don't exactly know what to do with 90 degree temps on Christmas Day.

For the record, I must mention that we were slapped back into reality when we got back to O'Hare the day after New Year's.  The day before we returned, it had snowed six or eight inches.  Unfortunately for us, we were wearing shorts and gym shoes as we trudged through the remote parking lot.  It's usually quite a feat to find your car at O'Hare after being gone a week--it's a much more harrowing event when you and your luggage are calf-deep in snow and all the cars are covered with a deep blanket of snow. Everything looks the same.  We were literally knocking snow off of license plates in an effort to find the car.

Note to self: Do not wear tropical island clothing when returning to the Midwest in the winter.

This year will not feature a tropical island but it will feature heat.  Lots of warm, happy, glowing, furnace-blasting heat. We are so fortunate in so many ways.  We have family and a home and jobs and our health and heat.  Too many others have only some or even none of these.

Many of "my" clients do not have family or jobs or health.  They are accustomed to getting up on Christmas Day knowing that it is just another day.  Santa won't be visiting. They will get up, take their meds, eat a bowl of cereal and probably go back to bed.  They won't think to look under the site Christmas tree because they know there will be nothing to see....

.....Well, not this year!!!  Thanks to a few special friends, "my" clients are going to have a much, much, much better Christmas than usual.  Santa will be visiting them. They will get gifts.  They will be mighty surprised.  I'm telling you what--my hands are sore from all the wrapping I did.  Fun gifts, useful gifts, ridiculously generous gifts.  I received yet another call yesterday, this time from a friend wanting to give money or gift cards to the guys without family.....

...She cried, I cried, it's like a god-darn hormonal love fest around here.  I can't wait for Christmas Day morning!!!  I wish I could share photos but confidentiality demands I behave.  Pooh.

Speaking of pooh (you didn't think I could end this blog on such a serious, heart-warming note, did you?), Mr. Hankey the Christmas Pooh has made his way back to my office.  It's a big part of the holidays at work.  Well, okay--it's a big part of MY holidays at work.  My co-worker made me a Mr. Hankey in 1999 and he's accompanied me to every holiday since. I was a bit worried I had lost Mr. Hankey but I thankfully found him hidden in a locked filing cabinet in my office (while organizing my tampons, I kid you not).  Mr. Hankey is a huge hit with the guys and they ask for him every year.  I am the queen of poop, as you know--the holidays are no exception. I'm sure Mr. Hankey will be present when the guys find that Santa Claus has come to town.  I'm going to put him in the tree, right over those presents, kinda like he's the Star of Bethlehem, calling them to the tree.

I end with a few of the lyrics from Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo.  Don't worry--I will let you know how it goes with the guys when they see and open their presents from Santa.  Until then, may you have an amazing Christmas and may your poop be corny or nutty or firm or....well, you know.  Merry Christmas!

"We've all heard of Rudolph and his shiny nose, and we all know a Frosty who's made out of snow...
But, all those stories seem kind of.....gay....'cuz we all know who brightens up our holiday....
Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo! Small and brown, he comes from you
Sit on the toilet, here he comes, Squeeze him 'tween your festive buns!
A present from down below, spreading joy with a howdy ho, he's seen the love inside you
'cuz he's a piece of poo!"

If that doesn't warm your cockles, I don't know what will.
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Friday, December 14, 2012

Wrap This

It is said the number one thing couples argue about is money. (I know they also argue about the TV remote, channel surfing vs. not channel surfing, the temperature in the home and sex, but I'm not hear to talk about any of that--well, not this blog, anyways.)  The wife and I are no exception; in fact, it is probably the only thing we really argue about.  (Disclaimer: Yes, we are affectionately known as "The Bickersons," but that's because we bicker constantly and it's usually in good fun--an out-loud processing of our couple-dom thinking, differing communication styles and minor disagreements.)  Christmas and birthdays bring out the best of arguments.  With the holiday season upon us, our differing views on money are in red-hot mode.

Suffice it to say we disagree mainly on how much money to spend on gifts (total cost per person) and who actually should be getting gifts. Please do not misconstrue what I write...the wife is not Scrooge-like; it's that she is thoughtful, practical, fiscally-prudent and from a whole different world than the one in which I was raised.  Is has nothing to do with generosity--the wife is a very generous person.  She's just a wise owl who'd like to have a nest egg, whereas I just hope I have a nest in which to squat some day. Whereas I think you have to spend $50 per family person these days, she would say $30 was plenty and maybe even too much.  (This is retail value, by the way--if she can get it at a discount store for $10 and it's $30 value, it counts as $30. To me, it means I have $20 dollars to spend.)  You can see how this can lead to more than a bicker now and then.

Don't even get us started on co-workers.  I am a boss to 12 people this year (down from a high of 27--shoo!).  I want to give each of them something because I value their work and effort. I also find it the right thing to do in the Christmas spirit. The wife says I should give little or even nothing, again not because she is full of the Grinch but because she is wise with her money and knows the spending needs to stop somewhere.

There is no fiscal cliff in our house besides the one I am going to be thrown off if I spend too much money.

I've been fretting how much to spend for my minions and prefer to give gift cards; after all, I don't want to give someone making minimum wage a box of cheap, waxy chocolate they don't want, stuffed in an over-sized holiday mug they'll never use.  Giving a gift card, though, means you have to really think about it....it is what it is. That box of chocolate in a mug might cost $5.00 but no one really knows how much it is.  A gift card has the number right on it.  Because of our banter and because I'm still fretting, nary a work gift has been purchased.

As for when to "cut" people off of the gift list, I'm going to have to consult with a professional--my mother.  I never really thought about it until we started arguing about when you stop buying relatives (mainly the "kids" such as nieces and nephews) presents.  I thought it was NEVER.  You never stop.  She says the cut off is age 18.  I was mortified by this.  This is a new argument, as "my" three nieces are now 19, 18 and 16. We didn't have to think about this before and I had no idea she had an approach like this. She had no idea I didn't think you stop giving presents after age 18. I have NO plans of EVER stopping the gift train. The gift train, in her mind, has pulled into the station and come to a stop. I can tell you that this is going to be a bone of contention.  Again, she's just being practical and money wise and is probably right.  I probably should listen to her but I just can't....

The wife: When did your aunts and uncles stop giving you presents?

Me: Huh.  I dunno. (I really don't.  I never thought about it.)

The wife: See? They stopped giving you presents.

Me: But, two of these three are our god children!  You can't stop giving to your god children! And you can't just give to two of the three!

The wife: when did your god parents stop giving to you?

Me: (glaring, because this is an unfair argument. I throw the yellow FOUL flag. She accepts the infraction and focuses on herself.)

The wife: My god parents stopped when I turned 18.  So did my aunts and uncles.

Me: Well, I'm not stopping.

The wife: (Silence.)

Me: (Silence.)


The wife: (Silence.)

Me: (Silence.)



The wife: (Silence.)

Me: (Silence.)


Did I mention that our arguments tend to be REALLY quiet in nature?

And so, I bought the presents for my side of the family and she bought the presents for her side of the family and guess what? The total was the same.

So, to me the point is mute. To her, I spent way too much money because my family is so much smaller. In the end, we'll both be happy and our nieces and nephews will be happy and my co-workers will be somewhat happy (no matter what I give them, several will find it not enough--ingrates) and we'll all have a great Christmas.

...well, as long as she stays away from my checkbook and I stay away from hers, it truly will be a very Merry Christmas.....


Wednesday, December 05, 2012

Kneedy Degenerate

Wow---less than three weeks until Christmas.  I best get my sorry ass off the couch and over to the computer to get some shopping done.

I thought you might want to stay up to date with my knee.  If not, just pretend.  I spent a lot of money to find out what is going on with my knee, so humor me.

Dr. Kneedy came into the room with a half smile on his face, shook my hand, sat down and said the dreaded words: "Well, I have some good news and some bad news."

Right then and there I knew 100% that I didn't need surgery.  I KNEW that was going to be his good news.

"The good news is that you don't need surgery."

SEE? I TOLD YOU!

I played my best poker face and coolly inquired, "and, the bad news?"

Suffice it to say he gave me all sorts of medical gobbly gook that indicated my issues are degenerative in nature.  I knew I was a degenerate--now, I had proof. I wish I were Ellen Degenerate instead of Kneedy Degenerate.  (Just a little humor there, emphasis on little. I'm trying to keep this light hearted.) My meniscus isn't torn but it degenerating. He showed me the MRI and pointed out the various concerns.  Yup, there's my non-torn meniscus, smiling back at me.  Yup, I see that white stuff.  Yup, I see the areas of deterioration you are pointing to.  All that nonsense and you don't do surgery for that. You have what you have. I have degeneration in a variety of locations, including the tibiofibular joint, which explains why I have pain there.  Who knew there was even a joint there? Every time he explained something and pointed to it on my knee, I said, "uh huh" because he was pointing to right where I've been having various pains.  Damn. An educational moment came when he spoke about Hoffa's fat.  What the hell is Hoffa's fat? Does everyone have Hoffa's fat? Is it Jimmy Hoffa's fat? Is that where Jimmy Hoffa is? Well, whatever it is, I have fluid in mine. I don't know if that is good or bad or means that Jimmy is in a pool or what.

