Saturday, May 26, 2012

Rolling on the Ball Chair

I gots me one of them ball chairs a few weeks ago!  MJagger and I decided we'd improve our cores and balance by using ball chairs at work and thus we are now the proud owners of these delightfully ugly enigmas.  We were inspired by our boss, who uses a ball chair in her office. For you who have no idea what I'm talking about, it's basically an exercise ball in a chair frame. The maker of the chair indicates:

"Your body, when positioned on top of an exercise ball, is constantly making small adjustments, often imperceptible, to remain balanced and thus is constantly exercising a large group of muscles in doing so. By strengthening your body's core muscle group you help improve your posture, have better balance and guard against back injuries." 

(For the record, we probably could have gone to Wallyworld and purchased a $10 exercise ball and gotten the same benefit, but we are too sophisticated for such nonsense.  We need to spend oodles of money to get our money's worth.)


I'm using mine in place of my desk chair, so when I'm at my desk working on the computer, I balancing upon my ball.  (There are SO many jokes here, I don't even know where to start.  Trust me when I say MJagger and I have had all sorts of laughs about our big balls. I will do my best to limit my sophomoric jokes in this blog but it's gonna be REALLY hard.  See what I mean?)  The ball chair is quite the center of attention--people walk into my office to ask me something, start to ask and then stop mid-sentence...after all, I'm perched on top of a big, black exercise ball--it's hard to stay on track when you see something like that.  They usually never say why they came into my office as they are so distracted by the ball chair that they forget everything and instead stare at my ball.

The first question people ask is: "What IS that?"
I answer: "It's a ball chair!"

The second question people ask is: "Did the agency pay for that?"
I exclaim, "NO, the agency did NOT pay for our ball chairs.  I paid for it."

The third question people ask is....well, a lot of times they don't ask another question as they are very confused by the whole ball chair thing.  They usually make a sound like, "Huh!" or smile while maintaining a quizzical look.  If they do ask a third question, it's usually, "How much does something like that cost?"

Back to me and MJagger ordering the balls.  The ball chairs came in the mail, as MJagger ordered them on-line.  Poor MJagger--she should NEVER order anything on line.  Never.  When she does try, something always goes wrong--they send the wrong thing, it's broken upon arrival, her account gets hacked, it doesn 't show up, etc. I can't tell you how many times her various accounts have been hacked or how many arguments she's had with customer service representatives. This time, her ball arrived but mine didn't, despite the packing slip and box indicating this was "2 of 2" and that they had been mailed together.  MJagger started sending hate mail immediately.  (It is noted that she did get a speedy reply indicating that our balls had indeed been sent out together but one ball was behind and still in the mail, separated during transit.  I hate when my balls get separated.)  We decided to put her ball chair together so we could see what it looked like.....

The first problem is that she was missing a piece.  OF COURSE SHE WAS!  She didn't have the stability bar to keep the ball from rolling off the stand.  Back to contacting the company she went.  She decided we should proceed because the stability bar thing was the last thing we'd need to put on, so it wouldn't hamper our progress.

The second problem was that when we inflated her ball per the actual directions (yes, we actually followed the directions), it was so....little.  I mean shockingly little.  We both stared at her little ball.

MJagger: "Jeezus Christ, I can't sit on that! That's not how BossBall's chair looks."

Me: "Huh.  That's really small.  That can't be right.  Maybe they sent the wrong ball."

MJagger: "Why does this always happen to me? Why do I order anything on line?"

Me: (Silent...I have learned the lesson of not answering rhetorical questions. I'm getting smarter in my old age.) "How big is it supposed to be?"

MJagger: "52 inches."

Me: "That sounds small.  Do balls come in different sizes?"

MJagger: "I ordered the same size BossBall has.  They are all 52 inches."  (She pulls up the link on the internet and points to our chair.) See? 52 inches."

Me: "That's not 52 inches. Hand me that tape measure."

