Of Tires and Dogs

Oh dear, it's been an expensive few days in the Addiverse. That thing called real life is acting more like a cash register than anything else.  Every time I look at something, it costs me money.  I've got the anti-Midas touch going on.

Before I go further, I must make a very, very sad announcement: my beloved lady chiropractor has left the Midwest and returned to her home in the land of Game Cocks.  I know this because I was stalking her--er, I mean I was looking for contact information so I could return to her for treatment.  I figured if I were going to resume chiropractic care, I should go back to her, not only so I didn't feel like I was cheating on her, but also because she was awesome at her job.  Imagine my pain when I learned she had moved just a few months ago.  I wish her well in her new business but I spit on her for leaving me behind.

At least I don't feel like I'm cheating on her any more.

Back to the anti-Midas.  Take, for instance, this Friday.  Thankfully, it was snowing Friday morning--I know, weird thing to say by this time of winter--so, I happened to be in the garage earlier than usual.  One glance at my car led to the sound of the cash register: Ca-ching! Flat tire.

I have been one very fortunate grrrrl--I have not had the pleasure of a flat tire during my tenure as an adult.  There was a flat tire back in high school when my sister and I were driving the parental unit's car in town, but that doesn't really count--it wasn't my car, we were in town going about 2 MHP and I didn't have to do anything about it.  (Side note: it was before cell phones, so it did make calling my dad a wee bit more exciting.)  My father showed me how to change a tire right before my friend and I took the family car on a road trip to the east coast, but since there was no flat involved during the practice, that doesn't count, either.  I had a spare tire stolen off my truck, so it's good that I didn't have a flat during that time period. I've come close to having a flat tire--after all, who hasn't run over a nail? I averted the "true flat" by hearing the hissing sound and taking the tire for repair before it actually became a flat.

This was one pretty flat-looking tire.

I just kind of looked at it.  I tried to recall if I had a can of fix-a-flat somewhere in my world. Then, I wondered if it had enough oomph in it to make it to the gas station a few blocks up.  I thought about putting the spare on and then going to the tire store to get the flat tire fixed/replaced, but it was really cold out and there isn't much room in the garage to do such maneuvering. Suffice it to say, I limped to the gas station and filled that puppy up best I could.  (I do NOT suggest anyone ever do this--I know I should not have done this.  Hey, I live on the edge.)  I could hear the hissing as soon as I put air in.  I knew time was of the essence.  Filled up, I zipped to the tire store.

I have replaced tires on this car before; in fact, I blogged about that process. This time, there was no time for research or blogging or thinking--I had to fix the flat and get moving for the day.  I got to the tire store, pointed out the once-again-flat tire, held out my wallet.

The tire guy came back in and told me my rear tires were on backwards.  Geez, I know I look dumb but do I look THAT dumb? He must've read my face--he clarified that my current fancy tires are "directional" and thus have to be put on the car in a certain manner.  Imagine how pleased I was to learn of this when I just had the tires rotated at the dealer a week ago.  (This is the same dealer that forgot to replace my dead battery when the car was at the shop to get a new battery and tires rotated.  Don't ask. I got the battery, thanks to the wife, not to the dealer.  I will NEVER be going back to that dealer again.....ass wipes.) So, not only did I have a flat tire one week after getting my tires rotated, I had backwards tires.

Those of you know me know that I did not leave that place with one fixed flat.  Nope.  I came home with four brand new, fancy-ass, love-them-in-the-snow tires (which are NOT directional--I know because I asked).  I figured I was on the way to needing new tires, anyway (they don't make 'em like they used to, fancy or not), so why not get it done while on the premises.  Ca-ching!  They are beauties and are fabulous in the snow.  It's not a bad day to have a flat tire when four new tires come your way.

The same morning, I had to take Lucy to the vet (which is definitely a charge card kind of event, no matter what the issue).  I noticed several days back that Lucy had this twitch/spasm/whatever thing going on in her left "arm;" in fact, it was so twitchy that you could see it from across the room.  You know the twitch--you've probably had one by your eye or in your leg--you twitch for awhile, for no known reason, then it goes away and you don't twitch again.  Well, this twitching didn't stop.  She twitches even when sound asleep. The wife gave me grief about it, lamenting about how I pay too close attention to things and that most dog owners would never notice, let alone worry about, a twitch.  Still, something seemed amiss.  No one twitches like that for days on end. I don't know how anyone could miss something like that, dog lover or not. To the vet we went....but, not before an internet search and a perusal of my dog health book...