Good news, bad news.  Who would think the need to have surgery would be better news?

As I don't feel I'm to the point of needing injections, I'm nowhere near needing knee replacement and I decided not to go to physical therapy, he gave me a list of exercises to do and then sent a PT in to show me how to do them.  Simple enough to understand.  Now, I just have to do them.  He also told me to try glucosamine and chondroitin.  He made no guarantees but thought it was worth a shot.

I'm not sure where this leaves my jogging.  Part of me says to go ahead and pursue my goal and then hang up the shoes.  Part of me says I'm an idiot if I don't stop before I do more damage.

Of course, there is the part of me that says go with the flow and let the Universe take care of me and my knees.  I plan on walking as usual.  I have no plan to start swimming.  I suppose I could ride a bike. I wonder if Zumba is hard on the knees?

I have been researching metaphysical and spiritual information on what knee problems "mean."  Inflexibility or unwillingness to bend are at the top of the list.  I find this hard to believe.  Even the wife says I am one of the most flexible people she knows.  Maybe I'm inflexible in my thinking about being flexible. Others mention stubbornness.  Ooooh, I am stubborn.  (You can be flexible and stubborn at the same time, IMHO.) Another site suggested a "knee jerk" reaction.  Or, perhaps it is a kidney issue, per another site. Unfortunately, knees can also represent pride.  Ouch.  I might need a slap in the head about that one.  My research has led me to using Louis Hay's affirmation of: "I am flexible and flowing.  Forgiveness. Understanding. Compassion.  I bend and flow with ease and all is well." I'm all good with that.

And so, I remind young ladies once again to take care of your knees.  Do your warm ups, strengthen your quads, be kind and gentle. Don't abuse them.  Love them.  Nurture them. Need them.  And, I remind my sisters in the knee pain that we are flexible and flowing and that all is well, no matter what Dr. Kneedy says.

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Em. Are. Eye.

Yesterday, I had an MRI done on my knee.  If you've ever had an MRI, you know they (1) shove you in a big tube; (2) are noisy; and, (3) tell you to hold still no matter what.  I had an MRI done on my neck in the very early 1990's, so I had a good idea of what to expect: tube, noise, don't move.  Although technology has come a long way, I figured not much probably changed.  I was right--tube, noise, don't move.

Before getting shoved into the noisy tube, I had to fill out a form.  They want to make sure you don't have any weird metal things inside of you--shrapnel, clips or clamps, pacemakers, etc.  I quickly went down the list: no, no, no, no, no, no....then, I got to the last question, which inquired if I had any tattoos.  Tattoos? My first reaction was why the hell would it matter if I had tattoos?  My second reaction was, "oh shit, I am covered with tattoos." My third reaction was, "they didn't ask me this last time," but, then I realized back then I didn't have a tattoo so I probably didn't pay any attention to the question.  I circled "yes" and hoped this would not delay my testing.  My final thought was, "there are a bazillion people with tattoos that must need MRIs, so I'm not gonna fret about this." When the lady came to get me, I handed her the form and then asked about the tattoos.  Her question? "Where your tattoos done in the United States?"

Huh?

She explained that tattoo inks used to be made with metal flakes in them; thus, those old-school kind of tattoos could technically heat up during the MRI process.  She said this might happen in recent times if I had gotten my tattoos in foreign countries.  Now, this sounded ridiculous, so I asked her if anyone had ever experienced this "heating of the tattoo."  I didn't care about hot tattoos--I just didn't want ugly-from-the-test tattoos.  She said no but added that in theory this could happen.

I am SO going to do research on this--both the metal flakes and flaming hot MRI tattoos.

She took me to the room and showed me where to put my belongings.  I was confused by this as I was standing in a wide open hallway.  Last time, I had to take every stitch of clothing off and they wrapped me up in hospital gowns.  I was like, "I am not taking my clothes off while standing in this hallway."  She must have realized this and said, "oh, just take off your jacket, jewelry, glasses and shoes." I got to keep my clothes on. Oh sure, I had donned my bestest, prettiest, newest undies for the event and no one got was going to get to see them.  She didn't check anything. The only thing she confirmed was that I wasn't wearing a watch. I must have given the lady a worried look--after all, how did she know I wasn't wearing an under wire bra or a chastity belt? I tripled checked my jewelry and started to walk to the room when she stopped me and explained I'd have to leave my glasses.

Lady, I don't leave my glasses behind for nothin.'  I can't see a thing without them.  Those of you who think I am exaggerating need to look through my glasses.  I honestly can't see a thing without them; in fact, I need my glasses to find my glasses.  I have actually dropped my glasses on the floor and had to call the wife to help me find them.  I keep a spare set in my car.  So, when someone asks me to leave my glasses behind, I get mighty nervous.  I told her I can't see without them.  She assured me I should just follow her.  Um, okay.  I just told you I can't see.  Thankfully, she was wearing bright blue and the MRI room was basically white, so I could see a blue blob moving in front of me.  Follow the blueberry, follow the blueberry....

Before you have a tender moment of sadness about my inability to see without my glasses, don't waste your time--not being able to see when having an MRI is wonderful.  If I were claustrophobic (and, I'm not, but if I were), it wouldn't matter as I really couldn't see much of the tube at all.  It's a huge bonus. When I had my neck MRI done, they shoved me in the tube head first and it was not an open MRI.  I didn't care as I couldn't see what the hell was going on.  They explained it would be very normal to feel closed in.  I didn't feel anything at all--just curiosity about the process.

I was ready to be all mummy-fied, as last time, they really wrapped me up and strapped me in.  I couldn't have moved if I wanted to.  I mean, they had my head strapped in place, my legs mushed between these pillow barrier things, my arms across my chest, placing a panic button in my hand.  (I guess if you freak out during the testing, you push the button and you shoot out of the tube.  I kinda wanted to push the button just to see what would happen.) This time, all the technician did was put this plastic thing on my knee and told me not to move,  She sent me into the tube, legs first.  So boring.

It was a rather uneventful event except for one thing....

...I've been desperately trying not to get the cold the wife has been enduring for the past week.  I have willed myself not to get sick.  In an effort to help myself, I've been sucking down Vitamin C and zinc lozengers all week long.  If you've ever taken those zinc things, you know they can make you rather nauseous, especially if you eat them on an empty stomach.  Well, I had THREE of them on the way to the MRI facility.  (I told you I have been working hard not to get sick.) I hadn't eaten in five hours, as I planned on eating right after the test.  Well, three zinc drops on an empty stomach is not a good idea.  How do I know this?

I am laying in the tube, listening to bad country music when a wave of nausea came over me.  It was awful.  It was that zinc-on-an-empty-stomach nausea of which is not pleasant.  I felt like I was going to throw up.  I stopped and actually about this and realized....if I throw up, it is going to go straight up into the air and then rain down on my face.

It was right then and there that I decided I would NOT be throwing up.  After all, who wants to vomit rain down onto their face, even if it is ones own puke?  I did everything I could to think about anything that didn't involve my nausea.  I concentrated on my non-hot tattoos.  I thought about tattoos oozing out of my pores. I thought about new tattoo designs. I thought about how I was going to enjoy the DWTS finale tonight.  I listened to the music, thankful for the awful commercials.  I tried to see the blinking numbers (I think they were numbers) on the outside of the machine.  I did every single thing I could think of that did not involve moving and that had nothing to do with zinc.

I am happy to report that I did not throw up and that none of my tattoos burst into flames.

The blueberry wasn't very much help when the test was over.  She announced, "that's it!" zipped into the room, removed the plastic thing from my knee and kept on moving.   She told me, from somewhere in the room, to be careful when stepping down in case my knee was stiff.  Um, lady? Remember I told you I can't see?  No, she obviously did not remember.  The blueberry left me sitting on the edge of the table.  I called out and reminded her I can't see.  Thankfully, she heard me and accompanied me (well, walked quickly ahead of me) to the locker area.  There I was reunited with my glasses.

And, so that is the story of my MRI.  Rather mundane, don't you think?  I anticipate the results will be just as mundane.  You know how that goes--have pain, finally do something about it, stop having the pain.  I anticipate the best.  I know you do, too.
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P.S. I emailed my boss today and told her I won't be at work tomorrow, because I have the winning numbers for tonight's record Power Ball.  I assured her I would not be resigning as I would need productive things to do when not out on vacations or on altruistic adventures.
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Won't you be surprised.

