Saturday, January 31, 2015

Cabled

A certain decathlon man is transitioning from man to woman. Footballs are deflating. Ground hogs are waking up. People are selling their poop for money. Madonna's new album is almost done. Super Bowl Eve is upon us....

...but, the BIG news in the Addiverse is that the wife successfully negotiated a hostage situation. 

....with the cable company.

We are held hostage by a company who knows there is no true local competition. Rat bastards have us by the....um,...deflated balls. 

It's a game the wife plays every time our "contract" is up. The game goes like this: 
Get the bill. 
Shit on self. 
Call the cable company. 
Demand a better rate. 
Make threats. 
Negotiate rate. 
Watch cable, thank the gods that the Internet is still firing.

It's one of the dumbest games on the planet. Why on earth we pay ridiculous amounts of hard-earned money to watch TV is beyond me. Why it's cheaper to keep a land line than not makes no sense. Why I can't live without the Internet--and, they know this--is pathetic. (I could live without TV but not without the Internet. I feel them squeezing the wi-fi life out of me.)

I listen from the next room. God love her, she's become a professional at this: 

The wife, sternly: Bill, bill, bill, blah blah blah, customer for over 20 years, get rid of land line, get better rate or I'm cancelling. 

Cable minion: No land line = bigger bill. No better offer available. So sorry, Charlie.

The wife, no-nonsense-I'm-not-playing: Get me the retention specialist. 

Cable minion: Offers a ridiculous (and more expensive, of course) plan, complete with HBO and everything. Better than curing cancer!

The wife (who does not want nor need HBO): I WANT WHAT I HAVE AT A BETTER RATE.
(I can hear the ending of that sentence, of which she does not say aloud. I would not have been so kind.)

Cable minion: Oh, look! Surprise! I did find a better rate! Better rate, two years. 

The wife; accept offer, lock in, keep land line, hang up, disgusted but triumphant. 

What a waste of time and brain cells. Seriously, it's worse than buying a car. Actually, buying a car is easier because you can walk out. 

I'd make a crack about how we can watch the Super Bowl without issue now that cable is secured for the next two years, but it's still too soon to make such a remark. Remember: football is dead in our house. Instead, I'll express my gratitude that I can play games and read books on my cell phone using our home's wi-fi. 

Don't even get me started about cell phone companies. There is a special place in hell for them, too.

We could (1) give up our cable and live like we're in the 1970's; or, (2) threaten to go to satellite. I lived in the 1970's and am in no mood to go back to the world of antennas, phones on cords and no Weather Channel. I'm certainly not ready for a leap to space, boldly going where no cable company has gone before. We could get the Internet via our land line but friends who do this have nothing but complaints. We could try to sponge off our neighbors' wi-fi so we could use our gadgets without using cellular data but they all seem to have their wi-fi secured. 

Side note: I really like the names the neighbors have given their routers. I want to meet these people. Like, which one of you named their router THE TARDIS? I must meet you. I need to re-name our router. Suggestions welcome.

Thanks to successful negotiation of the cable hostage situation, we'll watch non-reality-reality TV all weekend. We'll use our wi-fi to fire up our tablets and computers and phones. I'll watch Netflix and the Weather Channel while the wife shops on-line. I'll pay bills on-line and she'll grade papers via her school's portal. We'll get telemarketer and scam calls on our land line. I'll post this blog....

....but, we won't be watching the Super Bowl. There's a better chance Freckles will whelp puppies before we'd watch this year's Super Bowl. 

Considering Freckles is spayed and 14.5 years old, I think the odds are pretty clear about deflated balls being seen anywhere near our house. The wife can take on the cable company but she can't take on the lack of green and gold. Too soon, too painful. 

I'm gonna focus on renaming the router during the Super Bowl. The wife will be in a self-induced carbohydrate coma so she's not conscious during the game.

Let me know how the commercials are. 
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Friday, January 23, 2015

Of Moldy Cheese and Scabby Ink

Trigger alert: all Packer fans should read this blog knowing full well I am writing about the Packers and that last game of the season. If you've just stopped crying or have yet to see results from newly-prescribed anti-depressants, please know this entry has potential to trigger a new wave of emotion. The Addiverse takes no responsibility for any negative reaction or increased feelings of maudlin-inity. You have been warned.