I measure her ball.  It is 48 inches.  It looks teeny small.  I look at the directions. "It says your ball will get bigger but you have to wait overnight."

MJagger: "It's not gonna get that much bigger....is it?"

Me: I shrug my shoulders.  I can't imagine the ball is going to get much bigger, but I don't know much about balls.  (See? So much fodder.)

Me: "Hand me the tape measure.  I'll go measure BossBall's chair."

I go upstairs to the BossBall's office, knock BossBall off her ball and indeed measure her chair.  56 inches.  I'm not sure if I should be happy or terrified to tell MJagger this.  I inquire from BossBall if her ball was little when she started this whole endeavor.  She assured me it looks very small the first day but you must follow the directions and only inflate it to 48 inches and wait overnight as the ball will stretch.  I have to trust her--after all, she IS our boss and she IS using a properly inflated ball chair and she is well versed about balls.

MJagger and I are not known for our patience.  We want to inflate her ball NOW; however, when I relay BossBall's message to MJagger, we for some reason choose to follow the directions and try to employ the patience we don't usually have.  I can't speak for her, but I can tell you that I had a really hard time walking away from that little ball.

Fast forward to the next day.  I stop in at MJagger's office and don't see her, but I do see her fully-inflated ball, perched happily in the frame, proudly set in front of her computer desk.  It looks full sized.  I am amazed by this. I cannot believe it.  I grab the tape measure and measure her ball.  It is 56 inches! (This is a bit concerning, as it's supposed to be inflated to 52 inches, not 56 inches...but MJagger knows a lot more about balls than I do, so I trust her that a bigger ball than normal is okay.)  I also notice that my ball chair has arrived.  I drag my box out to the car (our offices are in different buildings) and take it to its new home.

I, unlike MJagger, have all the pieces in my box.  It's easy to put together because I just watched MJagger put hers together. I inflate my ball to 48 inches. It is so painfully small but I must trust in the process.  I wait the required 24 hours and then inflate my ball to....56 inches!  I cannot believe how much my ball is able to expand.  I deflate it to 54 inches, as I am nervous about exceeding the size limit. I plop myself on top of my ball and get to work.

We have been sitting on our balls for two weeks.  Strangely enough, I haven't talked to MJagger about how much she likes or doesn't like her ball chair. I guess I'll ask her that next week. Me? I like the ball chair.  I don't feel like I'm any stronger or any better balanced or sporting a improved core, but it's pretty early in the game and I already have pretty good balance (bet you thought I was gonna say I already have a pretty buff core--ha ha!).  I like sitting on it.  I like talking about it when people come into my office.  I like everything about it except that....

....well, I have this pimple on my butt right now (Face it.  We all get a pimple on our butt every now and again.  I haven't had one that I know of in years but I have one right now.  I proudly own this); unfortunately, the pimple is right where my butt cheek meets the ball.  It's rather uncomfortable, so I've been limiting my time on the ball.  I switch back and forth with my regular office chair.  As long as the ball didn't cause the pimple, it will be all good.  If the ball is the cause of the pimple (like I said, I haven't had one for years), I am going to be very bitter.

I'll have to ask MJagger if she has a pimple on her butt.......

maybe our balls are sweaty......

and, they lead to pimples.

God help us all if our sweaty balls cause pimples......

(p.s. if I happen to slip off my sweaty ball, feel free to laugh)


Thursday, May 24, 2012

While sitting on a roof earlier this week--unfortunately perched on said roof near but not next to a suicidal client dangling her feet over the edge (one never sits next to a suicidal person while on a roof, lest they take you with them)--I realized that I seem to have two themes going on in my life: eyes and roofs.  (Please ignore my cavalier approach to such a serious subject.  I mean no disrespect.  And, for cry eye, don't go getting all serious on me--neither of us were ever in danger. Just notice the theme of a roof and don't ask any questions.)  Eyes and roofs. I don't for the life of me know what this means.

