Saturday, December 28, 2013

A bird? A plane? A lady in long underwear?

Now that the holidays are zipping by, with only New Year's Eve left to celebrate in 2013, I'm taking a breather and getting to the blog. I hope you all enjoyed a happy Hanukah/Christmas/Kwaanza/ Solstice/Boxing Day. I don't know about you, but I plan on being asleep long before the new year swoops in upon us. As I am on-call New Year's Eve, my plan of being asleep for two hours before the New Year may or may not happen as planned. God help anyone who tries to call off on New Year's Day, as I don't say yes to someone missing work due to a hangover. Don't mess with me, people.

I spent Christmas Day standing, not because I actually wanted to spend the day standing; rather, it was because it hurt a lot less to be standing than sitting. I had an unfortunate "2:30 AM-Freckles-has-to-pee-and-can't-walk-down-the-stairs" incident Christmas morning. Those of you who live in the ice-coated area understand how dangerous (and rather invisible) all that ice really is. Some of us forget that there  might be ice on the steps when carrying a dog outside at 2:30 AM. Dog in hand, donned in old, stretched out long underwear bottoms and a raggedy old t-shirt, I hit that ice and was airborne without warning. Within a milli-second--much before I realized what the hell was happening--I slammed into the ice-coated concrete with such a thud that I think I may have cracked the stairs along with my back. I hit so hard that my glasses literally flew off of my face.

I'm not sure what happened to the dog--she might have been airborne, too but she looks no worse for the wear and can't talk, so we'll never know.

Flat on the ground, I can't say that I was very happy about anything related to this incident and I was in so much pain that all I could do was swear like a sailor (assuming sailors swear a lot) and lie on the ice-coated ground, snow in my butt crack. (Where that snow came from, I do not know, but I do know where it ended up.) I still had the sense to yell about finding my glasses (after all, I'm blind without them) but beyond that, I'm not sure I was speaking the English language. I honestly do not remember what the hell I was yelling; suffice it to say it featured swear words and hate. Thankfully, the wife heard my yelling and helped me find my glasses and gather up the dog.

(Feel free to laugh, as envisioning this event is funny. I wish it had been video-taped, as it would have went viral.)

I have broken my jaw. I have been knocked unconscious. I've had concussions. I've had a perforated appendix. I am here to tell you that NONE of those things hurt even remotely close to how much this thud on the ice hurt. I'm telling you--I have a high pain tolerance and this was an "11" on a scale of "1-10."

The wife asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. I growled out that I most certainly did not. I'm no fool. I knew all they'd do is tell me to rest but keep moving, use ice, take it easy and take some pills. There is nothing to be done if it was deemed a broken or bruised tailbone. If needed, I already had pain pills, left over from the wife's back surgery.....

....but, the REAL reason I would NEVER have agreed to go to the hospital?

While laying on the ice, snow in my butt crack, swearing like a sailor, I realized that I hadn't shaved one single hair off any body part for weeks. There was no way in hell I was going to the hospital unless I at least shaved my legs. And, since I couldn't even walk, let alone bend over to shave my legs, there was no going to the hospital.

And so, Christmas Day was spent standing, hairy legs quietly tucked away to be shaved another day.

Seventy two hours later, I am happy to report that while I remain uncomfortable, I am able to be thankful that I did not hit my head, that it was me and not someone else, that it was at home and not somewhere else. I am grateful that it was not worse and that I am on the mend. I am sore from head to toe, like what happens after a car accident, but feel a hell of a lot better than I did on Christmas Day. I feel like I have a broken butt and my knees ache and I have some mystery bruises. Still, I feel VERY fortunate to have nothing but aches and pains. I still can't pick things up the floor but I can ask for help.

The wife has heated car seats, which are heavenly. I am super-happy about that. It's the one place I can sit and not make weird guttural noises. It's fabulous how the thing heats your back AND your butt at the same time. There is no heating pad that can do that. (Don't start with the "you should be using ice" lecture. I am done with ice and have moved on to heat. One must be comfortable when miserable.) Of course, I'd look pretty weird if I just sat in the driveway in her parked car, smiling because I was sitting on the heated seats. Maybe she'll have to run some errands today and I can ride along. As long as she keeps the motor running, I'd be good to go.

And so, beloved readers of the Addiverse, I implore you to be careful while traversing the ice-covered surfaces of the world. I wish you the happiest of new years and the safest of winters. I'd ask you for a dance this New Year's Eve but I'll be sleeping and I can't dance at this particular time.

....Perhaps I will wear a helmet for the duration of ice issues the winter. One can never be too careful.
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Saturday, December 21, 2013

Quack

Since I've had all sorts of people inquiring about my thoughts on a certain duck man and his comments made about sinful queers, I say this:

I don't care.

I've had even more questions about whether or not I'm going to stop wearing my duck pajamas, stop watching the show, stop this or that.  I say:

No. 

Really? Really.

Does this make me a bad homosexual?

I hope not. After all, I support those who don't support me. Does that make me a bad homosexual?

(At least nobody has asked if I plan to shave my beard off.  Heh heh.)

Seriously. It's a fake "reality" TV show of which I find quite humorous. (You don't think those shows are real, do you? Unless life comes scripted--or, at least set up on a pre-planned story line--it's not reality.) I watch it for entertainment purposes only.  If I don't like what is being said or presented or it's no longer entertaining to me or it insults me or I become offended, I do what any good consumer should do:

Change.The.Channel.

It's a show about good ol' Southern boys wearing camouflage. Not to stereotype (well, okay I am stereotyping quite strongly), did I ever think that Papa Duck thought about homosexuality in any other terms than sinful?

No.

Do I know the duck men present as God-fearing men who pray every episode?

Yes.

Do I find this offensive, wrong, insulting?

No.

Here's the thing. TV is full of judgmental nonsense. Heck, all media is filled with judgmental nonsense. All you have to do is peruse the Book de la Face to see the right fighting the left in pretty little photos with quotes. I'm all good with it. That's why I keep my partying with tea friends. Not only do they entertain me (and, they do), I think it's just fine that they post what they post. If I get offended, I can always un-friend them.

The duck men make me laugh. That's all what I want: to laugh.

I find Foxy News to be ridiculous (albeit entertaining--it also makes me laugh). Good news: I don't have to watch it. I don't have to believe it. I don't have to argue about it. Who am I to say no one should watch that channel? My liberal channel might not be any better. I just like it better.

Papa duck didn't say we should kill, maim, hunt, round up all gay people. He basically said we are going to hell for going against the good Lord's book and for doing sinful things, un-natural things. He was expressing his belief, right or wrong as it might be.

[Side note: Actually, I'm not sure he WAS expressing his belief. It might be the most genius marketing ploy. Think about it: we're all talking about this duck show. Some people are incensed; others are jumping for joy. The GLBT population is frothing at the mouth, asking for money to fight this injustice, while the far Right doing the same thing. In the mean time, the TV channel is enjoying all sorts of free advertisement.]

If Papa duck uses Leviticus to argue against homosexuality, good for him. He should probably read the rest of the story before engaging me in Biblical banter, as it suggests all sorts of things that make him a heathen sinner, right along with his gay peeps. Hope that camouflage isn't made of two or more different kind of materials (threads), 'cuz Leviticus ain't having none of that.

God help his son who sports a tattoo.  That's REALLY a problem.

So, I am going to enjoy my TV show and I'm not going to get all riled up about it....which, strangely enough, seems to confuse both my straight and gay friends. No matter the orientation, they look confused, almost disappointed. To all of them, I say: if something comes up that offends me or upsets me or I find ridiculous, I am going to change the channel.....

Better yet, I should turn off my TV and go find something more productive to do...... 

....like get another tattoo, touch a football with my bare hands and feed the wife shellfish.

Quack!     :-)
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Sunday, December 15, 2013

Oh Be No Mo Woe

Well, Addiverse, it has come down to this: this morning, I opened my very last box of o.b. ultra tampons.

Not the super plus. Not the super. We're talking the purple-box ULTRA o.b. tampons.

Those of you who have been in the flow of this blog (if you know what I mean) know that this is a VERY serious issue, equal to global warming and war in the middle east.

I had hoped that Mother Nature would "beat" the end of my o.b. ultra tampon supply, but she must have been out golfing with Al Gore or something because those eggs are shooting out to the exact day every dang month.

The wife said, "Aren't you too old for this?

No one tells you in fifth grade that 40 years later you'll be looking for tampons the size of paper towel rolls.

As it does not appear the end of my "friend" (and I do use that term lightly) is in sight, I woke up this morning with one mission in mind......

......find the purple box and start spending money.

I first went to Bay of Eeeee and found that yes, there were purple-boxed o.b.s listed. I was confused as they were cheaper than they used to be.  (Heck, I sold a box for $41.00 way back when they first discontinued them, not because I wanted to, but because I wanted to see how much they'd sell for. Boy, I wish I had that box back right now.) This made no sense--how can something that should be rarer become cheaper? I then went to the Amazonian Jungle and found that they, too had the tampons, albeit a little more expensive than the Bay of Eeeee. This still didn't make sense. There was only one thing to do....