Please know that I never once name the team of which not be named.

I waited a week to write this blog...not because I didn't have the time to write a blog but rather to ensure my personal safety and out of respect to my Cheddarhead friends. I wanted to make sure all my Packer Fan friends were at least a week past the loss of the play-off game before writing anything about it. I'm not kidding. I didn't want to trigger a wave of anger, angst, pain so soon after the event. That would be like pouring salt in a wound and then stabbing the wound, over and over, I'm not facetious--that loss to Seattle made life so painful for the wife that I didn't dare even wear anything green for the past week.

Friends, I am genuine in my respect.

The wife watched the game, as did every Packer Fan in this great football nation of ours. I was away getting a new tattoo during the game, as it seemed the safest thing to do. The wife did not expect a victory, or so her lips did say. In reality, her little green and gold heart hoped and believed a victory was in the works....and, the first three quarters of the game helped that beating green and gold heart build confidence--daring to believe the win was now reality. Life turned from "we have no chance" to "oh my god, we're might actually win." A blow-out would was expected. Being teased with an upset for 95% of the game was horrible, unforeseen event.

There is nothing crueler than when the Universe toys with your pigskin heart.

I unfortunately came home as the game was winding down. I immediately put headphones on and never did once look at the TV, lest I be accused of being a bad luck charm. (I'm superstitious and don't want to mess with Packer mojo.) I queued up a favorite Doctor Who episode and turned the volume up to "Painfully LOUD."

I knew it wasn't good when I could hear the wife yelling over the headphones. I was unable to turn the volume up any louder--my ears would've been bleeding and my eyes would have popped out. I focused on the storyline, best as I could.

Then, it happened. I won't write anything about the ending of the game other than to say a heart-breaking defeat in the last seconds of the game crushed all my Cheddar friends. It was a cruel, cruel way to lose. The Universe did not wear green or gold last Sunday. St. Vincent must have been taken hostage by something or someone right as the game was coming to a close.

I've never seen the wife so upset about a Packer game. She was beside herself. The torment was palpable. I had nowhere to hide. There was nothing I could do.

She talked about it all night. She literally couldn't sleep that night--no exaggeration factor here. She tossed and turned, muttered and growled. At 3 A.M. she apologized for still being awake. Her first words on Monday morning were about the game. Her first words when I returned home from work were about the game. She would say she wasn't going to talk about it and then she would talk about it. Talk about feeling helpless. All I could do was try to not scratch my itchy new tattoo and be a supportive spouse.

I begged her not to turn on the TV, to not listen to talk sports radio, read the sports blogs, view any of the Wisconsin newspapers she's always reading on line. I emphasized the importance of not watching the news or, dear god, ESPN for the next three weeks.

Suffice it to say, it has been a very long, sad week. Sum it up with the wife's words: "Football is dead to me." There will be no viewing of the Super Bowl this year in the Addiverse.

Last night, I mentioned how I was going to wear Packer Gear to work today, as our auditor is from the Northwest coast and happens to be a fan of the team that must not be mentioned. Oh.My.God. Perhaps a week wasn't long enough. She announced it was too soon to do such a thing.

It shall be a long, long off-season. The wife is practicing her new mantra, "it's only a game, it's only a game." I'm no fool. It's not only a game to Packer Fans. She can keep saying it but she's only lying to herself and to her tribe.

As for the tattoo, I got a blue bird in honor of Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia (of whom we continue to greatly miss). It's a cartoon, as are all but two of my tattoos. (I know, that's really tacky--but, I'm a tacky grrrrrl and I am a cartoonist at heart, so it makes sense. Go with it.) I had to think about it long and hard, as I wanted it to be just right. I've never looked at so many blue birds in my life. I finally chose a blue bird from Snow White, not that Snow White has anything to do with me or Lucy. She just had the best cartoon blue bird. I had the tattoo done by a high school friend's daughter, placed where I could see it. I hate that I can't see my back. All those tacky tattoos and I can't see them. The poor wife, who hates tattoos, has to see them but I can't and I want to. It would have been fun to put the blue bird on my shoulder, so we could sing about having a blue bird on my shoulder, but there wasn't room. I went with an ankle. The placement allows Lucy Blue to talk to Mickey Mouse.