You already know that  Freckles is the one-eyed wonder dog, but who knew we would soon have TWO dogs with a bad eye?  Poor Lucy, scratched herself silly with allergies and made her eye hang down like a bloodhound.  I gently explained to her that she had to stop scratching, lest she get stuck wearing the "cone of shame."  The scratching didn't stop and after two weeks of trying to ignore her pathetic eye and after losing countless hours of sleep due to her incessant licking, I took her to the vet.  Ca-ching!  One sad eyeball charged on the charge card.  Thankfully, it does appear to be an allergy issue and even more thankfully, it does not appear that the Bark of Poteidaia did any damage to herself.

It is important to note that it wasn't a tooth growing out of her eyeball. I did have a moment of concern about this--after all, I'm the one who missed the grossly infected tooth growing out of her snout.

She needs allergy pills and eye drops and time. Time to leave it alone.  Time to heal.  Time.  And, eye drops.  Did I mention the eye drops?

Sigh.  More dog eye drops.

It is infinitely MUCH easier to put eye drops into a dog's blind eye than it is to put eye drops into a dog's seeing eye.  Lucy can see the drop coming for miles away and thus she is like a greased pig when it comes time to get her drop.  With Freckles, I just grab her head, blop the drop and go. Freckles couldn't care less--even in the beginning, it was simple. With Lucy, it's sheer terror.  I have to open the bottle first, catch her second, get her in the death grip and then try and put a drop somewhere near her eye (preferably the eye that needs the drop).  I should probably take video because it is so dang humorous. So far, I think I've gotten two drops in after nine attempts.  I suppose those are relatively acceptable stats for a baseball player but it's not so good for helping a dog eye to heal.  I have to try again in a few minutes--if the wife were home, I'd get it on tape.  Maybe next time.

Lucy also has to take pills, which unfortunately (for me--it's all about me) kept her up all night with a need to poop.  I would have guessed the pills would have had the opposite effect but I was wrong. It was a LONG night but I gotta give that dog credit--she would never poop in the house. Never. She'd be mortified.  She has a rectum of steel.  Lucy just stood by the door, cried and waited her turn.   Good dog.

Taking pills is easy.  Coat with peanut butter, hold in front of the dog.  Gone.

I can't put peanut butter on the eye drops.

As for the roofs, I can't say much but can say I've noticed a theme here.  I'm not dreaming of roofs--I am experiencing actual roof adventures (hence, I found myself on the roof).  Come to think of it, I am the observer in all this, not the roofer. Weird. Who the hell observes roof themes from afar? Tonight, I plan on doing some research on the spiritual meaning of the roof.  I suppose I'll also check out the dream interpretation of roofs even though this is not about dreaming.  I would like to figure this out because I really don't want the roof theme to continue--well, unless it is a very positive thing and thus I should embrace it.

Maybe the roof was really a woof and the roof was woofing "Take Lucy to the vet."  Now that I've taken her, maybe the roof woof will leave me alone.

Maybe it's the baby Jesus, asking me to look to the heavens: "Look up toward the skies, Addi Warrior Princess. Do not turn a blind eye to me." Maybe he'd add, "I've got you covered--just keep your eyes open."

I like the woof roof idea much better, no offense to the baby Jesus.
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Finally, there is still time to voice your thoughts on my soon-to-be tattoo.  I've decided that turning fifty should be honored with a tattoo.   I've had some mighty fine ideas but none have completely tickled my fancy.  I've chosen my tattoo artist but not the actual tattoo or location to put the tattoo.  So many decisions. So, vote early and vote often.  I'll include a poll on the blog for a week or two and see what you come up with.  The only exclusions are the tattoo cannot be of a portrait or caricature of the wife or include the wife's name.  Other than that, you have free reign. Let your smarty pants answers begin.
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Saturday, May 19, 2012

Rolling in Reverse

This week's "Top Addiverse Event" involves me backing in to a co-worker's parked car.  Thankfully, the only damage to her car was the mushing of her license plate.  Unfortunately, the "corner" of my read bumper looks rather ridiculous.  I asked the wife if I should get the bumper fixed.  She sighed and rolled her eyes: "why bother? The minute you get it fixed, you'll just hit something else."