.....go to the o.b. website.

It was there I learned that the purple-box o.b. ultra is BACK IN PRODUCTION!!!!!

I was giddy! I think Freckles (who is deaf and fell down the stairs yesterday and isn't even sure she is still on the planet) heard me exclaim my delight. This meant that I was saved from certain doom!

A web search suggested that these little bullets of love are now on the shelves at places like Wally World, GreenWalls and SeeVeeEss.  (I refuse to give free advertising whenever possible.) Wally World didn't have much of anything to choose from on their site, so I jumped over to GreenWalls....and, there they were....

ON SALE!!!

Oh dear god, I must go out and buy a lottery ticket today because THIS IS MY LUCKIEST DAY EVER!

I ordered six boxes.

I wanted to order more but that seemed a bit much. (I want to encourage my body to stop production by the end of the sixth box. One can hope.) Hell, I wanted to order a dozen boxes but I got a grip and went with a half dozen.

And so, it is a beautiful day in the Addiverse. I don't think you can understand how awesome this is unless you are one of those people who requires the paper-towel-roll-sized tampon. To find them on sale after being out of production makes it that much wonderful. I can open my last box with confidence, knowing that there is more to be had in the world....

....I am going to "like" the o.b. page on Book de la Face. If that doesn't scream "celebration," I don't know what does. Merry Christmas to ME!
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Thursday, December 05, 2013

Like the Trinity

If you are a Catholic/recovering Catholic/survivor of Catholic School/fan of the new pope/thinking of converting to Catholicism, you probably understand that some things are a mystery of your faith. I've always liked saying, "it's a mystery, like the Trinity."  So, I named this blog "like the Trinity" because I have faced a few mysteries over the past week.  I thought it was funny.  

BTW, happy 50th birthday to my sister.  I think my fifties have rocked, but then again, I'm delirious.  Also, happy birthday to Wild Mama, owner of her first smart phone.  Let the app loading begin!

BTW BTW, if you are wondering, Packer Tickets are going for BELOW face value.  If you've ever wanted to go to Lambeau, now is your chance to leap.  It's no mystery why the tickets are so cheap....but, don't tell the wife I said that.

This holiday, I experienced a mystery featuring the behavior of wife's family on Turkey Day.  We went to Thanksgiving dinner as planned, speeches of gratitude ready for action.  The wife meditated, fretted, wrote, re-wrote & rehearsed, readying and steadying herself for the annual gratitude-sob-a-thon.  It was a weird day to begin with, as it was the first year that paper plates were utilized.  It was unusual that it was a buffet dinner instead of a fancy-sit-at-the-formal-table-til-everyone's-done dinner.  Strangely to me, the wife's mother read a prayer (grace) from a folded piece of paper, with no one chiming in or professing anything. If I were Jesus, I'd be a little bitter.  He didn't get much billing this year.  Dinner was consumed, dinner was done.  I wandered over to the sink to do the dishes, but it was anti-climatic, with just a bunch of silverware waiting to be washed.

Looking back, I think the mood was crushed by the Packers pathetic performance.  People were screaming and yelling and frothing at the mouth during the game.  It didn't go well and the Packers lost by 30 points. I think that game wiped--exorcised--the gratitude right out of the house.  In fact, it wiped it out so badly that.....

....they didn't do the annual gratitude-sob-a-thon.

I couldn't believe it!  At first, I thought they had forgotten to do it. How you forget an annual tradition like that I have no idea, but it seemed to be a possibility. Then, I thought they were waiting to do it after the game ended and everyone had removed themselves from the post game fetal ball position. Then, I started to wonder what was going on. I looked around the living room and noticed it did not look like anyone was making a move to start the circle.  Heck, they weren't making a move for much of anything at all.  I asked the wife about it, as I had to leave in an hour or so, and this event takes more than an hour.  She asked twice, trying to get it going, but no one jumped in. While waiting, I think I heard one or two family members growl they weren't going to do it, but I'm not sure--it might have been the two dogs playing under the table.  I finally gave up waiting and went home, reflecting on this non-event the entire ride home.

Like the trinity, it remains a mystery: why didn't they complete the annual cry-fest? I'm stymied. I still have no idea or answer.  It's not like they suddenly have nothing to be thankful for.  It's not like they aren't grateful.  It's not like they all became Satan worshippers.  Nothing to the seeing eye has changed.   Maybe they heard I had written a blog professing my gratitude to and for the wife.  I scared them right into submission.

Heck, if anything could be safely (and cheaply) scared into submission, I would like it to be the noise--no, the vibration--of my car. We're talking 747 landing overhead loud and teeth-chattering vibration.  The sound is not from the pipes or muffler or the underside of the car; rather, it seems to be coming from the engine compartment. Talk about a mystery of the Lord.

Imagine, if you will, me standing in front of my car, hood open, staring at the running engine. I don't know much of anything about a car engine, but I can point out things like the battery, oil thingy, wiper fluid. (Points to me for knowing how to open the hood, right?) Picture me standing there in the freezing cold, hood open, sound is rumbling right along, things are visibly vibrating.  Poor little wiper fluid cover, chattering a little song. I take a gander at the engine and easily confirm: Yup, that's where the noise is coming from.  I lean a little closer.  No, nothing looks wrong. Puzzled, I run through a list of ideas....Idle is fine, starts fine, runs fine. The engine itself doesn't sound rough.  It's like the car itself sounds rough.  I kneel down and take a listen.  Nope, it's not from underneath the car--it's definitely something in the engine compartment.

Of course, I don't let a little thing like a rumbling engine compartment stop me.  I shut the hood and hit the road.

I've been ignoring the noise & vibration for weeks, as because after awhile, it isn't as noticeable. Maybe I just become more delirious than I already am and stop noticing.  Or, maybe turning up the radio really has helped me ignore it. Oh sure, it's embarrassing when you start out for the day and it does seem to scare passengers into submission, but what's a little car mystery as long as you keep chugging along?

It's not like the wheels are falling off or anything.

For some reason (another HUGE mystery, probably bigger than the non-sob-a-thon), I came to my senses and decided to have a mechanic take a gander. I took the car at night and left it so it would be nice and cold when the mechanic fired it up in the morning.  I left him a detailed note about my observations: idle is fine, worst when cold, vibration and noise seem to be front passenger side of the engine compartment.  (I'm sure mechanics think notes like that are ridiculous, but it made me feel better.)  I guessed that whatever it was, it would cost $1000, while the wife decided the cost would be $200 to fix.

Turns out one of my engine mounts is sagging a wee bit; thus, there really is a vibration and it really is from the area of which I pointed out and it is the worst when it's cold out and when the cold is just getting started. I took a second, then asked the most obvious question: "Is the engine going to fall out?"

The answer was "no."

I countered, "but, I've had a car where the engine fell out."  (It was the wife's car and the engine really did fall out.)

He assured me that I was safe to drive the car.  "I can fix it, if you want.  I have the parts in stock."

I thought about it.  The price sounded very reasonable--more than the wife's guess, less than mine.  I asked, "if it were your car, would you fix it?"

He indicated that if it didn't bother me, there was no rush to fix it.  "Does it bother you?"  I assured him it does not, but thought to myself "it sure bothers the wife."  I also thought that it probably bothers the neighbors.He seemed to take the approach of if it doesn't bother you, it's all good.  "It's not a safety issue," he reiterated.  "So, my engine's not going to fall out?  I'll wait.  I can always bring it back."

The REAL mystery here? A mechanic who gives me the chance to not spend money. The Trinity ain't got nuthin' on that.
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Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Giving Really Quiet Thanks

This has a happy ending, so don't get put off  by the beginning of this blog.  I have to give you a little background before putting my vulnerable self out there.  I'm sweating while thinking about this.

Every year, we join the wife's family in the Cheddarlands to celebrate Thanksgiving.  This is a very good thing as they make everything from scratch and they like to watch football.  (Okay, so LIKE isn't a strong enough word--they LIVE for football of the Cheesehead kind).  And, every year after dinner, they sit in a circle and one by one say what they are grateful for. They used to do it before dinner but with the addition of spouses and children to the family, it started taking too long, so they moved it to after dinner but before dessert.  It's a sob fest, with everyone but me blubbering and making snot and crying so hard that they can't even speak. This traditionally goes on for a minimum of one hour and a record of three hours. They pour their souls out, gasping for air as they profess their gratitude for everything.  That is a good thing, too, if you can get pass the crying.  These are truly grateful people who love each other dearly.

Then, there is me.

I don't cry during this event.  I barely even tear up during the "toughest" of thankfulness.  I sit there and wait my turn. I put my game face on and steel myself for whatever they might say. I keep my smile on my face because it is touching to hear everyone express their thanks.  I then say, "I'm really grateful to be here."

With that, I pass my turn.

Every year, I say the same thing....because I can't say what I REALLY want to say.

