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.
*********************************************************************





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.