Friday, November 23, 2012

Post Turkey Musings

Today, the day after Thanksgiving, I am thankful for successfully evading another round of "What I am thankful for" at the wife's family gathering.  Actually, this year was rather uneventful, with much less crying than usual and an uncharacteristic disorganization.  I did enjoy that one family was caught fleeing out the front door just as the thanking was about to begin.  (For the record, they made it out the door unscathed and without professing their gratitude in a group setting.  They rock.) I, of course, had nothing serious to say and did not mention the wife (or, anyone in particular, so she knew not to be offended).  For some reason (probably because I was standing in plain sight instead of hiding on the floor in the corner), I got to go first.  I said thanks, tried to make a joke but no one got it (sigh), made fun of my age and passed.  The wife's family is very concrete and serious.  I forget this.  The majority of them do not "get" sarcasm or wittiness.  Thus, most of what I say is lost.  So much for me being voted "Wittiness" in my senior class.  The wife was sick, so she had little to say and didn't shed many tears. I think she was just trying to survive.  It looks like the start of a cold--so, you know how that first day goes.  It's awful, with your throat burning and your head hurting and your body feeling like you got hit by a truck...a slight fever and waves of ickiness.  If you can make it through that first day, you'll be fine, albeit snotty and sneezy and coughing.  I kept trying to drug her.  I believe in "take four, they're small" when dealing with issues of the body.  She finally acquiesced and took some ibuprofen.  I tried to get her to take four but she chose to take the recommended dose of two pills.  Sigh.

I'm now spending the day after Thanksgiving at home as the wife throws her semi-sick self into the throngs of Black Friday shoppers.  I have no time for such nonsense and am thus at home, getting ready to make our Christmas Cards.  I have to get them out into the mail tomorrow, so I have much work to do, especially since I have to go to the store and get the final supplies needed to successfully complete this endeavor.  Actually, I'm not sure I can get the cards out by tomorrow but the latest they will be sent is Monday.  I want to get them out quickly in case the world does end.  That would suck if I did all this work and then no one saw the card because we had all plunged into a vat of world-ending angst.

Because my 50 year old peri-menopausal brain can't always recall things, I am perusing this blog to see what we did this year to use as fodder in the card.  It was an awesome year, in which I turned 50 and had my myo facial released.  I can't say more because then I will ruin the surprise of the holiday card.  Well, I suppose my four blog readers could go back and review the blog but I won't count on that.

As for the wife, I am 99% sure that she will return empty-handed from her Black Friday outing, not because she's sick with a cold but because that's how she rolls.  She's one of those people who goes shopping for the love of shopping. I go because I need something specific.  That's why I sit in the car and play video games while she is shopping.  I shop, I buy, I go to the car.  She shops, touches everything, wanders...and, three days later, leaves empty handed. I don't understand this.  Why go if you are not going to buy something?  As for me, I am all about Cyber Monday.  Actually, I am all about Cyber-anything.  Allow me to sit at home in my pajamas, drinking coffee and listening to tacky country music, while completing my shopping efforts. That's what I'm talking about.

Since I don't have to go anywhere crushed with crowds, I will take the dogs along for the ride.  I mean, how many people can be storming the doors of Walls of Green? I'll get my needs met without harm and they'll get a ride in the car.  Win-win!  I'm sure my car will accidentally go somewhere that has ice cream.  My car does that, you know.  I have no control over it.  I'm driving along and suddenly I'm in the drive through of somewhere selling ice cream.  I don't understand.

The Addiverse hopes you had a great Thanksgiving. If you didn't, I hope you have a great Black Friday.  If you don't, I hope you find some ice cream.





Tuesday, November 20, 2012

Passing the gratitude pie

It's that time of year when people get sappy and start professing their love and gratitude for one and other.  Soon, the wife and I will be sitting with her family around their Thanksgiving table, confessing our deepest feelings, passing the kleenex around as the love flows out faster than the rush on Twinkies at the end of last week.

Well, they will be doing that.  I'll be sitting at the table listening, smiling, nodding.  Then, when it's my turn, I'll just say one or two lines about how thankful I am to be there and then I'll pass the love fest along.

Now, before you call me an unempathetic, callous, ungrateful Scrooge, hear me out.  After all, you're thankful for me, aren't you? I'm grateful for you.  It's not that I'm ungrateful--heck, I am one of the more grateful people that I know. I really do have so much to say, to share, to express at times like the wife's family gathering. I really am blessed with a ridiculously amazing life. It's just that I am not the kind of person who is going to ooze feelings all over the Thanksgiving table in a large group of people.

Besides, I hate being vulnerable and I am not going to be vulnerable before the pumpkin pie is passed.... and, dessert is not served until well after the love fest had been completed.

Pass the home-made pie earlier and you might get a few more words out of me.

That said, I am grateful for many things of which I will share with you in this blog.  I will keep it superficial.  Very superficial.  I'll save the sappy for the next blog entry....or, perhaps for the Thanksgiving feast.

I am grateful that I won the football pool one time this year.
I am grateful that my football pool "crash and burn" didn't start until Week 10--an all time personal best.
I am grateful for rent-a-cars, as they make the wife very happy on cold, snowy weekends (so she doesn't have to drive her Mustang).
I am grateful for a new work cell phone, as with my previous work phone I couldn't hear a damn thing, the caller couldn't hear me, I had to stand outside when I'm at my office in order to get reception, I dropped calls all the time (never good for times someone is in crisis) and I didn't get my messages.
I am grateful that Freckles eye boogers are much less nasty via the use of various eye products.
I'm glad Lucy got an "A+" on her dental check up.
I am grateful that our holiday cards are done and ready for action.
I am grateful that it is almost impossible to destroy a tungsten ring.  (If you've ever seen what I "do" to my jewelry, you'd understand how important this is).
I am thankful that my Xena calendar purchase featured an autographed photo by Lucy Lawless.
I am grateful that it might not be the end of Twinkies, after all.

Mostly, I am grateful that I do not have to make Thanksgiving dinner. 

Perhaps my next blog will be sappy.  Perhaps not.  Suffice it to say that I am a very grateful bitch.  "See" you on Thanksgiving Day, when I will recall the Great Turkey Disaster of the 1990s!



Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Knee-dee

About five weeks back, I was finishing a jog with MJagger when, just as we were taking our last steps, my left knee let out a scream like no other.  I had to stop as my breath was ripped right out of my chest.

I had to stop and I could not walk.  My knee locked firmly in place.  Stuck and it wasn't unlocking.

It was rather awful but not earth-shattering.  I mean, my leg was still attached, no blood was spewing from any orifices, I was fully conscious.  I focused on the positive, limped the final half mile and hoped MJagger wouldn't end up carrying me the last few steps to the car. We were on the local bike path and there was no real way to "cheat;" I had to walk the final stretch.  I tried not to limp but it was ridiculously impossible. I sucked it up and kept moving.  I thought I was going to puke.  One step at a time, one step at a time.

I got to my car, waved good bye to MJagger and then realized......

......it would be really hard to use a clutch in this condition. 

Yes, I drive a stick shift.  Call me old school, a throw back to the days of automotive old.  I love my stick shifts.  Every car I have purchased has been a stick.  (The car I stole from my parents wasn't a stick but that doesn't count because I didn't buy it--I stole it from them.)   It was hard enough getting into the car, let alone driving with a clutch.  I thought about calling MJagger and asking her to come back and get me but I decided to give it a whirl.  I pulled my seat up as far as I could, allowing me to shift by keeping my knee in the bent position and basically shifting from the hip.

It sucked but it worked.

I had to cancel my appointments for the afternoon because I was so miserable.  Who wants a counselor who can't listen to you because they are in pain and can't straighten out their leg? I apologized to my client and asked him to stop talking--I had to leave.  I limped back to the car and headed.....

.....headed where? Should I go to the ER? No.  It wasn't an emergency.  Should I head to the urgent care? I could, but that seemed like a giant waste of money.  Should I call my doctor? Naw, the office is already closed and they would just tell me to come in tomorrow.  Home? Yes, I headed home to the land of ice packs, ibuprofen and the Internet.

For four weeks, I sat on my fat ass and had a pity party, smothered in chocolate and bad movies. No one was really the wiser.  MJagger and the wife knew, but otherwise, I was pretty undercover.  I mean, I basically have a desk job.  Counselors don't do knee bends or carry large boxes.  We sit in a chair.  Once the knee unlocked, I was able to get around without incident...however, at the end of the fourth week, I realized things weren't getting better.

I didn't want to but I made the call.

I made an appointment with an orthopedic doctor who specializes in knee injuries.  I purposefully chose a doctor who was NOT a surgeon....after all, surgeons provide surgery.  I was hoping for a non-surgical approach from a non-surgical doctor.  I thought that was genius on my part.