In the earlier years, I couldn't say much of anything meaningful because there was a silent agreement that the wife and I would not speak as a couple.  Heck, it took me 16 years to get invited to one of the holiday gatherings, so I wasn't gonna blow it with a litany of thanks for the wife.  Out of respect to her parents, I bit my tongue and said nothing about us or the wife.  I guess that where the "I'm really grateful to be here" started, as I was truly grateful to finally be there and I knew I couldn't say anything more lest I upset the family in one way or another.  This was pretty easy in the beginning as only a few of the siblings had partners of any kind and there were no kids.  I'm not a very demonstrative person, anyway, so biting my tongue didn't lead to bleeding from the mouth or anything.

Then, the siblings got spouses and they started spewing love for their partners. They look lovingly into each others eyes, sobbing as they spilled out gratitude & love. I had to bite a little harder and say, "I'm really grateful to be here."  I think I started saying how happy I was about the dogs and having a good job, just to mix it up a bit.

Finally, the wife's family came around and decided I wasn't going anywhere and I wasn't so bad and I wasn't trying to recruit anyone and that I really wasn't a heathen sinner and that I was pretty amusing....but, then came the children.  Lots of children.  Lots of children who know nothing of who the wife is to me and who I am to the wife. (You'd think by now someone would be saying, "who is Aunty Addi and who does she belong to? Why does she keep showing up at these events?") They know I come with the wife to all family functions but there has been nary a question.  So, with the kids in the circle and out of respect to their parents, I'm back to saying, "I'm really grateful to be here."

Well, I've decided that this year I will say what I want to say.  Kind of.  In this blog.

Okay, this is a blog, so that's not very romantic or personal.  There is only so vulnerable you can make yourself in a blog. There is only so much that can be written without getting ridiculous. Nonetheless, I'm going to blog my gratitude right here and now, then I'll hand it to the wife.  At least that way she will know what I would say if I could/would/should.

I am grateful for the wife for more reasons I can count and more than I can express in a blog.

I am thankful that the wife keeps me grounded while letting me reach for the stars.
She trusts me with all her being.
She tells it like it is.

The wife puts up with my fingerprints on the microwave, 
        my piles on the kitchen table,
                my twangy country music while riding in the car,
                       my desire to stay home at night instead of going out,
                             the addition of yet another tattoo,
                                    the purchase of yet another Xena item.

I can tell her anything.
I can be myself, be whom I want and need to be.
I trust her with all my being.

I am thankful for all she's taught me,
For all she's given me,
For all she's said to me.
For all she hasn't said to me!
I am glad we are opposites so we can balance each other.

The wife puts up with my dirty car,
        my failure to finish doing my laundry,
             my love of Beef-a-Roo and Panera,
                   my independence and impaired ability to stay on task,
                       my inability to cheer for one specific football team.

I like that I think of her when listening to my twangy country music.
        I am amazed at what a hard, dedicated worker she is.
              I appreciate that she worries and frets about this or that,
              because she actually cares about things,                
                      about doing a good job,
                               about being a good person,
                                      about being a good employee and a fine partner.
                    I am amused by her need to buy everything on sale,
                               refusing to buy things at full price.
                                      I am secretly touched that she cries
                                      during TV commercials.

I am thankful that we can get mad at each other and be okay with that and then fix whatever we're mad about.
I'm glad we don't get mad at each other very often--we bicker.  Call us the Bickersons.
I'm thankful for the growth we have enjoyed.

I'm glad she's just smiles and nods when I buy tickets to yet another Madonna concert.
      I'm excited she finally acquiesed and let me get dogs.
            I'm thankful that she finds my need for new license plates every year
            to be a waste of money but still doesn't give me a hard time about it.

Mostly, I am glad that I will actually be able to marry her.
I am thankful that Illinois passed the marriage act so I can MARRY her.
       I am grateful that we will be afforded rights and not have to worry
       about things that we've always had to worry about.
            I am happy we will be able to just be a couple.
                   I am excited to the wife's wife.I like her more every day.
                         Heck, am glad I like--love--her more every day.

And, so I am ever so blessed to be with such a good person.
          Thank you to the wife.
                     I am grateful for you and to you.
                             Here's to me one day saying this in your family circle.
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Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  Hope it is a great one.
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Saturday, November 23, 2013

Sweet and Sour

I'm a little bitter at Hawaii as they beat Illinois to being Number 15; hence, they have made my last blog obsolete.  Illinois signed their gay marriage law after Hawaii, so now Illinois is Sweet Sixteen and Hawaii claimed their stake on Number 15.  I suppose that 16 has a good ring to it, but still.

(If you need a good chuckle, check out Judy Baar Topinka's speech at the signing.  This Republican, naughty as she is, likes to have a good time. She's my kind of Republican.)

I liked turning sixteen.  I had a birthday party at Ponderosa with five good friends.  I got my driver's license right away....and, that was REALLY sweet for sweet 16 as I got to drive a Mustang!  (Ask my sister about her first ride with me.) Sixteen was an overall really good year, although it was not a good year for physics class.  That class ruined my straight A's.  (Um, it crushed my straight A's.  I think I almost flunked.  Physics and I do not get along, no offense to physicists of the world.)  I went to state on the speech team when I was 16.  (Talk about terrifying--I was doing original comedy--I know, I know, no surprise--during the competition, no one laughs because they are all competing against you.  It's horrible.  The judges don't laugh, your competition gives you the stink eye, you're sweating and thinking you are funny but you're not sure that you are funny at all.  It does nothing for your self-esteem. It made me constipated and ill before every meet. Thank god I had a good run.)  I'm not particularly found of the number 16 (I have a weird thing about numbers, but that's for another blog), but it's certainly more likable than 17 in my numbers book.  Sweet 16 will suffice and we big ol' queers in the flat lands shall celebrate our Sweet 16 like there's no tomorrow (which the fundamentalists assure there will be no tomorrow, now that this hedonistic law has passed).

Side note: Thank you to the priest that did the exorcism right after the signing.  I'm sure he had good success with that endeavor.  I feel so much lighter.  I don't want to don my gay apparel for the holidays now that he's done that.

Why, here I am, burning in Hell.

(Or, maybe this is a picture of me enjoying the new movie about catching fire, with our beloved Katniss.  I did thoroughly enjoy the movie.  It's hot.)


Now that the IL Guv (who is not imprisoned, which is better than our last two governors who remain in prison) has signed the okay for gay marriage, I can't stop thinking about it.  I know I wrote about it last post but I can't let it go.  Maybe it's because I just can't believe it.  I watched the signing via the Internet and I still can't believe it.  The only reason I really believe it is because of all the hate spewing out of opponents--THAT ensures me this is real (so, keep on spewing, people!).  Although the wife and I will not have a ceremony (after all, we've already done that), we will "upgrade" on the first day possible, trading our civil union license in for a marriage license (followed by a high five, I am sure) and then be married as of three years ago.  Go figure.

Dos Marias asked if there is an upgrade in jewelry with the upgrade in marital status.  Good question. We do love jewelry....but, my ring is perfect, unbreakable, scratch-free.  I can't upgrade that thing. I need something that I can't ruin or break and I have that.  Maybe the wife can get a double-upgrade--hers and mine. She doesn't break jewelry and I'd be all good with that.  Time to go shopping? I hear they have great sales at the holidays.....

I wish I had better news on the dog front, as that IS something we DO need.  Poor Lucy. Life's crazy like that--the blind, deaf smelly dog who is on borrowed time and doesn't know she's on the planet is healthy as a horse and the younger, livelier, seemingly healthier one may be facing a short battle with cancer. ("Short" because cancer doesn't take its time in such situations.) We're going to have Blue Eyes and Pastor Master Reiki stop by and see what they think.  Blue Eyes has a gift with animals, so she may be better at telling us what's going on than the vet is able to do.  I may be 100% wrong about Lucy--after all, there have been no lab tests--but, the look on the vet's face and her readiness to refer us for surgery, chemo and radiation suggest otherwise.

There will be no surgery, chemotherapy or radiation.  I will not put her through that.  Surgery would only buy her some time, not years.  She's had an amazing life, as far as dogs go.  Our dogs live better than most people.  I will not put her through the misery of surgery.  There will be no invasive lab tests or biopsies; after all, it won't change anything I do.  Does it matter if it's cancer or "just" tumors? No, it won't.  I wouldn't do treatment--I'd do palliative things and I'm already doing that.  I will give her Golden Arches hamburgers, share my ice cream, let her sleep on the bed, enjoy every day....

.....and, make sure the dogs are featured on the holiday card (of which I am designing today).  I figure if I do that, they'll both live for like seven more years and you can all make fun of me.

You can make fun of my $27.00 unbreakable ring while you are making fun of this report on the dogs. I look forward to that.  I love being wrong, especially about things like this.  If I'm not wrong, you can send chocolate and money to my therapy fund.

I can't end this blog on a sad note.  It'd be just plain wrong.  So, I will end by reminding that gay-exorcising priest better to watch out.  I am authorized to do exorcisms, too.  Why, I think I'll do one on him while I have some free time this weekend.....

......BAM! I'll exorcise the gayness into him. Happy Sweet 16, padre!
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Sunday, November 10, 2013

Fifteen

Well, well, well.  Illinois is the 15th state to pass gay marriage.