She's right, as usual.  Suffer with a banged up car, it is.

How can you not laugh when you can see the actual shape of the license plate tattooed on the bumper?  Thankfully, you cannot see the lettering of the plate.  That would be over the top.

I was parked in a place I don't often park.  My co-worker was parked in a place that she almost never, ever parks.  (To help you visualize, there are only five other cars and one large van parked in the lot.  It's a pretty empty lot and there's no traffic in it.) I was backing up to make a three point turn, so I could take the mail to our Main Office...I never, ever saw her car.  I never even considered there might be a car parked there.  I was on the phone with the wife...hands free, I astutely and most honestly note (the phone was in the cup holder)....I back up and BAM! I back right into my co-worker's car.

I admit a few expletives escaped from my mouth, then I exclaimed, "I have to hang up.  I just hit someone."
(I assume the wife was a bit concerned about the abrupt ending of this call. Apologies to the wife.)

You cannot imagine how frustrating this is to me, as all my car accidents (that were my fault) have been in reverse.  What it is about reverse, I do not know.  Maybe it's my lack of peripheral vision.  Maybe it's the location of the blind spots in correlation with the lack of peripheral vision.  Maybe I'm just a lousy driver in reverse.  No matter, I had another "in reverse accident." I got out of the car, looked at hers, looked at my and let out a few more expletives.  I thanked the baby Jesus for the lack of damage to her car and then thanked the baby Jesus that I was in a private parking lot.  I went in the office and told her that I had just hit her car.  She looked rather amused.  I suppose it is amusing when your boss hits your car--probably feels like a "one-up" kind of thing.  It's easy to be amused when your boss hits your car and there is minimal damage.  After she assured me she wanted nothing (no police, no report, no nothing) and after me scouring her car to ensure there was no other damage, I continued on my to drop off the mail at our office.

I should probably post a photo of her post-accident car so I can "prove" that I did no other damage....just ruined her metal license plate from the dealer....not that this employee would claim otherwise.

Okay, so she would.  Why do you think I went back and took photos of her car? 

While I was at the Office, I immediately filled out an incident report and hand-delivered it to the HR person.  I wasn't sure if it was an incident but it seemed like it was.  I then started getting nervous.  Although I knew there was no real damage and she knew there was no real damage, I realized I couldn't prove I hadn't done any real damage.  I got back in my car, drove to the site and took some photos.  I then went inside and asked a co-worker to come see if he could find any damage.  Thank god he looked and indicated he didn't see anything but the mushed licensed plate.  I even asked, "Do you see anything behind the plate?" He bent down and peered in. "No, nothing."

Unsuspecting witness and photos: I was feeling much more confident.

I now have to decide what to do with my poor car.  Spotted with "didn't-end-up-matching" touch up paint, scarred by shopping carts, scraped by an unseen ice burg, chipped by flying rocks and now dinged with a license plate....it's mainly damage to the paint, so I'm not sure what to do.  I don't really care what my car looks like--I'm tacky that way--but, I do know I want to drive it for many more years, so it would be better if it weren't a bucket of rust because I didn't take care of the paint job.   The various damaged areas do go down to the metal, so it will rust.....

I've been saving money to get a new tattoo, so I have a bit of spare change I can use to fix the car.  (Well, at least pay for part of fixing the car--my tattoo savings is for a small design, not a large sleeve, so it's not exactly thousands of dollars.)  Perhaps I'll check out the cost of a paint job.  Perhaps I'll use a vat of touch up paint.  Perhaps I'll just live with things the way they are and call it a day. Perhaps I'll paint cartoon characters all over the car, covering the damaged areas.....