I went and saw Dr. Knee-Dee today, the end of the fifth week.  After a plethera of x-rays (done by a very lovely lesbian technician who engaged me in delightful conversation about my sweatshirt), I met the man who would manipulate my legs in ways that they should not be manipulated.  Oh my.

I found it interesting that he had his eyes closed many times during the examination.  He placed his hands on my knee and then shut his eyes.  He traced out the various parts of my knee anatomy and announced them aloud.  He also called out the names of the knee tests he was completing.  I had no idea what he was talking about but do know that the knee is a very complicated and that some of those tests are not very fun.  As he spoke, he casually noted that my clinical presentation and my report of symptoms suggested a torn meniscus.

No surprise there.  I had figured that out during my tour of the internet, the mother of all medical information.  I kept hoping I was wrong, but there are some things that aren't too hard to figure out, even on the Internet.

....imagine my surprise when he started talking about surgery.  Hey--I picked you so you wouldn't talk about surgery!  I'm paying you to say things like "physical therapy," not the "s" word!

Thankfully, the letters M-R-I followed the surgery comment.

(Side bar: Young women of the world, take care of your knees.  I have been brutally hard on my body over the past 50 years--my knees taking the brunt of the beating.  Look at my friends--we are the first generation of Title IX women limping around from all those athletic injuries. I say to you: be kind to your parts.  You'll need them later.)

So, I will have an MRI in the next few days to see what is really going on in that knee of mine.  There is still plenty of time to heal and find non-surgical options.  In the meantime, I will continue my M&M-fueled pity party.

If I do need surgery, I am going to ask if I can stay awake and watch. I will also ask the surgeon to take photos. If I don't need surgery, I will do a happy dance--on my opposite knee, of course.

Saturday, November 03, 2012

Punk like Me

Shoo! It took me two weeks but I'm back.  I have nothing to offer you about my disappearance.  I was here the whole time, hidden in plain sight. I wish I could say I had been on a Caribbean cruise or hanging out with Mickey at the World of Disney or I was in Chicago getting a full body suit tattoo, but really....I was sitting on the couch watching anything that promised not to show me political adds, playing fantasy football, watching my niece play some brass instrument in the marching band, planning my Halloween costume, attending a Green Bay Packer game, trying out three new cell phones while still using the two I have every day (who the hell carries five cell phones? Me, that's who.  Don't call me.  Please. I never know which phone to answer).  I've been avoiding Book de la Face like the plague, as I can't stand all the political bickering and partisan hate going on.  (Do you really think your social network postings--ridiculous on both sides--will change my mind?)

Halloween was especially delightful this year.  It's my favorite holiday (if you can call it a holiday--we don't get the day off and there's no holiday pay, so it's not really a holiday) and I have always enjoyed everything about it....what's not to love about chocolate and costumes? As we have a Halloween party at work every year (during work hours, designed for the clients), I always try to base my costume on something that the clients will like and to which they will relate. I've been Spongebob Squarepants (one of their all time favorites), Snape, Steve Irwin (before he died, thankfully), one of the evil step-sisters, Mr. Hankie the Christmas Poo...heck, I've even dressed as one of my coworkers one year (and she dressed as me).  This year, I decided to go as a professional wrestler, as if there is one thing the clients seem to love, it's wrestling.  No matter how fake, no matter how over-the-top, no matter how ridiculous, they love it.  I have a love-hate relationship with this "sport." I have no interest in it, I don't watch it on TV, I've never quite understood the draw....but, we've gone to two live professional wrestling matches this year (the clients and me--not the wife-the wife does not find wrestling humorous or of any interest) and I have to say, it is ALWAYS a good time to go to a wrestling match.  It's kind of like a Madonna concert--it's not a concert, it's an EVENT. That's how wrestling is--it's not a match, it's an EVENT.  The whole thing is actually very hilarious, especially the part where people actually believe this stuff is real.  Now, I mean no disrespect to the wrestlers, as they do end up beating the crap out of each other even while faking the fight, but really--it's so fake, you can see it from the upper sections of the biggest stadium.  It is the crowd that makes the trip to a wrestling match worth it.  I won't say anything more about the crowd, but trust me when I say it's colorful and the best part of the show.  (I started to write about the attendees but couldn't find a way to say it without sounding incredibly judgmental, so I stop here--hell, I'm sitting there with them having a good time, so I have little room to talk.)

It's like a soap opera for macho men in tiny tights.

I decided to dress as my favorite (and I do use that term loosely) wrestler, CM Punk.  I figure he's current, he's from Chicago, he has lots of awesome tattoos, he's the reigning champ (even though everyone says he's a cheater), he's easily recognizable by wrestling fans, he was featured in a recent article in my favorite tattoo magazine (does it scare you that I have a favorite tattoo magazine?) and he's a punk rock kind of guy.  What's not to love about that?  The only thing I had to buy was the championship wrestling belt, which I found at Wally World.  (Little did I know it was the "wrong" belt, which was explained to me by many a fan--sigh.  I had no idea.  It was the only belt Wally World had and I thought it looked awesome so I went with it.)  I donned my tattoo sleeves and snow-shoe gaiters, put my "only wear once a blue moon" contact lenses and slapped on some make-up to make a beard.  Wa-la! Punk!

The wife kept calling me CJ instead of CM.  Shame on her.

Let's see if you can tell which is the REAL CM Punk....

Not bad for a 50 year old woman using items in the house to create a costume, eh? CM Punk should be flattered.

....or not.  He probably will need therapy if he ever sees this.

Maybe he should be tickled pink that I actually own his t-shirt. The wife can't even believe I wear it, let alone own it.

Anyways, it was great fun and I do believe my costume was a big hit.  It was even more fun than usual because people didn't immediately recognize me....which I couldn't believe.  I thought it looked like me with a bad beard, but people would stare at me with no recognition.  It was only when I spoke that their eyes would light up and they would then laugh.  And, laugh they did. I laughed right along with them. How can you not laugh when you are dressed up like a professional wrestler?

Had it been an "adult" party with friends, I would have worn little black undies in the true tradition of wrestling outfits, but since this was a work endeavor during daytime hours and since I hadn't shaved any of the parts that most definitely would have needed shaving, I stayed with black shorts.

Not as much fun but appropriate for the setting and took a lot less grooming time. 

Triple crown winner, baby.  That's me and my punk.   As his website says, "WWE Champion! Loveable jerk. Often confused with Batman. Once tipped a stripper with a Filet-o-Fish."

Like I said...what's not to love?

Sunday, October 21, 2012

A day in the life

My job affords me many an opportunity to do things that I would not have otherwise had the chance to do:  I've witnessed the birth of a baby up close and personal; I've held the hand of a person as she passed away; I've served as family to a client attending the services of his estranged mother; I've been in full hospital scrubs providing words of comfort & encouragement as a client received an angio-gram; I've successfully redirected a client in the process of being taken down by a pile of police officers. (We won't mention the opportunity I had to "rescue" a client off of the merry-go-round at Great America, although that should probably be included.) Now, a tone of you can say the same thing--after all, people are in delivery rooms all the time--but, you probably didn't do these things with persons with schizophrenia.  I tell you that fact only because it changes the game.

It makes doing these things filled with even more gratitude than I could have possibly experienced otherwise.

This week, I drove a client out of town so he could attend the visitation and funeral of his mom.  I can't tell you many details but, I can tell you that this particular person with schizophrenia asked many an interesting question and behaved in a manner that would catch most of your attention.  Most of you wouldn't loudly ask questions about the coffin or the embalming process as you are standing in front of the casket.  You probably wouldn't say aloud the things you were thinking, especially on a microphone in front of the mourners in attendance and you wouldn't be yipping the entire time you were serving as a last-minute pall bearer....

...those are all things I anticipated would happen--and, as anticipated, they did.

That's not what made being part of a client's experience so special and what touched me to my very core. I have tons of hilarious stories (told with not one shred of disrespect to those I serve), but that's not what these experiences are about.  Here's a guy who experiences life in what I would consider a non-emotional, factual, logical, almost robotic fashion.  There's data, facts, figures, questions, questions, questions, often what we would consider incongruent to the situation. There's a weird, odd slant to life that is grounded in some other place than where the majority of the world lives.  So, when he was at the funeral, I was not surprised or bothered or concerned about his questions and relative-to-the-situation inappropriate behaviors.  I stood in the foyer, ready to intervene or provide support or do whatever it was I thought I was going to need to do or what he asked me to do.  I was the expert, present to ensure something of what I am not sure.  The family knew who I was and why I was there, so really nothing was surprising whatsoever.  As I settled in to my seat in the foyer, I heard something.  It was loud and unmistakable.  I stood up and went to the door.

All those things I anticipated....but, I didn't anticipate this...