Now, if you don't believe in gay marriage, I am all good with that and with you.  

If you do believe in gay marriage, I'm all good with that and with you, too.

We all have our own beliefs and convictions.  I am not here to judge who is right or wrong and I'm not here to try and convince you of anything about this issue.  I support the freedom to have your own beliefs and convictions even when I don't agree.

That said, Illinois rocks!

I didn't write about this gay-marriage-in-Illinois thing earlier because I was in disbelief, with few words to share.  (That's a first.) I never thought this would happen in my lifetime and I certainly didn't think it was going to pass in Illinois.  I hadn't planned on watching the fall veto session debate or potential vote--I promised myself I would not do that, as last time--when they did not call SB10 to vote in the House--I was devastated. I watched the whole thing via the Internet from my kitchen table, muttering for them to "call the vote." The longer time went on, the sicker I felt.  As time was expiring in the final session of the House, I remember yelling--no, screaming--at the computer screen: "THEY AREN'T GOING TO CALL THE VOTE!"

They did not call the vote and I decided, right then and there while seated at said kitchen table, that I would not watch when the fall veto session rolled around.  I refused to give one more penny to the effort toward a fall veto session vote. I deleted every single email I received without opening them. I refused to write or call my congresspeople again.

I was bitter, party of one.

Fast-forward to last week.  I knew the fall veto session was in process, so I avoided the news like the plague.  It wasn't until I took a quick peek at book de la face during a quiet moment on the job that I noticed the gay marriage debate was in progress.  I strengthened my conviction, saying aloud that I would not watch.  I tried to ignore all the links being posted that led right to the debate.  I argued aloud with myself, begging not to click on the link.

I clicked on the link.

It figures that I clicked on the link just as the nay-sayers were trashing the idea.  I said aloud, "I can't watch this. I swore I wouldn't watch this. I am not going to watch this."

A co-worker chuckled from the room next door.

I tried to leave the web site and get back to focusing on my work....but, I couldn't.  Instead, I turned up the volume, chastising myself the entire time.  My co-worker chuckled a little bit louder.  "I thought you said you weren't going to watch that."

(By this time, my boss, an advocate for all things in my life, knew I was doing this, so no worries. I texted her about the debate, alerting her I was watching.  She wished me luck.)

I sat there at my desk, engrossed in the debate.  Then, suddenly.....they called the vote.

One of my employees walked in to my office to ask me a question, right as they were calling the vote.  I screamed at him: 
"NOT NOW!"

(Boy, that's a great way for a boss to act.)

I held up my hand, giving him the palm-of-shut-up, my eyes still glued to the screen.  He slinked out of my office.  I gave a yell as he slinked out, "JUST WAIT A MINUTE!!"

They voted.  I held my breath, watching the tally of the vote.  Slowly, incredibly, amazingly....up popped the number "61."

Sixty one for number 15.  Gay marriage will be allowed in Illinois, starting June 1, 2014.

At first, I was incredulous.  It didn't really make sense.  Then, I was washed over by guilt--after all, I had all but shunned the process. Then, I was covertly giddy.  Then, I was back to incredulous.  It was just too much to fathom.  I'm not kidding when I say I didn't think it would ever happen in my life time.

The wife and I don't have to do anything except take our civil union license to the county clerk and "upgrade" it to a marriage license.  Incredibly, we will then be married, with our marriage date being our civil union date.  How wild is that? As of June 1, 2014, we'll have been married for almost three years....without even trying.

Lest you think this is a non-issue--after all, we had a civil union--let me assure you otherwise.  We can now file federal taxes as a married couple.  We can get on each other's insurance.  We don't have to worry about hospital rules for who can enter the room.....we will have the same rights as all married couples.  We will have access to spousal benefits in general.   By one vote, we got over 1,000 benefits that married couples get.  Over one thousand.

Here's the man of whom I need to apologize:

Dear Rep. Harris,
I am sorry for giving up, for not sending money, for spouting one negative comment, for refusing to believe in your efforts.  I should probably send you a bazillion dollars so you can be re-elected for the remainder of your life.  Your hard work is recognized and appreciated more than you can know.
Most sincerely, humbly and respectfully,
Addi Warrior Princess

I shall also apologize to all our straight friends who manned the phone banks and worked tirelessly to help further this cause:
Dear straight allies,'
I am a schmuck.  I grovel for your forgiveness.  You rock.
Love, The very un-deserving Addi Warrior Princess

No, there will not be a royal wedding, but I'm holding to the idea of having some form of a party.  I best invite Rep. Harris and all our hard-working, dedicated straight advocates. They are the reason we now have those 1000 rights.  They've earned a seat at a table of honor and a permanent place in my vault of gratitude.

Hmmmm.....shall we register somewhere and gets some china?

Heck no, we should be inundated with toasters.   ;-)
***************************************************************************
(If you don't believe in gay marriage, don't worry--we won't invite you. Just sayin'. But, be warned--you are going to miss a lot of fun.  Kiss kiss.)


Monday, November 04, 2013

Time Flies

I dedicate this blog to my 30 year old minion--er, I mean co-worker, who laments on how I continue to use TWO spaces after a period instead of the now-approved (and taught) ONE space.  I just can't do it.  Try as I might, two spaces just show up.  I told him to respect my need for two spaces, as I am from the land of manual typewriters.  Seriously--if you are my age, try and type using only one space after the end of a sentence.

Last night while watching a football game (and playing that Friend Word game on my Kindle and scrolling through book de la fast posts on my phone and checking emails on my computer and making piles of work papers on the floor), I wondered where all my time was "going."  I thought about how I am always busy but no more so than usual....then, pondered why on earth I haven't been able to find time to go walking, blog, draw something (anything!), play with the dogs, visit with friends and/or family....

....then, right as I was checking the scores on my four fantasy football teams (yes, four), it dawned on me that my art professor was right--the older you get, the faster time goes.

When I was a senior in college listening to my favorite art professor's lecture, I thought he was crazy.  After all, how can time go faster? It is what it is.  He confused me. I certainly didn't believe him.

It must have made an impact because 30 years later, I still clearly recall his comments and talk.  And, as you learn as you get older that your parents were right about just about everything, I had to admit he was right, too.

I put down the phone and stepped away from the computer,  shut my kindle cover and stopped making piles. All this multi-tasking wasn't getting me any further "ahead" in the game, either.  Time marches on and it's going down hill.

Lest you get all maudlin, let me say this isn't a good or bad thing; it's just a thing. Time is a thing. Time can go fast or slowly.  Time can go in slow motion (like when waiting in line at Wally World) or it can go at the speed of light (like when on vacation).  I think there is scientific gobbly-gook that proves time goes fast and slow and probably backwards.  All I know is that during a gynecological exam time goes slowly (like molasses in January, as they say) and when meeting Lucy Lawless, time almost doesn't even exist (fastest 20 seconds of my entire life).

For those who don't know: I am a freak about time; in fact, one of my friends referred to me as "el tiempo" for awhile.  I hate being late. I always wear watch.  Heck, I own dozens of watches.  I always know what time it is--the wife can't believe it.  It's a race against time....I probably look like that dang rabbit in Wonderland. Time, time, time.....

Don't think that I stopped doing everything while pondering this--I left the football game on. Time's not going so quickly that I don't have time for football.  And, I kept an eye on the scrolling information on individual player status so I could keep mental note of how badly I was losing in the pools.

Let's get silly and use songs about time to lighten the mood.  For no purpose of any redeeming value, see if you can identify the song and artist about time passages:
I shall run quickly away from time well wasted.
I won't try to put time in a bottle.
I won't ask if anyone really knows what time it is.
Time after time we shall enjoy ice cream.
Once this blog is done, it will be time for me to fly.
Dear goodness, I never seem to have too much time on my hands.
Gosh, if I could turn back time, I'd eat more chocolate.
This probably won't be the last time I write about time.
I had the time of my life writing this blog about time.
And, my favorite: let's do the time warp again.

You can't have a bad day when you've done the time warp.

A survey of my week explained a bit of why I didn't have time (whatever time may be) to do those "other" things of which I haven't been doing.  The list of things doesn't matter; suffice it to say, I was busy doing stuff for work, church, friends and our little family.  Having an additional hour this weekend was delicious but it didn't get me any further, because time marched on despite giving me more time.

You can't beat time.  Time beats you.  Dang art professor.

Since I can't beat time, I best use time wisely and to my advantage.  It's my job to make sure there is enough time to eat as much chocolate as I want, to slice time into pie shapes of importance, to get done what I want to get done.  I'm going to assume that time is malleable.  I can bend it, cut it, use it as needed.  Oh sure, there are all those things that "have" to be done but I say there will be time for all I want to do, even when speeding downhill.

Professor Andy, you were right: time goes faster as we get older.  But, that doesn't mean time isn't on our side.....

....and, it certainly doesn't mean we won't have time to do the time warp....again.


Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Vowing to Camouflage

The wife and I took part in one of the best weddings on the planet. Unfortunately, I cannot do it justice trying to blog about it--it's one of those events that "you had to be there." At one point, the wife turned to me and said, "are you writing this stuff down? Because this is unbelievable."

