Saturday, February 27, 2016

Cleared for landing

There is a new development in the Addiverse. Suffice it to say it is loud and scares the shit out of me. No, it's not a baby or a dog. It's not a new sound system or 72 inch TV. It's not a monster truck. It's not the neighbor (although she is loud and scary). It's not a new landing pattern in our area.

It's another delight of middle age. Who knew getting older could lead to.....snoring?

This pisses me off. Seriously. I braced myself for chin hair and saggy skin, for thinning hair and veiny hands. But, snoring? This new development, unexpected and seemingly inexplicable, has me all befuckled. I know snorers. I've shared rooms with snorers. I'm not a snorer. I can't be a snorer. Why would I start snoring at this stage of the game?

Because snoring is such a new development in the Addiverse, I wake up immediately upon the first snort of a snore. It really does scare the shit out of me. I mean, if you haven't snored in over a half-century, it is bound to scare you into awakeness. One snore and I'm slapped into awakeness.

Interestingly enough (well, to me), I only snore when I am on my left side. Even more interesting is that I can feel EXACTLY from the where the snoring emminates. It's to the right of the uvula, in the soft palette. I can point the exact area out if asked to. It vibrates--I can actually feel the part of my soft palette that vibrates. I can even make the sound when I'm awake. That's how in tune I am with it. (For the record, I've tried to get the left side to make this vibration but have yet to succeed. I'm sure time will make that possible.) You are probably thinking why I would sleep on my left side if I know this is the problem. Well, that's how I roll. Literally. Let's face it--if I'm not rolling to the right, I'm rolling to the left.

I did some research about this snoring-at-middle-age thing. I was concerned I might be developing sleep apnea--something I did not want to develop. I don't want to not breath when sleeping. Breathing seems important. Since I don't have many of the hallmark symptoms of sleep apena, I've ruled out that potential issue for the time being.  I've decided to focus on the fact that development of middle-age snoring, especially for women, is pretty common. So, growing grey hair, getting poochified and snoring it is.  But, why snoring for middle age? Ah, the answer is simple: with age, we tend to lose muscle tone. Even in the throat.

Who the hell anticipates the loss muscle tone in the throaty bits? I suppose this makes sense, seeing as muscle tone in general gets a bit wimpier with age. But, the throat? Who the hell anticipates that? No one that I know.

It unfortunately makes sense to me. It does feel a bit fleshy and saggy back there on the right side in the soft palate area. In fact, when I'm laying on my left side, I swear I can feel that flesh sagging toward the uvula. Sagging palette = snoring.

Research has all sorts of suggestions to address snoring in middle age. I should try exercises. Throat exercises! Goggle that. The photos are hilarious. I'm a wee bit skeptical. I'm not sure I'm ready to exercise my uvula. Research suggests I try weight loss, a mouth guard or breathing strips and/or decongestants. As I'm pretty certain my weight is not a contributing factor and I'm not going to run to the dentist to get a mouth guard, I'm going to stick to breathing strips. (I'm not clogged and I'm don't breathe through my mouth so I'm not sure why I would take a decongestant) and aiming for the right side for sleeping. I could get surgery (remove the uvula, tonsils and the like--palatopharyngoplasty) but I like my uvula and I don't think it's not causing the issue.  It's the uvula's friend, Saggy Palate. I could have some stuff shot into my palette--a Pillar Procedure--but that makes me gag just reading about it. Implants in the soft palate--it makes sense--but, really? Can't go there yet.

Thankfully, I'm not a "747 cleared for landing" sonic boom kind of snorer. I'm not vibrating at inhuman-level decibels. I'm just a pain in the ass, "what was that?" kind of snorer. I don't snore every night. I don't wake up unrested. I'm just scared shitless by jiggling palette.

Can't wait to see what else is gonna sag, drag or lag.
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Saturday, February 20, 2016

Saturday Slytherin-ly Slithering

It's Saturday, it's going to be sunny & 55 degrees and the wife is listening to Barry Manilow. Sums it up for me.

Time to randomly ramble and Slytherin-ly slither.

Yesterday, I wore my Slytherin sweatshirt to work. It's a souvenir to me, from me--purchased while at "Harry Potter World" (aka Universal Studios in Florida) during my time there in January. It looks exactly like the one to the left. Green with silver and a big ol' Slytherin-ly Slithering Snake. It's super comfortable, it's warm and it's a really fun shade of green. I love it...but, I forget that "muggles" do not know what this symbol or name or the colors could possibly mean. I forget that a big ol' snake might leave people flummoxed. I forget that my beloved green sweatshirt looks a wee bit....dark? Scary? Confusing? Like a tattoo gone wrong?