...he sobbed.  He sobbed openly and loudly and genuinely and completely....an incredibly appropriate and angst-filled response to seeing his mother for the first time in years.

I was taken aback.  Here's a guy who shows no emotion on a daily basis and he's sobbing in front of the casket.  I am ashamed to admit that I hadn't anticipated this or had thought otherwise--why I thought a person with schizophrenia would react in a manner any different than anyone else was just as judgmental and tainted with stigma as an a person uneducated about mental illness.  Because he has schizophrenia and has a whole different take on the world doesn't make him less human, less capable of pain or feeling or angst or grief.

It was in that moment that I was completely and totally filled with emotion and reminded of why I am the luckiest person on earth to have a job as I do.

Another moment in life that I will never forget.  

(It also served as a reminder that I can be an arrogant, judgmental, condescending ass.  Sometimes the Universe needs to slap the humility back into me.)

After he finished with the intense and genuine display of his most personal emotion,  he settled back in to his "normal" self.  After the service, I drove him to the grave site and watched from my car, giving him the space and dignity that he so much deserved.  I watched as they handed him a shovel.  I could see he was thinking about this.  He tentatively threw a shovelful of dirt onto the casket.  And then, quite to my utter delight, he continued to throw more shovelfuls of dirt--others had thrown only one shovelful of dirt but he was gonna throw as many as he damn well pleased.  When done, he handed the shovel to the next person and then wiped his hands on his pants.

He came back to my car, dirt all over his pants, hopped in and wondered aloud where he and I were doing for dinner.  I took one look at his pants and laughed.  This was the guy I know and love and anticipated.

I thanked him for the opportunity to be present at such a moment in his life. His response? "No problem."

I then silently thanked the Universe for the best job on the planet. I'm a better human being because of people like him.
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Saturday, October 13, 2012

Ode to a Geriatric Pup

When I took Freckles Warrior Princess & Lucy Bark of Poteidaia to a new groomer last week, I provided a written description about which dog is which--although the two dogs look nothing alike (well, at least not to me and the wife--they are two years apart and are not even the same breeds), other people can't tell them apart or at least get mixed up enough they can't figure it out.  Poor Freckles.  Her description, albeit true, was not a picture of beauty: "Freckles is the lumpier, smellier, crustier, older dog with the booger-filled blind left eye, can't hear a thing and has skin that crawls when you touch her."

Lucy's description just mentioned her horrific bad breath and inability to stand still.  She got the much better end of the deal.

The owner of the kennel provided an additional descriptor, noting that Freckles is "the dog with nine lives." 'Tis very true--this dog has most thankfully and almost unbelievably cheated death on more than one occasion.  I have the vet bills and pained memories to prove it.  We still talk about the Spring of 2011 like we had gone to battle.

The wife and I have been staring a lot at Freckles as of late.  She is old and lumpy and crusty and smelly.  Really smelly.  She doesn't hear the alarm in the morning nor does she notice when we turn on the light.  She just keeps snoring, enjoying her blissful sleeping state.  It's almost impossible to wake her up in the morning without scaring the shit out of her because she doesn't notice you approaching. She can't go down the stairs on her own and she can't go up the stairs on more occasions than not.  It takes us 25 minutes to go a half mile during our walk.  Sometimes, she just stares at the wall--we've decided she either (1) sees dead people; or, (2) has doggie dementia.  She gets up every night and demands to go out and pee.  (You bet your ass we get up and let her out--no need to have her peeing in the house and how can you deny a most appropriate request, no matter the time of night?)  Her back legs tremble when she's standing around. Freckles sleeps more than anything.  She is growing disgusting things on (and under) her skin and she has gained weight, most likely from a decrease in activity and an increased demand for treats.  She no longer makes it up onto the couch in one leap--often, she takes a running start but just ends up splatting into the side of the couch.

We accept her for what she is: an old lumpy, smelly, crusty, blind, deaf, balding stuffed sausage of a canine.

Yet, she is happy. Really happy.  They say that dogs don't have emotions, but this is one happy dog--much happier now than she ever was when younger.  You can tell she isn't in pain.  She still does tricks, she still tries to chase Lucy around, she still loves going for rides in the car or visiting her favorite people.  She remembers people and knows their names.  All I have to do is say (in a very loud voice, of course), "Grandma" or "Jackie" or "the girls" and the dog perks right up and runs to the door. Some days, she surprises us and goes down the stairs.  On other days, she hears the mail lady and gives her a loud greeting.  I swear there are days she is smiling.  I swear this dogs knows it's on its ninth life and she is going to enjoy every minute of it.

Here she is wearing a babushka.  I was bored on Monday, so I decided we should wear babushkas.  I'm not sure she was happy or smiling during the wearing of the babushkas but it sure was fun and it sure made me happy.  We're simple folk in the Addiverse.

When I get up in the morning, I peek over the side of the bed and take a gander at Freckles, trying to see if she is breathing or not.  It sounds morbid, but what else can I do? She honestly doesn't move from the light or the sound or the motion.  I wait and watch. Some days, I can't really tell.  I hate to scare her but I have to wake her up to go out for our daily walk.  I wait and hope, get out of bed, trying to stomp around a bit, but the snoring continues.  It's not until I actually touch her that I get a response--and, it's a startled response.  She just about jumps vertically out of her bed.

Right now she is sleeping, just as she was doing an hour ago...just like she will be doing an hour from now.  She often looks hilarious, as her tongue peeks out and her blind eye stays open and her hair gets all tangled. I can't help taking photos of her when she looks like that.  If she had any teeth, she'd probably bite me.

Knowing Freckles, she will live many more years. One never knows. I suppose you can survive as a smelly and lumpy animal for years on end. Yesterday, I thanked her for living long enough for me to get my money's worth out of her after her last brush with death.  When I pointed to the new living room furniture  last night and told her she cost more than that, she snorted on me.  Seriously.  She snorted all over my glasses. I think that was her way of saying, "thanks, bitch--I'm worth it."

Ode to a Geriatric Pup
Canine of Old
Lumpy
Smelly
Shaky and trembling
Eyes that do not see
Ears that do not hear
Yet, love that still shines for the master.
Faithful
True
Smart as a fifth grader.
Tricks and treats do not escape her.
Another day, another skin growth...
...What the hell is that?
Snoring
Scratching
Pacing
Let me out, dammit!
Clean my eye!
Is that poop stuck on my butt?
Canine of Old
Loving
Smiling
Caring.
I see dead people.
I see Lucy.
I see you.
Paws up, little canine!
Your loyalty fills me up.



Sunday, October 07, 2012

I think, therefore I am....I think

It's a lazy Sunday morning in the Addiverse, as evidenced by the casual posture of the canine members of the family. Chill-axin' on a Sunday morning. They obviously don't have a lot on their minds....

This morning when we woke up, the wife asked me what I was thinking about. I must have looked especially reflective or distracted or as if I were lost in thought.  Why she would ask me this, I do not know.  She knows better.  All sorts of things are always swirling around in my little brain--this morning was no exception.  You have no idea what goes on in there.  My thoughts are birthed in a mighty weird, busy, noisy place.  Since she asked, I spewed.  This is what I was thinking about.....

Today is the Chicago Marathon.  As it's 32 degrees out, I'm thinking about the Kenyans.  I'm thinking what the Kenyans are thinking.  I mean, does it ever get cold in Kenya? Do they go to Canada to practice for cold weather runs? It's not usually this cold for the marathon--in fact, a year or two ago it was so hot that runners were dropping like flies from the heat.  Do they give the Kenyans gift mittens or do they have to bring their own? MJagger and I went out for some exercise yesterday and we wore mittens.  Do you think the Kenyans would like to borrow our mittens?  I'm thinking about how it's still my goal to complete a marathon while I'm 50.  I didn't say run--I said finish. I'm thinking about how I'm going to do this, considering I can only go four miles at this time. Do you think the Kenyans would be willing to coach me if I give them my mittens?

Last night was the break-up show. I'm thinking about how painfully sad the Glee 'break up" episode was.  We spent our Saturday night catching up on DVR'd programs and Glee happened to be one of them. (Glee will always win out over the housewives and boo boos in my corner of the Addiverse.) I haven't been very impressed with this season, so I was only lukewarm-interested in watching the episode on a Saturday night. Oh my.  I'm thinking a bottle of anti-depressants and a carton of ice cream would have come in handy.  It made watching "Evita" (which I did after the Glee episode was over) seem bright and cheery.  Seriously--everyone breaks up.  Everyone.  Well, kinda sorta everyone.  Well, I think they broke up.  Oh, the angst over a stupid show featuring singing nerds.  Pass me the Moose Tracks and a spoon.

(Please, baby jesus--don't take Santana off the show.  If you are going to kill the show, please let her go down in a blaze of glory, with oodles of screen time.)