....of which MJagger and the wife suggest I never do.  Hey, I like to be informed.  It's not like I'm trusting my life to wikipedia or anything.

By the time we got to the vet, I knew that it was probably one of two things.  I did not speak of these things; rather, I let the vet do her job and I put out happy thoughts.  The vet furled her brow while the vet tech demonstrated how Lucy's paw moved involuntarily with each twitch.  They had Lucy wandering back and forth, each step scoured for clues.  There were lots of serious looks going on in that room--I didn't like it.  The vet did some neurological tests, of which Lucy seemed to be flunking.  (It sucks to know too much. I knew this was a bad thing if it were true.)  With much consideration and examination, the vet indicated she thought it was Lucy's neck.

Thank you, St. Francis!  That's the better answer of the two.

The vet  prescribed medications and encouraged me to take Lucy back to the chiropractor for examination and possible treatment.  For those of you who think I'm kidding, I'm not--I took Lucy to a chiropractor last winter.  One session, worked like a charm. (I wrote blogs about that, too. I'm too lazy to look for the link, though.  You're on your own.)  The vet indicated that if it's not her neck/spine, it might be neurological.  I could tell the vet knew I knew this was not something good.  I figured we would cross that bridge when the time came.

I brought Lucy home and told her to relax for the rest of the day.  I looked at her and her twitching arm and sadly thought that Freckles (aka the ol' unhealthy, lumpy, smelly, mostly blind, definitely deaf, escaped the brink of death a dozen times Fatty Patty/money pit #1) might outlive Lucy.  That didn't even seem fathomable.  I decided not to worry about it and instead went back to work, enjoying every mile on my new tires.

Lucy is still twitching today.  I won't be able to get her to the chiropractor until sometime during the week, as it's out of town and I'll have to get some time off work.  She's worth the time and money...and, despite needing oral surgery, still has a budget to be spent.  Freckles, on the other hand, is going to have to sponsor her own fundraiser if she wants to have further medical intervention of any type. She has busted her bank.

Maybe Freckles would like to hold a fundraiser for Lucy's chiropractor and my new tires. Sounds like a plan to me.

Papal Paws

At the beginning of the week, I announced I was going to run for Pope.  The minute I hear the job was open, I was all over it.  I  reached out to my minions on Book de la Face, asking for their vote. I assured them of my Catholic heritage, my knowledge of the Catholic church, my up-to-date status with the sacraments, asked the baby Jesus (all 8 pounds, 6 ounces of him) for his blessing.  Hell, I am even still married in the Catholic church's eyes.  I like wearing hats, I'm already an ordained minister, I'd look fabulous riding in that sweet Pope-mobile.....

It was going great.....until that dang Ellen got in on the act:  







Hey, b*tch--it was MY idea FIRST!

She's not even Catholic.  This is so not fair.  Bitter, party of one.








Knowing that I could never beat Ellen at anything, I turned my eyes to other potential activities.  It was then I learned that Mother Monster had sustained a devastating hip injury...requiring her to cancel the remaining stops on her "Born this Way" tour.  It didn't even take me the time it takes to put one paw up to decide this was my calling......

I was born to fulfill Gaga's obligation of completing the tour.  

I know her moves.  I know the lyrics.  I have PAWS UP license plates.  I have tattoos.  I'm Catholic. I was born that way.  I'm a shoo in!

Although I'm not willing to eat a meat dress, I am willing to wear one.

Now, some of you probably think I'm kidding. I'm not.  Why would I kid about such a serious topic? Meat dresses are serious business.  We can't let the Born This Way Ball come to a meat-grinding halt.  After all, there a bazillion little monsters out there waiting for Mother Monster to come home.

I have decided that my advanced age (well, in comparison to the actual age of Lady Gaga) demands that I be Grandmother Monster, not Mother Monster. I wish I could say otherwise, but the truth hurts.  I could have spawned Lady Gaga, which makes me her mother, which makes me your grandmother. That makes all the fans at the concerts my little grand baby monsters.  For this leg of the tour, fans will now be required to scream, "Paws up, Grandma monster!"