The tattoo is at the ugly, scabby part, which is just fine as the wife's heart is at the ugly, scabby part of healing, too. Together we shall heal. Together we shall march forward and not pick at the scabs. Together, we will care for our wounds. Both of us are marked on that day for the rest of our lives.

For those who ask if getting a tattoo is painful, my answer today is" Getting a tattoo is MUCH less painful than a Packer Playoff loss. 

Let the healing begin.
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Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Poke it with a stick

In today's world, it often pays to "leave well enough alone." I know this but do not always listen.

I also forget that "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

You know me--I see something, I have to poke it with a stick.

So, despite feeling fine (besides a really irritating post-nasal-drip-clearing-of-throat issue for the past bazillion months), I decided to get a physical and have my goiter checked. I have a new doctor, so I thought it be best to meet him when healthy instead of sick. This is my new "preventative way" of "doing" medicine, so I thought I'd be cutting edge.

Besides, if it ain't broke, go to the doctor and get in the medical loop so they can find something broken. I don't think that is how wellness is supposed to work but it seems to be the rule of thumb.

My new doctor, who appeared to be 12 years old, took time to introduce himself, right down to the ages of his children and the length of his marriage. At first, I thought this was delightful--what doctor in this day and age actually times to talk like this? It was then I realized he might be trying to reassure me (and himself) that he is actually older than he looks. Perhaps that's why I found it really important to tell him I still get my period every month to the day--I'm not as old as I look, pee wee.

Okay, so maybe he's 30. I didn't ask. Let's go with 30. Better than 12.

This was an interesting "establishing patient" examination, to say the least. He didn't mention my blood pressure (which was borderline high and if I were the doctor, I'd mention it) or my pulse (which was ridiculously fast at the time the nurse took it and a "must" for review). He didn't look in my ears or squeeze my glands. He didn't listen to my heart (he did give a remedial listen to my lungs) and he didn't test my reflexes or anything of the sort. Instead, he questioned me about mental illness, this after reviewing my currently prescribed medications and taking a gander at whatever is written in my history--of which I could not see because the computer monitor was facing away from me. Um, hello? My blood pressure is high. I've got this coughing thing and my goiter is going to reach out and touch you. Don't you want to talk about that, instead?

Let it be known the number one reason I hate going to any doctor: EVERYTHING is mental illness--Broken tail bone? Oh, that's depression. Don't worry about that x-ray showing the broken bone. That broken tail bone is definitely mental illness. IT'S A FRICKIN' BROKEN BONE! That cut on my face that needs stitches from getting hit with a softball? Oh, that must be some form of anxiety. I'M BLEEDING AND I NEED STITCHES! I don't see "Softball-to-the-face Personality Disorder" in the DSM-V. Ugh.

I finally had to stop him and tell him that I work in the mental health field and that I'm well-versed on the topics at hand. Despite this, he handed me a one-page form with ten questions about my current mental status, I started chuckling, then asked, "are these questions for today, the past month or history--what's the time frame?"

It didn't matter--I was just poking a stick at it. After telling me it was for the past two or three weeks, I rated everything 'zero' and smiled, pushing the form back across the counter. Give me a stupid form, will you? I didn't see anything about a goiter on there. I didn't see anything about my blood pressure. What about my exercise and diet? What about my Tailor's bunyon?

My goiter would have jumped up and bit him in the face, had it been given the chance.

We FINALLY moved on to the goiter. I almost peed myself when he gave me a referral to an endocrinologist (I've waited 20 years for one of those) and was smitten when he read aloud the results of my ultra sound from many years ago--the lumpy, bumpy non-toxic goiter. I was giddy when he talked to me about the various lab results I've had over the past many years. So, he got points back after going in the hole with all the mental illness crap.