My guess is that most muggles think, "What the hell is that?"

(Those well versed in HP probably wonder, "Why Slytherin?" But, that's a long story for a different day. Suffice it to say Snape is a hero and it is an honor to celebrate that of which is related to him.)

During my Slytherin-clad employment antics, I stopped in to see the agency psychiatrist (for work, not personal reasons, sillies). As I walked in, his eyes widened and he got a very weird look on his face. Stymied, I looked left and right, then back at him. After all, he's usually happy to see me and we always take a few seconds to exchange pleasantries. That's when I noticed he was staring, mouth agape, at the snake on my sweatshirt. He exclaimed, "What IS that?" Once I figured out that he meant the snaked chest, I proudly exclaimed, "Oh! This is my Slytherin sweatshirt. It's a Harry Potter thing. I got it as a souvenir while on vacation. It's the symbol of one of the houses in Harry Potter."

Although that sounded mighty good in my head, this did not really help my cause, as the psychiatrist is a tried-and-true muggle, has probably never read a Harry Potter book or seen a HP movie and would never recognize a "house" from the world of wizards and witches. I probably sounded more psychotic than all the clients he was scheduled to see. As he is a very polite man, he gave me a nervously-short but polite-enough laugh and hesitantly responded, "Ah. I thought it was...I was wondering what... what you were wearing."

I took my Slytherining Snake out the door and didn't look back. Bet that gave him something to think about. Here's hoping he doesn't order an anti-psychotic for me.

As I left the office, I ran passed a client-in-waiting who exclaimed, "Slytherin! I love your sweatshirt!" I thanked him as I kept my feet a-churning. "Thanks! It's from Harry Potter World!" As I walked, he loudly posed the question, "would you rather go to Hogwarts or time travel in the TARDIS?" This question was not weird in any capacity. I called back, "Well, I would love to be a wizard and play quiddich but to time travel in the TARDIS with a time lord would be my first choice."

My answer was, obviously, audible to all the clients and staff awaiting their turn to see the psychiatrist. In the crowd, I hadn't notice one of the Directors standing there as I walked by. She called out from behind me,

"You know how weird that sounded, right?"

I could not disagree. I could only chuckle and keep moving. Most days, it's a fine line between staff and client.

And so, today I will once again wear my Slytherin sweatshirt. It is perfect for a 55 degree day, it is the perfect green for an almost-spring day and it makes me really happy....

....almost as happy as when the wife is listening to Barry Manilow. Trust me. That's happy.

The only way I could be happier today is if there were a Doctor Who marathon on the telly. Time travel always adds to the glory of a great day.
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Thursday, February 11, 2016

Poopin' -n- Poochin'

I'm happy to report that the little lion tattoo has healed nicely; in fact, this was the easiest, quickest, cleanest, happiest healing of a tattoo every... and that's saying a lot, considering how many tattoos I have. Those of you who remain without ink have no idea what happens as a tattoo heals. Suffice it to say, stuff oozes out, ink sticks to places it should not stick, skin flakes off like the sun burn from hell. Not this time. It was fresh and pretty.

My current adventure involves pooping. (THERE'S a surprise.) Well, pooping as part of a science experiment. Or, is it a social experiment? Hard to say. The hypothesis is that using Poo-Pourri makes sure yo' shit don't stank. The commercials for this stuff are absolutely hilarious, so if you've got a few minutes to kill and you need a good sophomoric laugh, go to the Tube of You and search poo-pourri. I've wanted to try this stuff from the milli-second I learned of it. Then, I saw the commercials and couldn't wait to give it a whirl. It's taken me a few years to get around to actually ordering the stuff--no reason, just never got around to it. Well, I have it now and a bottle has been placed in each pooping-approved bathroom.

Yes, we have one bathroom which has been declared a non-pooping bathroom. It has to do with the pipes and plumbing woes for anyone producing poop that's bigger than a few errant marbles. I'll spare you the details of woes we have experienced due to someone pooping in that room.

I was pretty skeptical about the whole Poo-pourri thing but thought it worth the experiment. The stuff is not cheap (relatively speaking, I suppose--how does one put a price on such a product?) but if it works, the price will be priceless.