Not exactly the same ring to it but you get the idea.

I do have one request, though: I cannot wear those shoes.  I cannot even stand up, let alone walk or dance, in the shoes of which Mother Monster is often seen.  I can't do it.  I can don the meat dress but I can't walk the walk in those things.  Didn't her mother tell her that wearing such shoes would lead to leg injuries?  Look at her now--sidelined by a bad-surgery-needing-gam.  Someone should have warned her that those shoes are lethal.

I'm changing it to the "Born This Way to Wear Gym Shoes" tour.  Paws up, laces tied, meat tenderized. I'm putting on my Poker Face and hitting the road.

Of Sugar, Wrinkles and Eggs of all Kinds

Boys and girls, moms and dads! During the past week, I “dressed” as Beyonce after being inspired by her Super Bowl performance, swam through paperwork created during my North Carolina adventures (I still haven’t recovered from all that fried food), survived a state-level surprise audit at work, got tampons in the mail (including two servings of the very coveted ultra, purple box OB tampons), traveled (thankfully by van, not propeller plane or bus) to/from Chicago for yet another work-related outing, ensured Lucy got medication for her double yeasty beasty ear infections tamed & giant chest cyst drained (yum—no wonder she has smelled so badly the past few weeks), shoveled numerous times (it’s FINALLY snowing in these parts), wondered about Dos Marias’ survival of Blizzard Nemo (one for the record books I hear….what’s up with naming winter storms?), got a new car battery (always entertaining when your car won’t start before work on—of course—the busiest day of the week), met a new chiropractor (certainly will NEVER replace my beloved lady chiropractor but was gave a free adjustment at a job work event so I couldn’t say no), had my first-ever cup of coffee with MJagger (she’s decided that coffee drinking is fabulous, don’t know what took her so long to figure this out), dropped my laptop (still works so no new let’s-get-an-iMac-this-time for me), cheered for our bowling-goddess-nieces in the State tournament, showed my tufted titmouse to anyone who would look at it (even though it is at the crusty healing stage), discussed fecal implants on more than one occasion and waved a sad adios to the wife as I went of town with the Love Lofters. (Please do not ask why she didn’t go.)  Another week for the history books…another slow blogging week in the Addiverse. 

I think the two tampons in the mail was the most exciting event, but it is a close second to have a coffee with MJagger—that bordered on surreal. 

I am still talking about the food in North Carolina. My mother has assured me that the North Carolina-ian dripping-in-butter-so-delicious-so-naughty grits I enjoyed were not, as previously thought, my first encounter with real grits.  She alerted me of my grit consumption as a young child.  I don’t remember that but I do remember my father giving me a smack at my great-grandmother’s dining room table after I licked corn off a knife. (For the record, I have never again licked or eaten corn off a knife.) She also assures me I consumed real banana pudding as a child, so I will stop whining about how I didn’t get any of that during my tour of the south.  No wonder I love corn bread (not the sweet, Jiffy kind—we’re talking the non-sweet, butter soaked, made in a cast iron skillet kind).  I’m a Southern gal and didn’t know it.  Bless my heart.

Let’s face it: I love food.  I love food especially when it features chocolate, some form of sugar product, or butter.  (Huh--maybe that’s why I adore ice cream and home-made chocolate chip cookies so much—they contain all those orgasmic tidbits in one delicious serving.) I try to pace my food consumption because my peri-menopausal way of being is not conducive to eating in the manner of which I am accustom. I’ve had a talk with my pants but they say that can’t do anything.  The hip spread-butt drop is just how it goes. 

That brings me to how much one can age in a year.  I cannot believe what has happened to my face in just a few short months.  Turning fifty has given me a whole new facial experience. Gravity and age combined are cruel.  MJagger gave me some fancy cream to put under my eyes (that’s what besties are for) but I can’t see a difference after a month of use.  I thought the under the eye issue was puffiness but my Hair-a-pist says it’s just age and gravity.  No contact lens  for me—my coke bottle lens glasses hide those bags just fine.  

The MJagger eye cream smells delicious, so I think I’ll keep using it. Maybe I can slather some on my butt and see if anything happens.