Here's where I really should have left well enough alone. I mentioned--once again--the "clearing of throat" thing. Heck, I'm there, I have his attention, I haven't been able to get rid of this irritating issue for months. The wife wants to slap me because it's so irritating. I poked that non-broken things with a stick until it jumped around. After looking in my throat for all of 1/2 of a 1/2 second, he declared it was a post nasal drip--of which I couldn't argue. Hell, even I can see that when I look in the mirror. He didn't look in my ears or my nose. He still didn't feel my glands. (Is post nasal drip mental illness? I think it is! Bipolar Nasal Drip. Get a rating scale!)  He prescribed some nose spray (um, I don't have and haven't had a clogged nose or sinus issues at this time, but okay), told me to use a neti pot (for my clogged nose and sinuses, of which aren't clogged in any capacity, but okay--that's good advice for anyone) and told me to change my OTC allergy med.

(Note to self: ignore all this and don't pick up the prescription. I'm going the garlic route and a few other natural ways of treating this.)

The doctor printed out the summary for the visit and reviewed it with me, emphasizing the stuff I need to do (have labs, schedule a visit to the endocrinologist, fit in a mammogram, eat iodized salt, change OTC med, blah blah blah). He was very detailed-oriented, circling words like "goiter" and "iodized." It was impressive as no doctor had done that before. He told me to see the endocrinologist, get a ultrasound of my goiter, eat more iodized salt (um, should I be eating salt with borderling high blood pressure) and to return in 6 months as follow up.

I took the print out and went back to work. When I sat down and my desk and fully looked at it, I had quite the surprise....he had provided a diagnosis of PND Paroxysmal Nocturnal Dyspnea.

Go ahead and google that puppy.

I am here to tell you it left me VERY confused. The doctor never said anything about me having issues with lung or heart failure, leading to me gasping for air in the middle of the night. I don't gasp for air in the middle of the night. He didn't talk about this with me at all. How could he give me a diagnosis like this without talking to me about it? Was this an old diagnosis of which I didn't know I had? How could I not know something like this? Was this from back in 1997 when I had to wear a Holter monitor? I never did hear the result of that besides I didn't need medication. Could this be an error? Everything else was correct. How could he make that kind of error? I showed the nurse at work. We got a good laugh out of it. I obviously wasn't dropping dead of this. She figured it was a coding error. I figured it was an error, too but it is disconcerting to see something like that and not know where it came from

I emailed the doctor and figured I'd hear back sooner or later. I heard him very quickly. His email featured a VERY apologetic tone.

Oh, he got the PND right.....I do indeed have PND. Yes, I do.

....but, in my case the PND stood for.....

....post.
....nasal.
....drip.

Oh, dear god, I snorted with laughter when I read that. Post.Nasal.Drip!!!!

No heart or lung failure for me--just a running-down-the-back-of-my-throat drip. I will be keeping this print out for eternity because every time I think about it or look at it, I start laughing. Maybe I shouldn't be laughing but I can't help it. Oh dear, maybe my laughter is a sign of mental illness.....

I wholeheartedly disagree. I believe my laughter is a sign of mental wellness.

VERY healthy mental wellness.

You know I think I have two forms of PND....post nasal drip and.....

PATIENT.
NEEDS.
DARK CHOCOLATE.

Poke that with a stick and my goiter will bite you.
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(Just so everyone can relax, my chart and diagnosis has been fixed. My PND of the nose kind, I'm sorry to say, continues at a blistering pace. Bring on the holistic approach....and the dark chocolate.)




Saturday, January 10, 2015

Hide and Seek

Right before going out for New Year's Eve, I decided to hide the $150 I had in my pocket. I figured if I left it in my pocket, I'd lose it. I don't like to leave money or my one Terra-byte external hard drive behind--weird, but without therapy, I'll probably always have this weird way of being. In case you are wondering, I don't usually have $150 in my pocket--this was Christmas money, of which the wife had handed me. I decided to hide the money for safe keeping. I hid the money and we went on our way to enjoy a most delicious New Year's Eve feast created by our chef-like friends.