And, she was right.  It was unbelievable.

I didn't blog about it right away because I wasn't sure what to say.  A few days of reflective distance did nothing to help me put words on describing the event.

I was the minister, clad in a camouflage shirt & cowboy boots, as requested.  I had written a standard ceremony, as the bride and groom were all good with that approach.  There was no practice, no rehearsal...heck, they never even read the script.  I looked around and took in the scenery, as it is of great benefit to "play to your audience."  

Well, the event was held in a bar, so that gives you an idea of the venue.  "Keep it simple," I thought to myself.

They had brought in wooden benches, so there was an aisle and "pews."  That seemed traditional enough.

The men were wearing red rifle shell casings as corsages--on their camouflage vests.  "Keep it respectful--these people have access to weapons--don't mess with the hunters," I muttered.

The women were wearing necklaces and earrings made of bullets and their bouquets were fashioned out of blue jean material and bullets.  "Bet you've never seen that before," I mused to myself.

The bride and groom were milling about the bar, drinking and visiting, laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves.  Who has time to worry about the groom not seeing the bride before the wedding?

The crowd was casually clad in jeans, cowboy boots, various forms of camouflage, enjoying a drink or three before the start of the official festivities.

The wife was smitten as there was a little gift shop on the premises, featuring a 70% off sale for polo shirts.  She exclaimed, "These are perfect for work! Can I use your credit card?"

Okay--I realized I needed to keep it simple, respectful, fun, light-hearted--and, short.  Keep it short.

There was a college football game playing on the wide-screen.  I wasn't sure they would turn the TV off for the ceremony (for the record, they did).  As I turned away from the television, I mentioned to the mother of the bride how I had never seen camouflage wedding attire before.  She responded:  "it's not as unusual as you think."

While standing there, contemplating this fact, the groom noted how he & his friends had blown up pumpkins this morning--you know, with guns--in an effort to decorate for Halloween.

The ceremony was held......right under a giant photo of Lambeau Field.  I kid you not.  The only way it could have been more appropriate is if St. Vince had been in the photo.

The bridal party walked down the aisle to Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven."

(By the way, the bridesmaids and groomsmen were all carrying their drinks while walking down the aisle.)

The bride walked down the aisle to a Metallica song, accompanied on one side by her biological dad and the other side by her step-dad.

The kids in the front row were doing "The Wave."

I cannot make this stuff up.  

It was wonderfully surreal, very personalized, oozing with fun.  Thankfully, the wife and MJagger were there, lest no one would ever believe me.

Although it sounds like I'm making fun of this event, I'm really not.  It was very touching and was "them." It made sense.  It fit perfectly.  It was classy in its own way.  The decorations were beautiful.  The jewelry home-made, ready to be sold on ETSY. The antics couldn't have been more appropriate.

I truly enjoyed leading this ceremony.   At one point, I had everyone raise their glasses (yes, everyone was drinking during the ceremony) and toast the bride & groom, as a sign of support and blessing.  I quoted Duck Dynasty.  I noted how this was the first time I had been asked to wear camouflage while serving as a wedding officiant. I emphasized how getting married under a photo of Lambeau Field meant this was a done deal--no getting divorced now.  When the groom's ring wouldn't go on, I employed witty banter. I kept it short and kept 'em laughing, all the while respecting these two fine people.

It went swimmingly.

I'm beginning to really like this minister gig.  As long as I can play to the audience, I can rock the pulpit. Dearly beloved, indeed!

The reception featured bottles of Boone's Farm "wine" (and, I do use that term loosely) on each table, surrounded by center-pieces made of--you guessed it--rifle shell/casings. The groom ripped his shirt sleeves off, leaving him with a camo vest and bare arms.  Dessert featured six different kinds of cake. Most of the people gathered around the bar to watch the college game of the home state.

As we were enjoying the after-ceremony activities, I commented to the wife and MJagger how "today's brides" sure are different than what I traditionally picture when thinking about brides--they don't have rehearsals, they don't get nervous, they have their own vision, they don't do a first dance or a daddy/daughter dance or a dollar dance, they don't seem to worry about much of anything. There are no rules. I wondered if all weddings were like that. The wife said, in a deadpan voice, "maybe it's only the ones that you do."

Smarty pants.

If any bride asks me for advice (and, I highly doubt brides are going to come rushing to me for advice), I am going tell her to make the ceremony fit who she and her groom are, to make it personal, to have fun, to be creative and to just be true to themselves.

It's their day.  You can't do it wrong.

I'm also going to tell her that camouflage really does work as a color palette.
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Saturday, October 12, 2013

Time for Brownies

You know it's time to write a blog when you wake up and realize you were dreaming about writing a blog.

Not to depress you, but things are serious in the Addiverse.  Well, not ALL serious--after all, it IS the Addiverse.  There is always a good time to be had somewhere in the Universe. I'm getting ready for yet another wedding ceremony (this time wearing camouflage), a preying mantis was hanging out on our front door (a sure sign of good luck), I successfully survived a semi-technology free weekend while with friends at the Love Loft.  (I got smacked when I reached for my phone to check the weather.  My excuses fell on deaf ears--the wife exclaimed, "If you want to know the weather, look out the window!")  I have a whole pile of brownies in the freezer.  You cannot have a bad day when you know you have a stockpile of brownies in the freezer....even better when you know there is ice cream right beside them.

But, not everything can be peachy.  With that, I speak of my dying client and of Freckles.  Let's start with the dog, as it is the less depressing of the two.  As you know, our elderly canine gets more elderly every day. Forget the deaf and blind nonsense--that's a given. She smells terrible--even worse than usual--she's got all these sores and now she has started biting at people when startled or, I'm guessing, when you touch somewhere she is in pain. She keeps us up into the wee hours with all the licking of her wounds--I'm so tired, I can't even see straight anymore.  (Bandaging the more obvious wounds did no good--she just licks the bandages, which is still licking.)  She can still get around for her morning walk, she still eats like a champ, still asks to go outside (no accidents in the house, knock on wood) and, her brain seems to be working just fine.  I'm taking her to the vet on Monday to see what we can do about possible pain issues.  I have no problem drugging the dog if it gives her quality of life.  (Heck, I have no problem drugging myself if it improves my quality of life.) Even the wife admits I am not exaggerating any more.  Over the past week, she's asked me, "Do you think Freckles is dying?" and "Do you think she's rotting from the inside out?" (I told you she smells really bad.) The wife has always been steadfast about the dog being fine, so this teetering on the topic is disturbing to me.  Freckles is even fighting with me about the eye drops--which is something she has never done.  I'm guessing her eye hurts terribly.  I wish they could just take her eye out and sew her eyelids shut.  I bet it would feel a lot better than having that blind orb.  .

Last night, while I was dreaming about writing a blog, I also dreamed that Freckles' "time" had come and I was at the vet doing what you do at the end of a pet's life.  I've never seen that procedure (only read about it and heard about it from friends), so I'm surprised how detailed the dream was. I woke up and decided I was dreaming about that because Freckles was licking and smelling up the room.

Monday will be telling.  It is what it is.  Maybe it's just more expensive pills and eyeball surgery.  If it's "time," that dog is going to have the best week of her life.  McDonalds every night, peanut butter by the jar, shopping cart rides at local pet stores.

You know the damn dog is gonna live five more years now that I've written this.

As for my dying client, well he's dying.  I know--he's dying, so why am I saying he's dying?  It's because he's arrived at the end.  We went to the oncologist the other day and were left in a room for about an hour. AN HOUR!  Nary a person came near that room, which was super-weird because the doctor is an on-time kind of guy.  The only time he was running behind schedule, they told the entire waiting room. The nurses are usually zipping around, smiles and warmth oozing out of them.  People call out to you and say hi. My client got up and looked around and didn't see anyone.  After about 45 minutes, I started to worry--shit, they are saving us for last.  This is not good.  I could tell that the client also realized something was up, as nothing like this had ever transpired.  Sure enough, we were the last client right before lunch.

When an oncologist comes in and says, "we've got to talk," you know it's not about the weather.  The chemo didn't work, the cancer has grown, it's time for hospice.  This doctor has always said he doesn't prescribe hospice until there are 30 days left, so that means we're looking at 30 days.  The doctor offered a different type of chemo (which I thought sounded absolutely awful) but I don't think my client heard him.  It was my job to get the details.  That's why you take someone with you when you go to the doctor--as the patient, you can't comprehend all this news.  I listened while he cried.  I moved chairs and sat next to him as the doctor talked about options and test results.  He then turned to me and asked me, "What should I do?"

Dear god, do not be asking me questions like that.  I softly responded that he needs to answer that question, make that big decision.  He then grabbed me and started bawling.

I did not cry.  It's my job not to cry. It's my job to listen.  I can cry later.  I knew this was coming and knew what I was getting into.  This is what I am here to do.  It is an honor to do it.  I can cry much later.

The oncologist kept saying he was sorry.  He shook my hand and told me he was sorry.  I'm sorry, too. There was nothing to say but "thank you."