I am a bit afraid my frownie brow lines are soon going to reach my widow’s peak.  MJagger suggests botox.  I suggest looking less in the mirror and distracting myself by eating more ice cream.

The new chiropractor is convinced he can cure me of my headaches, so I’ve decided to give him a chance.  I don't have a ton of headaches.  They aren't migraines.  They are probably hormonal and/or stress driven, birthed by tight muscles of which I can't reach. I don't miss work because of them--a handful of pills & a nap usually tame them enough to carry on. I don’t want my neck (or any body part) adjusted, per se.  My headaches are not related to my neck bones or back bones.  Like I said, they are most likely related to the stupid knots in my back, which travel up my neck, then curl around to my temple.  It’s like a question mark shaped headache—back, neck, head, temple. I have to give the guy credit—I went to the free event at work and he cured my headache. (I didn't get a freaky fast sub, tho as they all had meat on them.  Bad doctor.)  It was a pressure point kind of thing, nothing fancy or unknown to me.  He lamented how he wished he had his acupuncture needles with him, as he thought that would be the best way to address those stinkin’ knots and cure my current no-so-bad-headache.  After pushing the piss on my pressure points, he had me lay down.  He cradled my head in his hands and then let out a quizzical little “hmmmmm.”  After a few seconds of silence and head-cradling, he asked, “how’s your diet?”

Oh boy.  This guy best not mess with my sugar addiction.  My beloved lady chiropractor never messed with my sugar.   Where is my beloved lady chiropractor when I need her?

I meekly semi-sorta-admitted that I have a sweet tooth.  He told me he already knew this.  Maybe my head felt like a bag of sugar.  Maybe I had chocolate and butter stains on my shirt.  Maybe my frownie lines were harboring a lost chocolate chip.  Whatever the reason, he really did seem in tune with my sugar.  Since he cured my headache and since he figured out that my diet is rather pathetic (I’m one unhealthy vegetarian—one who will never be vegan because she can’t give up the ice cream…have you ever tried fake ice cream? Oh dear god.  It’s sacrilegious), I thought I’d give him a shot at fixing those knots next week.  Just this one time.  I can’t reach the pressure points on my back (well, unless I use a cane, but I don’t have access to the cane anymore—it was at my last job where I would help myself to the clients’ canes), so I might as well pay someone to do it.

I feel like I’m cheating on my Beloved lady chiropractor, even though I haven’t seen her in years.

You might recall that I had to break up with her because I moved offices and she’s just too far away to zip over during a work break.  Besides, I don’t like her boss--a very vocal fundamentalist Christian who actively and zealously solicits your donation for pro-life causes, praises Jesus while giving adjustments and has religious paraphernalia scattered through the office. That’s his right and his business, so that isn’t the problem; in fact, I’m glad he can and does do this.  After all, it's his place of business and you can choose to go elsewhere. The problem is I just wanted an adjustment by my Beloved lady chiropractor.....

.....I need to be saved from my knee problem, not from Hell and damnation.

Next week will be as busy as last week, which is just fine with me.  Busy equals alive. Alive is a good thing.  I won't be dressing as Beyonce but I will be embracing my frownie lines. I'll have another cup of coffee with MJagger and have a little acupuncture from a guy who’s right down the street.  (Proximity is always a priority.) I will have ice cream in my cereal and enjoy some home-made corn bread (I do love my co-workers).  We’ll go to a concert and we’ll give a nod to Valentines Day. I should probably ask the wife to go snow-shoe-ing and I know I have to give lectures at a local college.... 

.....Most importantly, I’ll covet those two OB ultra tampons.  I’ll put those bullets of love in the last of the ever dwindling supply box.  We’re coming down to the wire, people.  Looks like I’m going to run out of tampons before I run out of eggs.

Eggs. Another reason veganism isn’t in my future.  Eggs and butter are in all those baked goods I need/want/love.  Cookies and ice cream require eggs.  I require cookies and ice cream, thus I require eggs. 

(I pretend my eggs come from healthy, happy, free range chickens but they probably come from no beak, broken feet, sickly fowl who roost in completely unacceptable conditions.)

Just so you know, I’ll definitely run out of tampons and my own eggs long before I run out of egg-containing ice cream. 