Fast forward seven days. I am considering a trip to the tattoo parlor to get one of my tattoos "fixed," which leads me to think about the cost, which leads me to think about my $150 in cash.....

....oh, the cash. Where did I put the cash? I stood at the kitchen counter and pondered this. Despite valiant efforts at pondering, I drew a blank.

For the record, the wife thinks it is VERY strange that I hide things, especially money--she says "there's this thing called a BANK...that's where your money should be--in the bank." What a killjoy.

Now, usually I hide things in places of which are consistent. In this case, I remember taking the money out of my pocket and deciding the freezer wasn't of interest this time. (Heck, if your house burns down, your money has a chance of surviving in there.) I opened my "kitchen table folder" (the one with my passport, marriage license and tax information in it) but decided that putting money in there would indeed be putting all my eggs in one basket. (What? You don't keep your marriage license on the kitchen table?) I thought about putting the money in a canister, a mug, a drawer, the dog treat jar--all of which don't qualify as "places of which are consistent." I remember having a brainstorm and then going to hide the money.

The problem? Seven days later....I have NO idea where I hid the money. THIS is why perimenopausal women should NOT hide anything.

Talk about a blank slate. NOTHING was firing in the brain of mine. Not one shred of a memory. Things were so blank that I started to wonder if I had indeed deposited the money in the bank on January 2nd......but, no--I had no recollection of going to the bank....Did I spend the money? No, I haven't purchased anything except a turntable and that was on line, using PayPal. (A turntable. I know. Weird. Old School.)

I thought about asking the wife if she had seen my money, but thought better of this, realizing it would be MUCH better to look for the money before asking such a dumb question. So, I looked in the folder, the freezer, drawers, medicine, dog stuff, pockets, wallet, checkbook, computer bag, work piles, church piles, Christmas Cards, books in the bedroom, pants pockets, coat pockets and even via on line banking. I looked in the car--the glove compartment, the console storage thing, the back seat, even in all the CDs....and, of course, in my "apocalypse trunk" (in case of world disaster, hang out with me--the contents in my trunk will keep us alive for at least a week). I knew it was not at work because I hid it when not at work.

On the eighth day, I had to ask the wife. You can imagine how pleased she was by this question. After all these years, she should not be surprised by this kind of question. No, she had not seen my money. No, I shouldn't hide money. Boy, I'd best find that money. I promised I'd tell her when I found the money. I felt quite confident I'd find the money...I just wasn't sure where or when that might be.

It was at this point I knew I had to pull out the big guns. If there is one thing I can count on, it's St. Anthony.

Now, you can't abuse the ol' Catholic Saint--you have to wait until you've really tried to find something and you are sincere in your need for help. You don't call on St. Tony to find the small stuff. Save him for the big stuff. In my book, $150 in cash is the big stuff.

I gave the prayer aloud: "St. Anthony, St. Anthony, Please come around--something's lost and must be found."

I probably should have said, "I'm a moron who's hid money and it must be found." I put my coat on and headed out the door to go to work.

As soon as I sat in my car, I exclaimed..."I REMEMBER WHERE THE MONEY IS!!!!" 

I opened the car console storage thingy and pulled out the name bag of which I had--as a joke--put my Madonna Fan Club card. (Don't ask.) The name bag is--aka the Madonna fan club card holder--a sealed plastic thing. I opened the badge and WA-LA! Thank you, St. Anthony! The cash was safely in hand. It then came flooding back to me. I recalled the "hiding of the cash" event and even my thinking of why putting my money in this place made sense--after all, Madonna is all about money. She has money. So, she had MY money for safe keeping.

Duh! Makes TOTAL sense to me.

Once at work, I sent a text to the wife, assuring her that the money was now secure. She sent a text back inquiring where it had been. My answer, of course was....

"...where I hid it."

I daresay she wasn't entertained.

Suffice it to say, I eventually told her where the money was found and explained my train of thought, which--of course--made no sense to her. I took the money and I put it somewhere safe....

....um.....well.....

....I think I put it somewhere safe. Damn. I know the $50 bill is in my checkbook....but, that $100 bill.....

Shit, I'll get back to you.
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