Yesterday, it was Adam and Eve & Carlos Santana. I'm thinking about MJagger's unfailing advocacy & need for a new purse.  Out of respect to her, I won't say much.  Suffice it to say that last night she got so pissed off in Church that she tried to walk out.  The only thing that kept her in the pew was her husband--he literally physically kept her there, despite her efforts to get up and walk out.  "If I had been on the end, I would have walked right out." Instead, she was stuck in the second row...but, she was free to scowl at the priest, arms crossed, defiance glaring out of her being, so that made it at least a little worth while to be stuck there.  Everyone should have an ally as strong as her.  I mean, who blatantly texts from church to express their anger about the topic at hand? This leads me to laughing about her asking me yesterday to look for a purse while out shopping with the wife.  I know nothing about purses besides I have a small one so I can carry my swiss army knife, panty liners & cell phone.  A baggy would work just as well.  (Heck, I HAVE used a baggy in the past.) MJaggers wants one of those seriously large, looks-like-a-suitcase purse and was hoping to score one or two for a reduced price from the wife's favorite place on earth.  She showed me some examples and sent me on my way.  I stood in the purse section of the Maxx and just laughed.  Thankfully, I saw nothing even remotely related to what she had described and thus I was freed of my purse duties.  Maybe I can get her a gallon-sized baggy.

Other thoughts? Seriously: Laundry, blogging, grocery shopping, vacuuming, organizing my car trunk, cleaning Freckles' boogery eye, time cards, the coffee in the frig. Oh, there is leftover DD coffee in the frig! Washing my dark blue, sure-to-fade new jeans. Is this a hot flash, the Flu, anxiety, a heart attack, wearing too many clothes (damn those mittens) or if it really is 105 degrees in here?  Cereal, bread, raisins.  Why won't Lucy stop licking? Cereal, bread, raisins and what? WHAT? Damn, what are the other things I have to get? Cereal, bread, raisins and I don't know what.  What time is the Packer game? I need to pay the wife for my Packer ticket. When is that game? Did I write that down? I don't think I wrote it down. Cereal, bread, raisins, why am I now cold?  What am I thinking about? Does she really want to know what I'm thinking about? I gotta go heat up that coffee.

And that, dear wife, is what I was thinking about.

Glad you asked.

Monday, October 01, 2012

Gone. Gone. Gone.

I just finished writing an entire blog, full of fantasy football babbling, profound thoughts on the California law prohibiting reparative therapy for gays and angst-filled whining about the last remaining box of ultra O.B. tampons.....and, when I went to publish it, I pushed some wrong button(s) and poof....it was gone.  I thought it to be some freak issue, so I took a gander at what I had been saving along the way--I've learned to save as I go, having lost one too many documents or papers--everything was blank.  How this is possible, I do not know.  I tried just about everything to get it back but it was not to be.  So, all that work, all those deliciously described stories, all the facts and figures, all that taunting of persons in the football pools and those viewing Honey Boo boo--gone without effort, despite being saved along the way.

Gone, gone, gone. The baby Jesus was nowhere to be found at a time in which I needed to be saved.  Sigh. I thought I had been saved.

Honestly, I'm too tired and too defeated to re-write the dang thing, which is too bad because I thought I was pretty witty and entertaining along the way.  When I broke a nail while banging on the keys trying to retreive the now-lost blog, I took it as a sign from the blogging gods that I should surrender and turn my eye to Monday Night Football and DWTS instead of recreating what I had originally birthed.

I leave you instead with this illustration from my book de la face page, which is credited to jokobo.  It fits my theme of "the last purple box of O.B. tampons has been opened" angst. It does nothing to much of anything except my love of tampons.

What's not to love about Tampons, anyways?


  

Saturday, September 22, 2012

Late but Great: Madonna 2012

MJagger and I went to the Madonna concert Wednesday night as scheduled.  This is our seventh Madonna concert together--we are true Madonna whores. (This was my tenth time seeing Madonna in concert. Can I claim this on my tax returns?) After weeks of anticipation, the day had come.  We survived our work day, got into my stick-shift car and headed to Chicago, tickets and money in hand.  Thankfully, MJagger had taken motion sickness pills, as there is NOTHING like being the passenger in a stick shift car in stop-n-go Chicago traffic.  I did my best to keep her from getting "stick-shift-induced-car sickness" but with the rush hour traffic, anything I tried was a feeble attempt....it literally took us one hour to go nine miles.  That is not a typo.  The 1.5 hour trip took us three hours.  So much for being early.  (Thankfully, we had heard that Madonna was starting her concerts later than advertised, so we didn't feel stressed. Worse come to worse, we'd miss the opening DJ and I can't say either of us gave a rat's ass about that.)

We took our traffic-tortured selves for dinner at a nice Chicago restaurant, seated in one of the better window seats.  I think it was my Madonna t-shirt that inspired the hostess to give us such a nice window seat--or, maybe it was my stick shift car...the valet guy seemed very impressed that I drove a stick shift car--"One in a thousand" he claimed. Dinner was indeed delicious, very enjoyable, perfect preparation for the concert. Word to MJagger: when they say "the special," this refers to what they are featuring, not the price.  Oh, to see MJagger's face when the bill came...although the special was indeed very special, it was not on special. Yum!

We parked our car in the "crack lot" and got to the venue without incident. We were pleasantly surprised by our seats--much closer to the stage than anticipated, a clear view of the catwalk, sure to be able to see Madonna without issue, even via my trifocals.  We settled in and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Madonna didn't take the stage until 10:30 PM.  This on a weeknight--a school night!  TEN THIRTY.

I'm used to waiting for bands to start--they are almost always somewhat late...but 2.5 hours late? It just seemed rather disrespectful.  I hate to say that--I hate to say anything even remotely negative about the lady who's changed the music world--but it seemed very disrespectful toward her fans. For Pete's sake, I am usually asleep for an hour by the time 10:30 PM rolls around.  Doesn't Madonna know that half her audience belong to AARP? Look around--we're her people. MJagger was probably the youngest female there and she's 40.  (Gay guys don't count--many were in their 20's--the gays of all ages have a healthy respect the Queen of Pop.) I was so tired by the time Madonna took the stage that I could barely stand up and cheer.  I think my agitation kept me awake.  Sure, there was a DJ for a half hour (around 9 PM or something) but I didn't pay to hear some Rick Astley looking DJ.  I paid to see my beloved Madonna, preferably more on time than not.

Thankfully, I loved the show.  Madonna will never be a great singer--that's not why you go to one of her concerts. You go because she is an amazing show woman.  Amazing. There is nothing like a Madonna concert--it is an experience, a happening, an artistic event.  It's lights and technology and music and visual overload. It's wonder. You don't go because you want to hear her greatest hits--that's not going to happen.  Madonna is true to her most recent album, in this case MDNA.  If you bought your ticket with the hopes she'd sing all her songs from the 80's and 90's, you were one mighty disappointed ticket holder--that's not what she does or has ever done.  (Well, besides the Re-Invention Tour, but that long ago and unusual for Madge. You missed your chance for greatest hits if you missed Re-Invention.) Here's a blurry photo of the opening act (all my photos are blurry--what can I say--camera phones can only do so much), complete with the largest Catholic Incense thingy I have ever seen.  Praise the baby Jesus, Madonna is still struggling with her Catholic roots.  Someone get her an exorcism!

People have been complaining that her opening act is too violent and too bloody.  Um, have you people watched TV in the past 25 years? This was no worse than those crime shows on television, so don't be having a double standard.  Did I like that she had guns and blood and yuck splattering everywhere on the big screen? Not particularly.  Did I get upset or disturbed by it? Not at all.  It had a point and it really wasn't worse than anything on Prime Time.  Here's a really blurry photo of Madonna striking a gun pose, complete with posse of gun-toting women. Bang, bang!

(Don't even get me started about the double standard about age--why is it that men in music can easily be 60 or more years old and no one says a word but bring on a 54 year old woman who happens to be in amazing shape and can run circles around most 20 years olds and you get a bunch of criticism that she's too old to be doing this or that.  Grrrrr.) 

She sang several of my favorite songs during the not-so-shocking-supposedly-horrible-blood-bath Act One, so I was all good with everything even more-so than I would have been.  I happen to like her old and new music.  I listened to the new album non stop in preparation for the concert.  I checked out the set list.  I read reviews. I did my homework. I embrace the ever-changing world of this genius. Anyone who features Lil Wayne in a pop song is all right with me.

My favorite part of the show was when the "marching" drummers came out, suspended over the crowd, banging out a killer cadence.  MJagger says my jaw dropped open and I believe her. Being a drummer and a marching band nerd, I was in hog heaven. All that marching and baton twirling and loud snare drumming....I didn't think it could get better, despite it being 11:30 PM.  I wasn't a big fan of this song prior to the concert but I have to say, this rendition made it a favorite.