I don't anticipate being cured of my sugar addiction via the proper placement of acupuncture needles, but one never knows.  If I'm willing to pray to St. Anthony to find lost objects and I believe that burying St. Joseph upside down in the backyard will help you sell your house, I am willing to give eastern medicine a shot.....

Well, a needle, not a shot.....just a needle.

Ice cream, anyone?

Travel Ticket

Traveling with anyone is always an educational experience--you get to see the "true" person and learn all sorts of things you didn't know about a person you thought you knew quite well.  Traveling with co-workers is even trickier--after all, do you really want your peer to know you can't poop while on the road?

Case in point: I just returned home from a lengthy out-of-state training with two co-workers.  I am sure they learned more about me than they ever wanted to know. If I had to guess, I think the top three things they learned about me would be: (1) I have a lot of food rules; (2) I am a pessimistic realist when it comes to the transportation portion of travel; and (3) I do not poop while traveling the globe.

I hope they will still be talking to me come Monday morning.

Those who are close friends know I don't like to eat late; in fact, I would rather eat a candy bar and go to bed rather than go to dinner after 7 PM.  Food just doesn't sit well with me after 7 PM.  It rots in there and I have trouble even laying down with all that food in there.  It doesn't cause pain or heartburn--it just doesn't sit "right." This need to eat dinner ridiculously early causes issue for the other 95% of the world who can eat dinner any time and would much prefer to eat dinner sometime after the blue-hair specials have expired.  The first night, my peers went to dinner and I went to my hotel room to snarf down a protein bar.  I'm pretty sure I had been asleep for an hour by the time they were eating dinner.  They thankfully humored my weird dinner food rule the next three nights--they should get an award for that.  It's hard to be on a trip with others and not eat late.  It's just the world of eating-while-traveling-with-others.  Being a vegetarian in a strange town with others who are not vegetarians can also lead to issue, even when your traveling companions are doing as much as they possibly can to accommodate you.  One day, I had cole slaw, a brownie and some sure-to-have-been-fried-in-beef-fat hush puppies for lunch.  Being a vegetarian really isn't about food rules, but it does create a headache for those who are trying to be nice and accommodate my non-meat ways.  (Question: are scallops and clams living creatures? I didn't eat any because I think they are living "things," and I'm the kind of vegetarian that don't eat seafood, anyways; but, questions by my traveling companion did lead to discussion and wonder. Huh.)

I do not like to travel as I "know" too much.  I have turned into quite the pessimistic realist when it comes to modes of transportation, especially the kind that involves an airport. It is not the actual mode of transportation--I really like flying.  Flying is fine, fun, fast. It's all that comes before and after the actual flight.  Compared to friends, I've flown a lot of places, considering I don't fly as part of my profession.  (God love Bitty Bichon's mama, who flies all the time--and, I'm talking ALL the time for her job. I don't know how she does it. I don't know how my father did it.  I sure wouldn't want to do it.) The wife and I have been on many "need-to-fly-to-get-there" vacations and my father worked for the airlines; hence, I probably got to fly more than most of my peers.

Air travel has warped and jaded me. I know what things "mean," especially when at O'Hare.  For instance, I know if you land at O'Hare on an "on time" inbound flight, you will not get a gate--you will sit on a tarmac and wait for a gate to open.  It's not good or bad--it's a fact.  (It becomes a bad thing if you have to pee.  Then it's painfully bad.) I know that even a slight drizzle can screw up arrivals and departures at O'Hare like there is no tomorrow...and, if O'Hare is screwed up, so are many of the other airports (due to connections and such via our beloved Orchard Field). I know how long it takes to turn around a "late to the gate" plane. I know connecting flights take nerves of steel, no matter how much of a layover you schedule. I know that airlines skew the data so they have a great on-time arrival. I know the landing patterns and holding patterns at O'Hare. I can tell you if we are circling to kill time or if we are circling to get into the landing pattern. I know that people try to bring car-sized carry ons to the plane and it so you might as well plan on not putting anything in the overhead compartment.  I know the size of airplanes and why it is important to know the size of your plane when making reservations. I am well versed about what times and days are the best to--and not to--schedule air travel....

(Side tidbit:  I know if you get a rental car and it is all perfumed-up, it means that people have been smoking in the no-smoking car and that they are masking the smoke until the next day....then, it's too late--you are stuck with the stinky, smoky car.)