It was a very quiet ride home.

I am going to visit with him tomorrow--yes, on a Sunday.  Weekends don't matter when you have 30 days to live. We are going to talk about his options and about what hospice "does."  His biggest concern is pain.  I called the nurse yesterday to ask about this--she assured me he won't be in pain.  I will make sure he knows this and I, too will make sure he is not in pain.  Hospice nurses are angels.  He will be in the hands of angels and will not feel pain.

This morning, when I awoke after my blog writing and dog-dying dream, I had a morbid thought--what if they both die on the same day?  I pondered this for a millisecond.....then, I realized I was just being a drama queen, so I stopped such silly thoughts.

I got up and ate some brownies for breakfast.  I felt much better.  Brownies can soothe what ails you.

I did not have ice cream with my brownies, as it seemed wrong to have brownies with ice cream for breakfast.  I can have that for lunch.

If you have a hankerin' to make some brownies, please feel free to send some my way.  I'm going to need brownies.  I'll buy the ice cream if you bring the brownies.  Frosted, plain, powder-sugared, caramel infused, chocolate-chip filled.....a brownie is a brownie is a brownie.  I prefer NOT to have nuts in my brownies but I'll take what I get.  I also prefer you don't put anything weird in my brownies, but if you'd like to do that for my client, who am I to say anything? Heh heh.

Now that you are all somber and depressed, be assured that all really is well in the Addiverse.  Don't be getting all maudlin on me.  Make brownies, not tears.   We have lots of fun things planned for today.  The dog is very much alive.  The weather is warmer than it's supposed to be.  We have our house, our friends, our family, our love, our jobs, our smart phones.  We have access to brownies.  We have more than most.  We have much for which to be grateful. Those are things to celebrate.  So, celebrate with us.  We have so much happiness and life......

....I can always use more brownies, though.  Just sayin'.
*****************************************************************




Wednesday, October 02, 2013

Fine Line

A few commercial messages before the meat (or, in my case tofu) of the blog:

Happy 20th Anniversary, LLL peeps!  Since October 1993, we've gathered at least twice a year--sometimes three times a year--for food, friends and fun. These are fine, upstanding women with whom I love to spend time.  We've done everything from kayaking to tye-dying, so we are a well-rounded group of people. We've played video games, card games, board games. We've gathered on college campuses, state parks, private properties. We've eaten more food than should be legal.  Despite the passing of twenty years, I think we look fabulous.

Speaking of aging and looking fabulous....when I mentioned to MJagger about my previous blog (glowing about how me and my friends look spectacular at our ages), she was silent....and, then spoke: "That's why eye sight gets worse with age.  You can't see as well and thus you think you look a lot better than you do."

Ouch!

Remind me not to have younger friends.  On to the main event.

I've always said it's a fine line between staff and client within the mental health field.  Some days the line is even finer.  Today was one of those days.  I was talking to a client about this and that and it turns out I was agreeing with a lot of what he was saying.  We had quite the in depth conversation. I found myself shaking my head in agreement.

The problem is that he has been deemed psychotic.

So, if I think the same thing as he thinks, does that make ME psychotic?

I think not, but only by the thinnest of lines.  Today, the only difference may be that I have keys and a name tag and he does not.

As he was talking, I thought about how in other cultures he would be revered, not labeled as ill.  I considered how he was indeed brought up in a different country and that what he was saying would be accepted without question there.  I thought about some of my friends and how they subscribe to the same tenets of which he was speaking. I thought about how he would have served as a good shaman somewhere across the globe. I recalled how I had written my thesis on the use of shamanism in the realm of art therapy. I thought about how we slap labels on people in the US and that those labels are based on a list of symptoms that really are nothing but subjective descriptors.  I was thoroughly enjoying the conversation and recalled that there really is a fine line between staff and client.....

....then, he started talking about being from another planet (actually, another galaxy), which snapped me back to my own reality.

For the record, I do not--nor have I ever believed--that I am from another planet or galaxy, so score one for the keys and name tag.

Or course, I can't prove that he is NOT from another planet or galaxy and I can't prove that I am not from another planet or galaxy, so I did not argue.  How does one prove such a thing?

So, I let it go.  I left him on his planet and I stayed on mine.  I decided to worry about MJagger thinking my eye sight was in question and that my changing skin might look different than what I was seeing. Me and my cronies, blinded by our own pathetic eye sight.

.....she best be careful, lest me and my blind friends knock her good eye sight and healthy skin right off this planet.

Then we'll see who's psychotic and who's not.












Saturday, September 21, 2013

Aging is for Chesee

I was talking to some co-workers the other day, explaining that the wife and I were going to a party for one of our friends; thus, we wouldn't be able to attend the work party.  I explained how I felt badly that we couldn't go to the work festivities, but friends before work.  We're yipping and yapping until I notice the look on their faces.  I couldn't figure out what I could have possibly said that would elicit slack jaws and wide eyes, quickly hidden behind nods and polite, close-mouth smiles....

....then, I realized the problem.  I was talking to 20-something and 30-something-year-olds about going to a party for a friend's 60th birthday.

Sixty????!!!  That stunned them right into silence.

I never really thought about how "old" I am in their eyes until that conversation.  I should have taken a clue when two people in the past weeks have asked if I have any grandchildren.  I stopped and thought about how  I "look" to them.....

Almost every one of our friends is in the 50-60 year old category.  I don't think about it because we are in the same boat and we've all been growing "old" together and we all do pretty dang good for our age. You don't see people age as much when you are on the "inside" as those who are on the "outside."  Besides, isn't 50 the new 40?

Thank god I have MJagger as a friend, as she is only 41.  She brings the age average down for my gaggle of friends.  Without her, I'm thinking the average age would be 59 and I'm not kidding.  I think she brings it down to 58.

The wife is by far the youngest person in our circle of friends...and, she is 49.  When I say that, I'm thinking, "wow, she's really young."  I can't believe she is "still" in her 40's. When I tell that fact to my co-workers, they can only smile politely, as 49 is ancient to them and I am "ancient-er."  ANCIENT!

I do not even want to think about how our teenage nieces view us.  Please do not ask them.  I will be morose for weeks and need to triple all medication.

I took a quick survey of our friends.  Although most are in their mid-to-late 50's, they really do look good.  Well, they look good from my 51 year old perspective. No, really--they look good for their age.  (That's a cold, cold sentence--when someone says you look good for your age, you should probably slap them.)  When I started to think about why this might be true, I decided the following:

1.  Shooting out babies ages you by a zillion percent.  Not the actual shooting out of the baby; rather, it is raising said baby, losing all those hours of sleep--whether it be from new born crying or waiting for that naughty teenage to return in the middle of the night.  Not sleeping has to age you.  The majority of our friends have not given birth to anything but pets and that doesn't count.  When I asked the wife what she thought was the number one thing she thought ages people, she said, "having kids."  She didn't even know I was writing a blog, so this is an untainted answer.

God love you parents.  We salute you. 

Now, that's not to say we don't have friends who have had children--we have many friends who are parents. For some reason, they've maintained their youthful glow.  Dee Zee and Chick-a-hello both gave birth to children and they look amazing.  Maybe they had kids that slept through the night, thus no sleep was lost and they kept their youthful glow.  I'll have to ask them their secrets.  

2.  We dress younger than we are.  That can be good and bad.  We might end up looking ridiculous but the majority of us don't seem to mind, care or notice.  Perhaps it's because the group of friends I am picturing eschew frumpy house dresses & menopausal-pooch-enhancing polyester pants.  I'm sure MJagger is mortified by my wardrobe selections, but she has to give me props for avoiding stretch-pants, giant floral prints or Velcro anything.  No one in our group wears mini-skirts, daisy-duke shorts, mid-drifts or mohawks, so I think that is in our favor.  We tend to comfortable clothing, spitting on anything that causes pain or discomfort.  (Why people insist on wearing uncomfortable shoes of any kind, I do not know.  Life is too short to wear uncomfortable shoes.)

.....you know, if I take the view that my 20-something year old co-worker has, I'm thinking I might be mortified by my wardrobe choices and think we look ridiculous, too.  Piss on him.  He needs to respect his elders.

3. We have a youthful, gaggle-supporting approach to life.  We are, for the most part, physically active, fun-loving, friend-supporting, life-loving people.  We have an amazing network of friends, which is timeless and ageless.  Everyone should have friends like we have.  Talk about rallying the troops when needed--our gaggle flocks around those in need without even asking or judging.  Friends help keep you young, happy, healthy, whole.  How can you be old when laughing to the point you are snorting or peeing?

Side note: I do not pee when I laugh but will gladly point the finger at those who do.  I don't usually snort, either.  I do slap my hand on my thigh and throw my head back like a Muppet when guffawing but no pees or snorts.  Just sayin.'

4.  We are delirious.  Since we see each other so often and as we are aging together, we really don't see how old we look or are.  We look like us.  When you see someone all the time, you don't notice the subtle changes until it's too late or it's uber-obvious.  The numbers 50 or 60 don't mean anything.  They are not associated with an "old" or "young" age.  They are just numbers and reality says we are delirious and don't think about this.  I think being delirious is a great thing, so I plan on staying delirious.