Leave it to Madonna to make baton twirling cool.

Thankfully, Madonna's concert was two hours in duration. Although that left me incredibly sleep deprived, provided a challenge of driving so late at night & made it almost impossible to think/function/speak/perform while at work the next day, I was glad she gave us our money's worth once she bothered to take the stage.  The concert itself was exactly what I was expecting and for that I am grateful. The chance to go to another Madonna concert with MJagger was completely appreciated.  The audacity of Madge being so late was disappointing.  I gave it four out of five stars in my official review (I know, what a nerd--I do concert reviews on line.  What ARE we going to do with me?)  I took away a star for her starting so late.

Would I go to another Madonna concert?  Are you kidding me? Did you even just ask that question?

Yes, of course I would.  Next time, though, we'll skip dinner and take a nap instead.
*********************************************************************

Saturday, September 15, 2012

Getting things off my chest

As long-time readers know, I am a fifty year old with a subtle (okay, not so subtle) flair for the dramatic. I wasn't going to write about this but I decided it's only fair.  I tell all to my readers.  (Correction: almost all.  The wife has requested a few boundaries be kept.  In her words, "is NOTHING sacred?")  I write this for entertainment value and to show solidarity with the peri-menopausal, anxiety-ridden hypochondriacal women of the world of which I am sure exist.  Stay strong, sisters of the middle age!


No need to panic.  I am alive, well and healthy and have been cleared by Western Medicine and by myself...without the help of a surgical-scrubbed doctor, I have been able to rule out all diseases and conditions that require fever, rash, sweating, weakness, fatigue, blood, phlegm, incontinence, foul smelling urine, diarrhea, constipation, weight gain, weight loss, recent trip to a third world country, loss of appetite, feminine itching, coughing, involuntary movements, distended belly, hair loss, hair growth, eye crossing, gas, hallucinations, voting for Republicans, anal pressure, rectal burning and/or swelling of any body part. Scurvy, syphilis and dandruff have been 100% ruled out.

It was quite surprising. About ten days ago, I was minding my own business, walking down the stairs at work, when the unidentified pain started. I didn't know how to decipher this pain.  As I didn't feel like something was squeezing the piss out of my chest and I didn't have any pain radiating into my left arm, jaw or back, I decided to rule out a heart attack. Still, it was rather disturbing--I stopped walking and grabbed my chest in wonder...

Instead of plain old hysterical panic, I quickly thought about my underwear and arm pit hair--if I'm having a heart attack or other bodily emergency, I need to have on clean underwear. I winced with regret upon the realization that I did not shave my armpits early in the day. (Heck, I did not shave my armpits earlier in the month.) My mother always stressed the importance of clean underwear but I don't remember her saying much about armpit hair.  I took a gander and checked that yes, I had on a pair of my brand new undies, very much fresh and pretty.  Good for me.  Despite the clean, new undies, I couldn't fix the armpit thing.  Sigh.

(I'm not kidding.  I lifted my shirt and took a gander down my pants to see what underwear I had on.  Didn't care that I was standing on the stairs at work. One must have priorities.)

I come from a family full of clean underwear and heart disease. My father, a man who I am sure ALWAYS had on fresh tidy whities, had bypass surgery when in his 40's. That does nothing to soothe the soul of a 50 year old person experiencing the advent chest pain, clean underwear or not. A glimmer of histrionic, distorted thinking began to ooze to the surface, which of course did nothing to abate the mounting anxiety....

Ah, anxiety! I'm not sure I've ever been happy to have anxiety but I have to say that I am all good with anxiety when comparing it to other potential medical issues. After removing myself from the stairwell, I tried out some of the coping skills I teach my clients.  I used all that self talk I profess. I challenged my thoughts. I slowed my breathing.  I went to a safe place in my mind.  I was one in the moment.  I reassured myself and tried not to think about how ineffective these skills seemed to be....

Yeah, that didn't work. What a crock of shit!  (Remind self to apologize to clients.)

...As I contemplated my certain doom, I wondered if hormones could play a factor here--after all, everything is in flux in my body. I may still be able to shoot out a baby but I'm guessing I'm shooting out all sort of other nonsense instead of bouncing babies.  As many of us know, hormones can do just about anything to rational women, turning them into psychotic freaks, which in turn fuels anxiety, which in turn could cause just about anything (well, except scurvy--I don't think changing hormones can cause scurvy).

Thoughts turned to Gertrude Goiter, my beloved thyroid.  Now, you might think this is a weird train of thought, but it's really not.  Have you ever thought about what it's like in my brain? This is a clearer train of thought than usual. I have the thyroid from hell.  God only knows what the hell Gertie Goiter is up to. I haven't had her checked out for awhile. She could probably the cause of just about anything, bitch that she is....

I quickly diss Gertrude and wondered what if it IS the return of pleurisy?  That'd suck but it would still be better than other options. (I'm still happy about the clean underwear while considering all this.  Big points for my love of new, clean underwear.)  I tried to remember what pleurisy was really like.  I have to admit that in my blog came in handy--I was able to go back and read about it.  Huh. Same kind of thing I'm having but it seems different somehow.  Maybe it's my armpit hair multiplying the feeling.

Fast forward to eight days later.  The stupid chest pain has gotten worse, coming and going with no rhyme or reason.  Seriously--I go for a two mile jog with MJagger and I'm no worse for the wear.  I sit down to enjoy some brain-cell-losing television and it starts again.  Everyone who is in the know believes it is anxiety and I don't argue with them. Oh yes, people know--I didn't want people to know but you can't walk around work clutching your chest while sporting a weird look on your face.  These people know me and my drama-soaked brain well.  The wife stares at me and indicates she isn't worried.

Now, it's last night.  (That's kind of a weird sentence.  NOW it's LAST night. I'm leaving it.  I have no time to edit in the Addiverse.) I barely slept at all, stupid pain that it was.  I tossed and turned,  flipped and flopped, unable to get comfortable. I went to the couch and realized that my left arm was bothering me and that my heart was pounding and that my neck was tight.  Imagine how comforting all that was.  I listened to music, played video games and tried to ignore my predicament.  I sat up, I laid down, I rolled on my side, I stood up. Had I any anti-anxiety meds, I would have taken them.  (Note to self: get some good drugs and keep them on hand.  Mark them: for emergency use only. Do not become addicted or sell on the black market.) I thought about taking Benadryl, Norco (leftover from the wife's hysterectomy four years ago--she didn't use them), aspirin, muscle relaxers (left over from the wife's back surgery--again, she didn't use them, what a trooper), ibuprofen, Ex-Lax or stool softeners (they were the only other things left to try in the "medicine bucket") but figured none of these would solve the problem.  I got about two hours of sleep and that's being generous. 

So, the wife gets up at 5:30 AM and asks me what I'm doing and why I'm on the couch.  I give her the "oh-my-god-what-if-this-is-a-heart-attack" look and softly announce, "I need to go the ER.  The pain kept me up all night."  She stares at me, alerting me that she has seen "THIS LOOK" on my face before and that although she is sure I am fine, she knows that I must do what I must do.  I mumble something about my left arm bothering me and she gets a fleeting look of terror.  She agrees to take me to the ER.  I remind myself how it is much better to be embarrassed by being wrong than being dead from a heart attack.

Now, most people would just get up and go to the ER.  Not me.  This time I am going to have shaved arm pits! So, I took my time and took a shower and shaved my arm pits.  I also shaved my legs for good measure.  I washed and scrubbed and put on newly purchased, clean undies, all the while having low-grade chest pain. 

If you want immediate service when going to an ER, just say the words, "I'm having chest pain" when you walk up to the receptionist.  Geez, it was a blur from the moment those words came out of my mouth.  Electrodes flying, buzzers buzzing, IVs inserted, blood samples taken, questions blurting out from here and there, the doctor in the room immediately instead of like three hours later, in the "real" ER world.  EKG, blood work, chest x-ray, quick physical.  The whole time I am telling everyone I see, "I have a history of anxiety.  This might just be anxiety."  They smile and nod but pay no heed.  I have uttered the word "chest pain" and that is all that is needed to be heard. 

Oh, the questions--the questions are enough to give you more anxiety.  Yes, my left arm is bothering me.  No, there is no rhyme or reason.  Yes, I just jogged two miles yesterday without incident.  Mostly "no" answers to the questions, which I take as a good sign.  The poor wife looked green and had to leave the room several times as she does not "do" blood. I tell the nurse that I am embarrassed to be there. I also tell him that I think my counseling ideas are a crock of shit.  He laughed.

Guess what I was diagnosed with?  I bet a whole bunch of you are going to say, "anxiety."

You are wrong.  I was diagnosed with "chest pain" and given a prescription for Norco. 