Hmmmmmm....cartoon characters painted on a car......where? Where have I seen that idea before????  Oh right--on my own truck, in the mid-1980's!  I'm so gonna have to find a photo of that to prove that I am not above painting cartoon characters on a perfectly good vehicle.

Come to think of it, I got in an "going in reverse" accident with that truck, too.....


Ode to Brown Dog

Godspeed to Brown Dog, the best neighbor canine a person could ever ask for. 

Freckles met Brown Dog when she was only a few months old.  Her owner was a friend of ours.  The two dogs met, Freckles only weighing a few pounds; Brown Dog all tangled up in long legs. They romped around a local park, chasing and playing and running like there was no tomorrow.  We weren't neighbors at the time so we didn't see Brown Dog for many a-year. Fast forward to the middle of the decade....Brown Dog moved in next door.  What a wonderful surprise!  Although Freckles was now a crabby patty and quite inappropriate to Brown Dog, I know she secretly loved and remembered her from those puppy-hood days.

Brown Dog loved to sit in our back yard and watch the world go by.  A hunting dog by nature, she'd watch the local bunnies romp by....stand up slowly....point....point....point....point until someone finally "released" her.  She'd spring into action, unsuspecting bunny in her sites. The picture above illustrates Brown Dog's love of our yard--here she is this spring, peeking through the forsythia, waiting for something to run by.  During the summers, owners and dogs would plop themselves under our green ash tree and enjoy the cool summer evenings or the too-hot-of-days to do anything but sit in the shade.

Brown Dog moved away last summer (quite to our dismay) but her human grandma stayed next door, so we got to see Brown Dog now and then.  Freckles seemed pretty happy to see her and wasn't quite as obnoxious when Brown Dog was in the hood.

Brown Dog was 12 years old, as is Freckles.  Both Brown Dog's owner and I have lamented numerous times about the aging of our beloved dogs, as both of us love our dogs more than most might think possible.  Brown Dog and Cheeseball Neighbor went through many an adventure and trial together, making them an inseparable, perfect pair.  I am truly sorry to learn of Brown Dog's passing and wish only the best to Brown Dog's family.

Godspeed, Brown Dog. Much love to your humans and Bitty Bichon.

Thursday, May 10, 2012

Gone to the Dogs

Yesterday morning, I got bit by a neighborhood dog.  Right on the forearm.  That dog grabbed on and didn't let go.  It was like those police training dogs where the giant German Shepard bites the trainer's arm and doesn't let go until the trainer yells some command in German.

That sounds pretty dramatic and you know how I love drama, so I thought about leaving it at that, but really... I did get bit by a dog and I do have a mark and it was quite the exciting way to start the day....

....but, I was saved by the wife's winter coat (a Packer coat, no less) and thus needed no medical attention. (The coat will need a seamstress.)  The dog only weighed like ten pounds (it's those small ones you have to watch out for) and the owner was in route immediately after the dog charged out the door....

It happened so fast.  We were out for our daily morning walk.  I was lost in my own pity party thoughts when I heard the dreaded sound....the sound of dog tags jingling a little too loudly. I looked to the street and there it was--Cujo Light, a little ball of black fur and white teeth, screaming toward us, leash dragging behind.  I knew I'd have to act fast, as Cujo Light meant business, white fangs snarling and drool flowing.  I knew the dog's name and called out to it, hoping for some form of recognition, but there was none--it was full speed ahead. Lucy and the wife were hysterical--Freckles blindness came in very handy as she didn't see a thing (Cujo Light came in from the blind side).   I realized this dog was going to have the wife and Lucy for breakfast unless I did something pronto:

I threw myself in the way of danger.

I crouched down in front of my "pack," pulled my hand into the sleeve of the coat (it's amazing all the things you can think to do in 2.5 seconds), folded my fingers into a fist (no fingers for breakfast) and shoved my forearm in front of me with a block that would have made the NFL proud.