5.  We are in complete and full denial.  See Number 4 above.

6.  No, seriously--we are delirious and in denial.

After all this contemplation, for me, it comes down to this: age is a number and aging is for cheese, not me.

And, if I don't look in the mirror, I can't really see the things that suggest aging is indeed in progress--you know, deepening wrinkles, changing chin and neck lines, sagging this or that.  My insides tell me I'm much younger than my outsides suggests, so I'm going with what's inside.

I plan on being a tattooed-converse-gym-shoe-wearing-xena-t-shirt-clad 80-something-year-old. And, I will still feel much younger on the inside than what you see on the outside.  I promise I'll stop dying my hair by then, but only because I want to, not because anyone says I should.

Of course, that means our friends will be between 80-90 years old.  You best get out of the way of these ladies because they are going to run circles around you 50-60 years old....

....you have been warned.  Try to keep up.
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Sunday, September 08, 2013

Warrior Minister Princess meets the Rolling Stones

From the Addiverse Sinister Minister Department: After leading a kick-ass service for the wife's sister just a few weeks back, I am sad to say that my next gig--yesterday--did not fare as well; in fact, I would say I crashed and burned.  Like an athlete who looks back on the tapes to see how he/she can improve overall performance, I took a look at my own mental tape to see where things went amiss.

Before reviewing the tape, I remind myself to only include variables I can address or control. For instance, the wedding was on the banks of a busy river. There is nothing I could do about the Rolling Stones cover band playing a concert across the river.  (Lesson to all: the Rolling Stones will ALWAYS drown out a harpist playing Ave Maria.)  I can't control the weather, the position of the sun or the pontoon boat floating down the river playing nasty rap songs.  (What kind of pontooners play rap? Shouldn't they be playing Little Big Town?)  But, there are a lot of things I can--and didn't--control.  Live and learn.

I think one of the most ironic thing about this whole sub-par performance is that the mother of the bride asked me, "Aren't you nervous?" before the ceremony began. I certainly was not and told her so.  She asked, "Don't you ever get nervous when doing weddings?" Again, I told her no, because it's true--it doesn't make me nervous.

You bet your ass I'll be nervous before the next wedding I perform.  Thanks for nothing.

So, what did I learn, you ask?

(1) I need to get new glasses, preferably ones that will stay in place when I look down to read the script. It was 90 degrees and I was standing directly facing the sun, so I knew I would sweat.  What I failed to realize is that the glasses I currently wear tend not to hang on when I look down.  They hang on even less when I am sweating and looking down.  Those of you who know me know that I am quite blind without my spectaculars, so worrying about said glasses falling off my face threw me off my game.  I spent more time hoping to the baby Jesus that my glasses wouldn't tumble to the ground.  It was awful.  I suppose I could have worn one of those wrap-around things that hold glasses in place (Croakies?) but that would've been tacky, even if they matched my outfit.  New glasses.  New glasses are my top priority right now.

(2) Practice with a mike stand.  Due to the size or location of the previous weddings I've performed, I've never had to use a mike stand before.  Mikes, yes.  Mike and stand, no. I didn't think this would be a problem but it was--with my glasses falling down, I had to put the book in front of the mike stand--holding it there helped me not have to look so far down and thus gave me a chance to keep my glasses perched somewhere on my face.  Holding it there unfortunately meant some of the words were behind the stand, so I couldn't read/see full sentences.  Since I had to edit the script at the last minute (taking out all that religious stuff), it was already tough enough.  It was awful.

(3)  Get the reader's name right and write it down.  Geez, I asked her before the service how to pronounce her last name.  I practiced it three times but didn't write it down the way it is pronounced.I figured I'd remember it. I introduce her, I mangled it beyond recognition.

(4) Try to get the vows right.  After all, they are repeating exactly what I say. I was tongue-tied, distracted  by the Rolling Stones, praying my glasses wouldn't fall off and dripping sweat between my legs. Despite this, I should be able to get the vows correct--preferably in complete English sentences. You know it's not good when the bride gives a confused look and then gets it right, after I got it wrong.  Sigh.

(5) Keep the gum.  I chew gum every waking moment of my life--I have terminal dry mouth and I hate it. Even when public speaking and with water available, I chew gum.  I'm pretty good at it and even though it's rather tacky, I chew it.  Well, for the ceremony I spit my gum out at the last minute.  I have no idea why, but I did. Bad idea.  My mouth was drier than the Mojave Desert. I couldn't have made spit if you paid me a million dollars.  So now, my glasses are slipping off, I can't see some of the words, I just made up jumbled vows and I can't enunciate words because I have not one drop of spit.

I am now terrified that I have a bunch of white gunk collecting in the corners of my mouth, distracting me further from my mission.

Gum.  Shoulda kept the gum.  Shoulda got new glasses.  Shoulda written down the name phonetically.

(6) Go with the original plan and demand the harpist sit in the front of the congregation, not way in the back. The Rolling Stones cover band gave us pause for thought.  While setting up, the harpist and I noticed that when the wind would blow, the band would be very loud and drown out the harp. (Even when the wind wasn't blowing, they were pretty loud.  Thank god they were good.)  The plan was to have her in the front, near me, with her amp facing the crowd.  She decided that it would be better if she stayed in the back and use her amp to shove her sound toward the event from the back.  Well, she went to the WAY back and I'm not sure anyone could hear her except for the people processing, as they had to walk right by her.  The rest of the time, not so much.  I announced, "and now we will have a moment of silent meditation to honor those who couldn't be here today..." and she starts playing Ave Maria, as scheduled.  The problem? All we could hear is "Can't get No Satisfaction" from the Stones cover band.  The bride starts laughing, the groom starts laughing, I start laughing.  After a minute, I decide enough is enough and I cut the meditation. The harpist can hear me but I can't see or hear her.  I just start talking even though I know she is not done. I'm sure she wasn't very entertained by being cut short on her solo.

Some things did go correctly and they still did get legally married, so that's gotta count for something.  The mother of the bride looked beautiful, the dad was bursting with pride, the bride looked amazing, the groom looks super-handsome (even through the dripping sweat--it's hard to wear a full suit, long sleeved shirt and vest in 90 degrees), no one passed out or puked.

As for the cover band?  They stopped playing literally the minute the wedding ended.  I kid you not.

Grist for the mill.  That's what yesterday was.  Grist for the mill.  Glasses, gum, names, grist.

I think the Bride and groom got a wedding they will never forget.  I know I won't.  I know I will think of them every time I hear the Rolling Stones......

....I just hope they don't make "Can't Get No Satisfaction" their new song.

Friday, September 06, 2013

We do, We did, We do it again?

For those of you keeping score in the gay marriage department (and, I know it's all three of you readers),  the wife and I have been contemplating the meaning of the Federal government's recent decisions as it relates to us. Since the Feds have announced they are going to recognize state-level gay marriages on the federal level, it begs the question of when to get married....

.......or, if to get married if there is no financial gain to be had.

Screw romance.  Show me the money.  We are too old to be worried about all that love nonsense.  We want to get married if it brings us financial gain.  Well, and because we can.  Money and ability.  Win-win.

(I wish I were kidding but I am not.  The first thing the wife said to me was, "will we benefit financially?")

When it comes to marriage, the wife and I are in no-man's land (no pun intended, but that's pretty funny).  Illinois has civil unions, not gay marriages. I've been talking aloud to myself a lot lately in regards to this topic.  Here's what I've had to say:

Me:  The wife and I are officially civilized in the Illinois fashion, meaning that the State recognizes us as a couple and taxes us as a couple.  Right?

Me too:  Right.

Me: Although the wife and I are civilized in the Illinois fashion, the Federal Government and my work place do not identify us as a couple, so they don't tax us as a couple nor are we afforded insurance or various benefits like the married straights are afforded.

Me Too: True.  Damned straight people.

Me: Now, now. Don't start with the "angry insurance" thinking and it's not straight people to blame.

Me Too: Well, it pisses me off.

Me:  Uh huh.

Me Too: Our delicious civil union is not considered a gay marriage anywhere; hence, when we go to Iowa, we are nothing.

Me: Well, we're something.  We're just not married.

Me Too: If someone married in Iowa comes to Illinois, their marriage is considered a civil union when in the Land of Lincoln, even though they are still married in Iowa.

Me: Yup. And, if we as flat-landers go to Iowa and get married, we are legally married in Iowa but not in Illinois.

Me too: Exactly.  But, if we go to Iowa and get married, then go to Minnesota, we are still married.


Me: Do we have to get divorced in Illinois before getting married in Iowa?

Me too: Huh.  I dunno.  If we don't get a divorce from our civil union but go ahead and get married in Iowa, are we bigamists? 

Me: What if we go to Iowa and get married, then come back to Illinois and then Illinois passes gay marriage, are we still married, double married or illegally married?

Me too: Wait.  Does this mean we will have our old "anniversary" date, a civil union date and a marriage date? And potentially a marriage-marriage date?

Me: Are there gifts involved?

Me too: No.