WTF???? Norco? A pain killer?  I'm not in "that kind" of pain.  I think most people would be giddy with delight to score some Norco.  Not me.  I've got a vat of that at home and I don't ever want to take that if I can help it.  I am left with "chest pain."  Duh. I knew that.

The great news is, no surprise to the wife (or, to MJagger, I am sure),  that I "have a text book EKG" and that all the tests came back negative.  I'm fit as a fiddle.  I am told that I should follow up with my primary care physician in case he wants to do a stress test, although being able to go two miles without issue suggests I don't need one of those.  He asks if I get heartburn often.  Oh brother.  I am rather insulted by this.  I would know what heartburn is. No, no I do not get heartburn--I can eat anything and I never get heartburn. (Knock on wood.) Off come the monitors and out comes the IV.  I am sent home with papers that say I have chest pain. 

I can't complain too loudly about my diagnosis: after all, the wife's birthday is in three days and the Madonna concert is in four days.  I have no time for heart transplants or other dramatic medical interventions.  I have to buy a present and figure out an outfit for the concert.  MJagger and I have to memorize the set list and try to figure out traffic so we are not late.  I have to take the wife out for dinner. 

I have to shave my armpits for Madonna.  

I will probably go see my PCP for shits and giggles (and maybe a prescription for some more appropriate drugs) and he'll give me that concerned doctor look, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will nod in a consoling way and say reassuring things, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will write "anxiety" in my chart.  He'll patronize me and ooze support.  He'll tell me to come back if the pain doesn't decrease and he'll send me for a stress test.  He will write this in the chart but he'll be thinking "anxiety."  Mental illness always trumps potential medical issues.

It will be up to me to take true action. While I'm not ready to give up coffee or Dove Dark Chocolate, I am willing to make concessions.  I will eat one pound less of sugar per day. I'll keep exercising.  I'll eat something green every other day. I'll eat seven less scoops of ice cream a week. (That one is going to be very hard.)  I'll remember that my thoughts are prayers and we are always praying.  I'll make fun of my thoughts and focus on the positive.  I will hang out with friends more and with work less.  I will work with the wife on lower our cholesterol (might as well drag her along for the ride). I will continue to maintain my sense of humor and commend myself for being insightful enough that I have quite the flair for the dramatic.  I will honor my pain and ask it what it needs, wondering what I need to get off my chest. I will balance my chakras and envision a big green ball spinning brightly in my chest. I will stop telling my clients to envision a happy place--I'm going to tell them to take medication and go out and have fun. I'm going to make sure my clients know they need to wear clean underwear every day and, if women, shave their armpits at least once a week.

Okay, once a month.  It's all good if you shave your armpits once a month as long as you are always wearing clean underwear and are agreeable to medication.

Madonna or bust, clean underwear here I come.
*******************************************************************









Sunday, September 09, 2012

Fourth and Four

Ten more days until the Madonna concert. What to wear, what to wear?

It's my absolute favorite time of year.  Well, besides my birthday week, but that's a given.  I suppose I could say it's my favorite time because it's the time of the wife's birthday and the falling leaves and the closing of the white pants season, but I would be lying.  Those are all really nice things but it's not what makes September rock. It's my favorite time of the year because professional football is back.

Pathetic, I know.

I can't help it.  I love football.  I cannot think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon.  (No disrespect to the baby jesus.)  I can't think of one thing I don't like about it.  If the wife can watch reality TV all day and night without too much whining from me, I can watch one day of football without judgment.

(By the way, what IS that mess of a honey boo boo? Oh, the lost thirty minutes I'd like to have back.)  

This year, I have taken football to a whole 'nother level: I am in four fantasy leagues.  What WAS I thinking? It sounded like a good idea at the time but now I'm not sure.  I am super confused and it's hard enough just remembering to check my players' injury status let alone decide who to start. Thankfully, one of the leagues is "only" a confidence pool, so I suppose I should call blog this Fourth and three, but I still have to remember and complete my confidence picks so at four I shall stay.

Thankfully, I was able to figure out how to have two of the leagues on my smart phone, so I can keep track of them from wherever I might be on any given Sunday (pun intended).  It doesn't work out as well as I thought it would, though--I accidentally waived one of my starting running backs when trying to move him up on my list.  It's hard to read on a smart phone when you're 50 years old--that tiny print will get you every time.  I was sick over that and couldn't get him back.  Something about have to wait about the waiver.

This was the first time I participated in a "live draft;" meaning, a bunch of us got together and sat around some stranger's living room while wearing our favorite team jerseys. We stuffed our face with food  and chose our teams, one by one, player by player, all picks displayed on the big screen.  MJagger invited me to the league and she knew the majority, if not all, of the people at the draft.  It happens to be an all-women league, which is really not here nor there except for it's important for blogging purposes: I ask you to envision 14 middle-aged women (sorry, MJagger, you are now middle aged upon crossing that 40 mark) sitting in a living room, 12 of which are wearing Bear jerseys. (I was rocking my McFadden Raider jersey and some poor lady was wearing an Alabama t-shirt. So you can envision how good I looked, here is a photo of me wearing said jersey at a Packers game last year. I've got balls to wear the opposing team's jersey while at Lambeau.) I sat on the couch, cheat sheet in hand, quietly surveying the crowd.  They were obviously well versed not only about football but also about fantasy football.  MJagger had a fantasy football magazine in front of her and it was clear that she had been studying.  Me? I had a few new apps on my phone and decided to go with technology for my information.  We sat by each other and whispered things to each other in an attempt to make sure we didn't end up picking players that were injured, released, on strike or in jail. The Alabama lady picked a guy that was waived and a guy that was no longer on any team.  I didn't have the heart to tell her.

Okay, I'm lying--I was giddy with delight that she picked those people because that means I have a better chance of beating her.

The thing that left me incredulous is that these Bears fans are so hard-core that none of them would pick Aaron Rogers for their quarterback.  I mean, come on--here's the top-rated quarterback in the league and they are all passing him up.  I was number 12 in the draft and almost got Rogers as my starting quarterback. That's unbelievable. The wife would have been pissed off had I gotten him (it's true that every player I ever pick ends up getting hurt) but I would have been a rock star.  Unfortunately, someone finally decided they'd rather win than be true to the orange and blue, so I just missed my chance.

The ladies sounded sincere and polite, gently cheering on each person's picks.  One lady would say, "good pick!" after every pick made by MJagger.  I found this strange and turned to MJagger, who explained to me that was this lady's way of saying "F*ck you."  Oh my.  There was indeed some competition going on.  Sure enough, once MJagger had alerted me of this, I watched carefully and I could tell that the lady was being a complete and total ass.

This was pretty serious stuff.  Too serious. I thought there might be a cat fight if things didn't lighten things up, so I took things into my own hands: I announced I was taking a kicker in the second round.  I thought they were all going to die.  I'm sure they thought I was a moron, but I knew what I was doing. It is fun to toy with the draft.  (I actually didn't take a kicker until the third round, which was terrifying enough for these ladies. I love messing with people.  Keep 'em off balance, that's what I say.)

The draft took over three hours.  I was exhausted by the end.

The next draft was a live on-line draft; meaning, we were all sitting at our computers in the comfort of our homes doing everything electronically.  I was number nine, which meant I had a wee bit better choice of first pick but not much better.  They had a live chat going on so I joined in.  MJagger was also in this pool-- again, these were a bunch of her friends--so, I asked if we could say whatever we wanted in the chat.  MJagger said "of course!" so I typed in some naughtiness, trying to get some banter going.

Silence.

Thanks for nothing, MJagger.

The live computer draft only took an hour, which seemed like drafting on crack in comparison to the live in-person draft.  I thought about drafting the exact same players for both teams, helping me keep track of my Sunday antics, but this was not possible as many of my players were drafted for other teams.  I suppose I should be happy, as my computer draft scored me a whole bunch better players.  If I don't do well in that pool, it's my fault for starting the wrong players.

So, today I will study my three teams (the confidence pool was done and locked by Wednesday, thank god) and try to figure out who to start, where.  I will have NO idea who to cheer for today, as I have players scattered across the league; in fact, I believe I have no "team-duplicates" on my rosters (meaning I have one player per team per league).  I am going to have to rely on the NFL channel, my computer, my phone and the wife to figure out what I'm doing, if I'm winning, if my players are even playing. The remote control is going to be ON FIRE!

I'm gonna need an assistant to keep track of all this.  An assistant and a bookie.

Today, I will not think of Madonna; rather, I will think about cheering for players on teams I hate. It's the weirdest thing to do that, but I will do what I must do to cheer my players to individual victory.

If things get ugly, I can go back to thinking about Madonna, but I'm hoping to stay focused, not distracted by Madge.  I can think about Madonna on Tuesday....after Monday Night Football.

It's fourth and four....I'm ready for some football!
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