WHAM! Cujo Light bit into my arm like there was no tomorrow.  It grabbed and and did that shaking thing dogs do when they are killing a rabbit.  The dog was airborne--I pulled my arm up and there it was, dangling and shaking and growling and drooling.  It hurt.  It hurt a lot because the dog had me in a "pinch;" although the coat (and sweatshirt underneath--thank god I always overdress) saved me from punctured skin, it could not save me from the pinching jaws of death.  I knew I'd have a bruise by the time the event was over.  The owner frantically ran our way, screaming the dog's name the whole time.  She ripped the dog off my arm and we all took a moment to gather our wits.

(I am SO glad that dog didn't get hit by a car running across the street to kill us because that would have been much more traumatic than a little "ankle biter" putting a rip in the wife's Packer coat.)

The owner looked understandably mortified.  I assured her I was fine and I tried to convince her that we totally understood....she had opened the door to take her dogs for a walk and Cujo Light squeaked out the door as she spotted us.  I told her a few days ago Lucy had squirted out of our front door and went after the city's school superintendent & dog (never a good idea).  She kept thanking us and apologizing.  After she was finally convinced I was fine, our neighbor took Cujo Light in hand and we continued on our walk.


For the record, I do have a bruise.  It's kind of disappointing, though, as far as bite bruises go.  It's still a bit swollen and you can see where the teeth were if you look hard enough (kind of like how you can see the stitching of the baseball in the bruise from a baseball to the eye, not that I would personally know what that looks like) but it's really disappointing.  You can't say, "Man, I got bit by a dog today!" and then point to this pathetic excuse of a bruise.

Not that I'm complaining.

I have been bitten one time before, back in my days of running.  I was running in the middle of the side street, nowhere near the sidewalk or fence lines, when a little white "ankle biter" squirted under the chain link fence and grabbed on to my ankle (hence, proving the point of the nickname).  Yeow! The owner screamed the dog's name...and, the dog literally let go and fell over on its side, playing dead.  I kid you not.  I looked down and saw that the dog had drew blood.  I looked down and saw the dog playing dead.  I looked down and saw the dog was wearing an up-to-date rabies tag.  I decided to jog home and call it a day.   I didn't need medical attention, so no use worrying about it.

For the record, I did not turn around and see if the dog ever got up.

Yesterday must have been a dog day, as we ended up spending some time talking about dogs with an 80 year old farmer.  He was playing with Freckles and Lucy when he started talking about his own dogs over the years.  (Before I go any further, may I just say that old farmers have a MUCH different view of pets than I do?)   He had a gleam in his eye as he talked about his most recent dog, Skip (of whom I knew lasted less than a year but I didn't bring that up).  "Skip was a great dog, loved to run around.  I loved that dog.  Made him a little pen--he'd get all snuggled up in the blankets.  Ran out by the road, got hit by a car, crushed his nose.  That was a good dog."  He gave a chuckle.

"Dog before that was Lucky.  That dog loved everyone. We loved Lucky. He loved to run and play.  Got hit by a mail truck and needed to get his arm amputated.  I carried him back from the road and took him to the vet.  Crushed shoulder, had to have that arm cut right off.  Leaned a lot after that, did just fine with three legs.  Now, Snoopy--well, Snoopy was a good dog.  Huh.  He ran out in the street and got hit by a car, crushed his snout.  I loved that dog.  Carried him back from the road, died right in my arms."  He chuckled again, quite reflective in manner.

We pray he will stop telling us about dead farm dogs but there seems to be one or two to go...."Sparky was a great dog. He was the family dog.  Ran around free on the farm, loved to run.  Well, we had these bolts that had been cut short, between the fence & chicken coop.  Ran over those, cut his belly wide open, front to back.  I loved that dog."

Thankfully, he stopped with Sparky.  I don't think I could have taken one more dead farm dog story.