It is impossible to miss how jaded I am about traveling.  I'm not sure if it's the scowl or the bitchiness or the stalking walk that gives me away.

This trip featured an attempt to fly out of O'Hare with a pending ice storm.  I glared out that window, demanding that ice storm wait until we got out of town.  Imagine how happy I was when I noticed it was starting to drizzle just a wee bit.  Others didn't see it, but I did.  Imagine how happy I was when I noticed it was starting to sleet just enough to see but not see if you weren't looking. I know this is a bad thing--the delays had to be minutes away.  If we missed this plane, we'd most likely miss our connecting flight, which just leads to more headaches....I hate connecting flights and try to avoid them like the plague. (Side note: the airlines have made it really tough to get anywhere without connecting during trips.  I spit on them for this.)

I don't think I've ever been happier to be on a plane during the start of an ice storm--operative word "start" of an ice storm.  They de-iced that baby and had us on the runway in record time.  We made it right before the onslaught of delayed departures.  I know that had we been delayed even a few more minutes, we would have been stuck at O'Hare for at least an hour and that everyone at the gate would be really, really crabby (including one jaded, bitter party of one--moi).

Before I get to the story of traveling back to home, I must mention point number three: I do not poop while traveling.  It's like my sphincter says CLOSED FOR BUSINESS.  Now, I could take medication to correct this issue while on a trip, but unless it's gonna be a week away from home, I just break out the stretch pants and hope for the best.  I know this is mostly about eating differently (read: eating unhealthy foods and changing eating times) and not drinking enough water.  Oh, I might squirt out a marble here and there but it's nothing like the real thing.  Just this issue makes me glad I do not travel for business.  It is impossible for me not to say something about this to my traveling companions.  I'm pretty sure my co-workers didn't want to know about my non-pooping status, but there are some things that I feel must be shared.

Back to traveling home.  I know if you airplane is not sitting at the gate when you arrive at said gate, you are going to be late.  Now, this might seem like a no-brainer, but unseasoned travelers might think that as long as the plane pulls up by boarding time, all will be well.  This couldn't be farther from the truth.  No matter what, they have to "turn" that plane around--if nothing else, gas it up and do a quick sweep of the cabin.  So, when it was 30 minutes before our departure time, I knew that our baby plane was running late and thus our trip would be delayed.  (This is when connecting flights/layovers become a real pain in the ass.)  We had 1.5 hours between trips.  In the real world, this would sound like a lot of time.  In the world of flight, it might mean a sprint through terminals or worse.  When our baby plane landed at our actual boarding time, I calculated the trip and for some reason knew that we were going to be fine.  I knew we'd have to book through the connecting airport and that we would get there when the connecting flight would be boarding but knew it'd be okay.  As long as we got in the air within thirty minutes and weren't trying to catch a connecting flight via O'Hare or Atlanta, we'd make it.

I guess my travel knowledge comes in handy at times.  I became calmer as others became nervous wrecks.

Suffice it to say we really did have to haul ass through the Charlotte airport (which is much bigger than one would imagine).  Of course, our arrival gate was as far as possible from our departure gate, so not only did we have to haul ass, we had to haul ass for quite a long duration.  I'm in pretty good shape and was sweating from the work-out by the time we got there.  Our connecting flight was indeed boarding as we puffed up to the gate.  We had to check our carry-ons because there was no room left in the overheads.  They shut the gate door right behind us as we wheezed down the aisle.  Even during all of this, I knew we were going to be fine.  Go figure.

I'm sure there are other little nuggets of information my co-workers gleaned about me during the trip.  They now know that if there is a Dunkin Donuts within ten miles of where we are scheduled to go, we will be going to that DD.  They know it is absolutely painful for me to only bring one pair of shoes.  They know I do a thorough bed bug search when arriving at my hotel room (what I would do if I found a bed bug, I do not know) and that I am a morning person, definitely not a night person. They know I am not a fan of baby planes and that if the baby plane has propellers, I am probably going to throw a fit before getting on. They know that I can be a real pain in the ass....

...but, they probably already knew that.

Travel with me, if you must--be beware of the pessimistic realist who will be traveling with you.  I'll do my best to behave but there is only so much I can do to hide my scowl and not talk about my poop.