Me: When, then who cares?

Me too: I do.  I can't keep track of all these dates. I'm peri-menopausal.  I can barely remember whom I am talking to.

Me: So, if we wait and Illinois passes gay marriage in November, we will automatically be married?

Me too: No.

Me: No?

Me too: No.  We have a year to get a marriage license for free.  We remain civil unioned unless we take action to get a marriage license.

Me: Will civil unions remain in Illinois if gay marriage passes?

Me too: I guess so.  

Me: So, we could keep our civil union, be taxed as a couple in Illinois and taxed as single on the Federal level?
Me Too: I think so.

Me: If we get married in a State like Iowa or Minnesota, meaning we are then married in the eyes of the Federal government but NOT in they eyes of the State of Illinois, does my Illinois employer have to respect our marriage?

Me Too: I have no idea.  Probably not, the rat bastards.

Me: Soooo, maybe we wait until November, see what Illinois does and if Illinois doesn't pass gay marriage, we go to Iowa or Minnesota and get married.

Me Too: What are the benefits of hurrying to get married if it's not legal in Illinois and my employer won't honor the marriage, anyways?

Me: I'm still stuck on the do-we-need-a-civil-union-divorce thing.  

Me too: Did you know if we get married in Iowa and then need to get divorced, one or both of us have to live in Iowa for one year before we can legally get divorced?

Me: You're shitting me.

Me too:  I am not.

Me: That's ridiculous. I don't want to live in Iowa.

Me too: Well, I don't want to get divorced.

Me:  Maybe that would be good incentive to stayed married.

Me too: Works for me.

Me: The good thing about Iowa is that you can apply for a marriage license by marriage.

Me too: That's not very romantic.

Me: Do I have to remind you of how romantic it was of me to high-five the wife when getting the civil union license?

Me Too: True.  Mail order works for me.  

Me: We don't have to be a resident in Iowa or Minnesota to get married, so that's a good thing.

Me Too: Do we have to establish residency in Minnesota in order to get divorced?

Me: You getting divorced?

Me Too: One must consider all the options.

Me: We're not even married yet and you're divorcing me?

Me Too: Ummm, no.  

Me: We have to apply in person for a Minnesota license and then wait for five days.

Me too: We don't have time for that.

Me: So, we wait for Illinois and see what happens.

Me too: Agreed.

Me: Do we have a ceremony if that happens?

Me too: Do we have to?

Me: No.

Me too: Then, I say no.  

Me: It's really, really, really hard to wait until November.

Me Too: It's already September. You can make it.

Me: I will focus on football until November.  

Me Too: Perfect.  Football it is.

Me: Hey, speaking of which, if we get legally married in Iowa and we're civil unionized in Illinois, what are we when we go to Wisconsin?

Me Too: Cheeseheads.

Me: Married cheeseheads?

Me Too: No.

Me: Civilized cheeseheads?

Me Too: No.

Me: Heathen cheeseheads?
 
Me Too: Maybe.

Me: Illegal cheeseheads?

Me Too: Yes. 

Me: Football-loving cheeseheads?

Me too: Of course.

Me: Since we can't be married in Wisconsin and we can't get civilized there and as they don't recognize those kind of things anyways, we don't have to worry about getting divorced there.

Me too: Exactly.

And so, we will have to wait to see what Illinois does to learn what we will do. I am really lousy at waiting but I don't want to be non-married while living at home. In the mean time, I'm going to watch football, worry about my fantasy football teams and continue my research.  

Anyone know where I can get an "I'm a bigamist" t-shirt?  One can never be too prepared.








Sunday, August 25, 2013

Spot the Shoes

I'm not sure which topic to write about: more new shoes or all the damn spots popping up all over my "now over 50" skin, so I think I'll write about both.

In case you are keeping score, my wellness check, complete with cholesterol test, is T minus three days.  And, yes--I've been eating ice cream.  I gave up after four days without it.  On the fifth day, I cracked.  I couldn't keep my car out of the drive through at the King of Burgers.  Besides, in the four days I stopped eating ice cream, I gained three pounds.  Now that I've had ice cream for a few days, I've lost 1.5 pounds.

My body was meant to be run on sugar.  Why mess with it if it ain't broken?

So, the wife says this morning that she wants to go to a local sporting good store today as she has a coupon for $15.00 off any pair of shoes.  I should have had her duct tape me to the kitchen chair, because once I hear the words "shoe shopping," I am no longer in control of my being.  I wasn't going to go along but it was on the way home from church so I figured we should stop on our way.  It was way too hot out to stay in the car (we're talking 90+ degrees out there), so I couldn't use avoidance techniques.

You know what happened, right?  She walked out empty-handed and I walked out with $110 gym shoes.  See how she is?

It's just like yesterday....we went to Sam's because she wanted to see if they had solar garden lights.  She walked out empty-handed and I walked out with $163 of stuff that I had not previously needed or wanted.

My new shoes are supposed to inspire me to break into gentle jogs while walking.  I really want to get to the point I can once again enjoy a 5 or 10K without vomiting.  I miss running.  I'm really slow but I'm not in a hurry, so I'm okay with that.  All they've motivated me to do at this point is spend a lot of money on them.

At least I'll look good while throwing up on the bike path.

(For those of you wondering, I haven't run since the 1990's, so I've had lots of time to miss it.)

As for my skin, well!  I am mortified and flummoxed.  Actually, I'm more than mortified--I am uber mortified. I am covered with spots.  Age related spots.  Ugly age related spots.  Ugly, weirdly shaped and colored, surfacing every thirty seconds age spots. Looking at my dad, I knew I'd have some "growths," but I wasn't expecting so many of them so early.  All those years in the sun--shame on me.  I'd like to think I'd still have all these spots and growths and what nots whether or not I was in the sun, but I'm guessing those mega sunburns did nothing for my largest organ.

One of my sports--on my forearm--seemed to be on its own mission.  It used to be flat and like a large, bizarre freckle.  Overnight, it morphed into this red, raised, half crusty warty-mole-growth thing.  I didn't know what to think of it.  I didn't think an age spot could get inflamed or changed--I assumed they all just lay around, making everyone look older.  I stared at for three weeks.  It changed every day, I kid you not.  I finally called my dermatologist:

Me:  "I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. SkinTag to have a thing on my arm looked at."

Office: "Have you been here before?"

Me:  "Yes, I had a mole mapping and mole removed."

(Bet you didn't need to know that.)

Office: Takes name, agrees I've been there.  "Okay, we're setting appointments for the end of October right now--"

I cut her off.

Me: "October? It's August!"

Office: "Yes, ma'am. The first appointment I have is at the end of October.  Would you like me to schedule you?"

Me: "So, I have this thing growing on my arm and I can't get it looked at until October?"

Office: "I'm sorry. That's the next appointment."

Me: "I have no idea what this thing is.  None of the assistants have openings? I mean, this thing is changing daily."

Office: "Well, we could put you on a waiting list--"

I cut her off again.

Me: "Forget it.  Where else can you refer me? I really don't want to wait two months to see what this thing is. Where does Dr. SkinTag refer people?"

Suddenly, a miracle happens.  As soon as I mention I want a referral....

Office: "Well, we can get you in Monday at 8 AM."

Um, what part of October is that?

I got my appointment.

Turns out it was one of those funky keratosis things that old people get, irritated to the point it got all befuckled.  Google Image that word. (Keratosis, not befuckled.) You'll see all sorts of ugly, old people skin growths.  Brown, red, pink, black, smooth, lumpy, poopy, big, bigger, ginormous, exponentially multiplying before your eyes. I am very happy to report these are benign growths.  I can't really complain when I thin of that. Ugly and benign is ALWAYS 100 million percent better than cute and malignant, don't you think?

Looking at my skin, I have to admit that I have a lot of these keratosis things, mainly on my arms, some developing on my legs (surprisingly to me, none yet on my hands).  Most of them look like flat, brown, happy age spots.  Others are slightly raised and uglier than not. (No offense to any of my keratosis babies, but you're ugly.) She sliced and burned that puppy right off, per my request.  Why the hell keep it when you can have it removed in 30 seconds?

What else did the doctor have to say?

She let me know that with each passing birthday, I'd get many more "gifts."

In other words, I should hang on for the ride because I'm gonna be covered with chocolate chips.

Gifts, my ass.

She added that they tend to run in families and asked if anyone in my family has such growths.

I blame my father.  I may have gotten other skin issues from the maternal peeps, but the chocolate chips definitely are a paternal thing.

Maybe I should think of them as kisses instead of chocolate chips.  Little kisses from my father.

I feel better already.

You know, I could get some tattoos to cover the spots but I'd rather be able to see my father's little kisses than blur them out with tacky colors.

If I start to feel badly about my aging skin, I'll just go have a bowl of ice cream and then go for a walk in my new shoes.  If that doesn't work, I can always go buy another pair of shoes.

If that doesn't work, I'm gonna have to go get some more tattoos.  One must do what one must do....

Kiss kiss, a spot like this.
Keratosis brings me bliss.
Little age spot, not so bad,
Makes me think of my spotted dad.
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