When he left, the wife and I made sure Lucy and Freckles knew just how lucky they are to not live on a farm. I reminded the wife that having a dog with one blind eye really isn't so bad.  I thanked the powers that be for having me wear that winter Packer coat in the middle of May...and, maybe....just maybe..I was a wee bit grateful for having such a lame bruise.....and, for not having to live on a farm.

Thursday, May 03, 2012

Seven Hundred and Counting

This is my 700th blog, or so my statistics say.  Do we get a prize or what?  I think we should get a prize.  Maybe the 700 Club will send us something.  Ha!

The other day, as a 20-year-younger-than-me female co-worker walked past where I was standing, she innocently enough  remarked, "you're all dressed up today!" As she walked down the hall, I looked at my clothes, looked at a male co-worker seated near where I was standing and looked down at my clothes again.  I was wearing a solid t-shirt (you know, the "nicer" kind that you get an actual department store), nicer jeans than not (cheap but no holes, sparkly things on the back pocket), an old cardigan sweater and my Doc Martens.  Confused, I shrugged my shoulders at my my male counterpart; he tilted his head and gave me a quizzical look.  My co-worker must have recognized our confusion.  She stopped, turned around and exclaimed, "well, you're wearing a t-shirt without slogans or cartoons on it!"

Touche.  (You know you've taken casual work clothes to a whole 'nother level when you are considered dressed up because there are no slogans on your t-shirt. There should DEFINITELY be a prize for that.)

This, by the way, is the same 20-year-younger newbie co-worker who during lunch at a fast food restaurant asked "are you're a vegetarian?" when I ordered a veggie burger. When I confirmed my vegetarian status, she laughed and said, "of COURSE you are!"  I think the kicker was when I was talking about the wife.  I explained that she was a professor at a local college.  When Ms. Newbie asked what department she was in, I answered, "in the P.E. department." I thought this girl was going to fall out of the booth. "Of COURSE she is!" she hooted.

Thankfully, I find her entertaining.  Others might not be so entertained.  I remind myself that she, being twenty years younger than me, has a VERY different view of both me and of the world. She sees me as a very stereotypical, old school kind of gay wad--she sees the stereotypical way of being for someone my age and "lifestyle," as the religious right like to say.  Her world is so much different than mine.  I am sure I seem SOOOO old to her, so ridiculously OH.EL.DEE.school.  I can't help it I come from the day of the mullet, pinkie ring and Melissa Etheridge concert.

I can't even think about how old my nieces must think I am.

I forgot how I am, what I do, how I look.  It's easy to do this.  I look from the inside, out.  I don't think much about me being me.  I just am.  I see things from behind these thick lenses and keep moving along, humming as I go. So, when someone comes along with this kind of thing, it is always a surprise, when really it's not a surprise at all.

I'm glad to say that I end up surprising this newbie along the way.  Just about the time she thinks she has me pegged, I throw a wrench her way.....just the other day, a song came on her radio.  I mentioned how I really liked the song and muttered something about their album.  The look on her face was priceless.  I thought for a moment that I must have a booger on my face.  I asked what was the matter--she couldn't believe I knew the band or liked their song.  Again, I was confused and asked why. "Well, it's a Christian band.  I didn't think you'd listen to Christian music."

I waited a few seconds and then calmly said, "Damn, I forgot I'm supposed to be outside doing pagan rituals, dancing naked while wearing my Birkenstock, recruiting small children to join my ranks."

To her credit, she quickly apologized.   To my credit, I remained amused.  To our credit, we had a good laugh about stereotypes.

With this 700th blog entry, I acknowledge that my view of me is definitely different than my co-worker's view of me...which is much different from your view of me...which is painfully different from my teenage nieces' view of me.

For the record, I do not recruit small children to join my ranks....but, I might be found dancing naked on the front lawn doing pagan rituals.   If you see me, please make sure to say, "Of COURSE you do!" when observing my lebetian interpretive dance. Then, we can all have a good laugh about the view.