My verdict? After just a few simple poops, I think this stuff is genius. I'll spare you the details but I say that my personal poop is like apple blossoms when accompanied by this stuff. There is still a "hmmmm, I think someone pooped around here" tinge in the air but other than that, it's delightful. I asked the wife her verdict; she said the stuff works. I will leave out the details of how she came to this verdict. Of course, this is just the trial run. Until I get to use this stuff when I have some disgusting "I think something died in there" poop episode or until I can get a test run in the work bathroom or until I can get friends to come over and "drop the kids off at the pool," I won't be fully sold.

Check out the commercials. Seriously, it's worth it.

As for poochin'....gravity, as you know, is a cruel master. Oh sure, we need gravity to keep from floating off into space but it really reeks ugly havoc on bodily parts.  I am currently obsessed with my pooch. You know, the area underneath the belly button...where all the intestines and internal lady parts are housed. I knew one day I'd be "poochified." I had hoped I could avert the development or at least put it off for another few decades. But here I am and here it is.

This personal poochification is distessing but not surprising. After all, I've had plenty of time to make peace with the realities of life. I know that for women gravity is truly unfair when it comes to tattoos, skin in general and boobs. But, the pooch. Oh, the pooch. I am doing a good job of ignoring my jowls but the pooch....

Perhaps staring down toward the toilet during the poo-pourri experimentation got me looking at--and thinking a lot more-about my pooch. Maybe it's because my pants no longer fit right despite not gaining weight--all because the pooch is making my pants fit funny and/or not fitting at all. (You know there is a problem when your previously too big flannel-lined jeans squeeze your hips so hard that they leave 24 hour long skin gouges.) Talking to a 30 year old female co-worker who weighs the same as me but wears pants two sizes smaller because she isn't poochified yet didn't help rational thinking.

Yes, I just admitted to wearing flannel lined jeans. Hey, I hate being cold.


My clinical observations suggest that the female pooch shows up about this time in life--early 50's, in my case, which is why I like to call it "the peri-menopausal pooch. (Yes, I am staring at your pooches, ladies. You can run but you can't hide.) It doesn't matter whether or not you've shot out children or if you are big or small. Things start to sag or head south with age and women get to have the pooch.  I suppose Olympians who still train 8 hours a day don't become poochified until much later in life, but other than that, all bets are off. (Don't even get me started on "The Box," another rude body shape development at menopause. I can't even go there. It just pisses me off. I'm avoiding the Box like the plague.) This one lady I know is super skinny but still is poochified. It's rather intriguing to view the pooch on such a person. It doesn't make sense. It's like a train wreck--I can't look away. I want to understand it but I can't. She's in amazing shape and yet she can't escape poochification.....

Thankfully, the skinny-but-poochified lady does not read my blog, lest she know that I am staring at her pooch AND writing about it.

As it clearly evident, this pooch thing has me been poopin' -n- poochin.' I haven't decided what I might try to "do" about this development. I could do a bazillion planks throughout the day. I could get some Spanx and make myself feel better when wearing my flannel lined jeans. I could continue to wear pooch-covering shirts/sweaters/sweatshirts/coats. I could buy stretchy pants and embrace the poochiness. I could ignore the whole thing and focus solely on my pooch....

...I could ignore it and focus on YOUR poop.

I think that's my best bet. I'm going to invite people over to poop. As long as you promise to use the poo-pourri before anything shoots out of your butt and you promise to plunge if things get out of hand and if you promise to poop only in the pooping-approved bathrooms, you are invited.

Don't tell the wife. She won't be entertained.

If the poo pourri works, she won't know you've been here. If it doesn't work...well, I'm gonna have a lot of explaining to do. I won't have any time to think about my pooch--I'll be busy explaining why the house smells like "stranger poop." You've heard of stranger danger. I'll be having my own version of stranger danger. I bet Hell hath no fury like the wife walking in on odifirous stranger poop. I'll be busy trying to convince her it's MY poop she is experiencing. She won't buy it. After all, she's had over 30 years of opportunity to "know" it's me splashing around. 

Let's live large. After all, it's in the name of science. Come on over. Bring your poop chute. Bring your electronic device so you can watch the poo-pourri commericlas while seated. Spray the toilet water before taking action in this experiment....

...and, be ready to run if the poo-pourri fails you. I'll be too busy being poochified to help you.
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