Saturday, March 25, 2017

Tickled Pink

I'm traumatized. The really-little baby bunnies in the front yard are...well.... dead.

Now, I know nature is like that--a cruel master, a balance of life and death. But, I don't like it. I don't like it at all. Poor baby bunnies. It is at times like these I am glad to be a vegetarian. No lucky rabbit foot for me.

Being that I wasn't sure they were fully dead, I went outside and poked them with a stick.

Yup. Fully, surely dead.

I originally thought they had been dug up by a neighborhood animal--dog, coyote, desperate hawk. But, further inspection (during the poking with a stick), I figured out that the guy laying our mulch yesterday accidentally uncovered the nest of not-yet-done cooking bunnies, leading to premature launching from the nest. Out they popped, only to quickly die from the elements.

Please know that later today I will pick them up and give them a proper burial. I can't leave them sprawled out on the front lawn.

On the hot flash front, I am tickled pink to announce I am no longer even having the slightest of tingling signalling the potential of flashes. Nothing! I'm back to "normal," whatever that may be. I'm gonna marry that Estroven.

On the political front, I am really tickled pink that the Republicans didn't get their act together and thus had to pull the bill from the House Floor. Blame the Democrats all you want, Mr. Cheeto. There is good and bad to everything. I'm not saying that the ACA is good or bad, because it does need to be improved but remains better than anything the rich, white crusty Bozos in Washington DC could come up with.

[This meme cracks.me.up.]

On the leisure activity front, I suggest you go see "Beauty and the Beast" as well as "Missing Elements." I'm a huge Emma Watson fan, so my vote is skewed about the BnB movie. Well done, I say. And, that astronaut/racism of the 1960's movie had me crying. Seriously. I shed a tear. I was moved, angered, surprised, reflective.

I now step onto my soap box. You have been warned.

In my estimation, history books often fail to accurately represent the true stories, as the truth doesn't best serve the persons "in charge." I suppose "false stories" and "alternative facts" have been around for the ages. Alternative facts were just better "hidden" over the years.

Large and in charge. Just like this group of guys making the decisions for women's health. Does anyone see a problem with this picture? I can't imagine what kind of history book they'd write. I'm so glad they have my best interest at heart.

Women, get your shit together and start advocating, resisting, voting, running for office. Do you REALLY want these guys in charge of your uterus, your freedom to make decisions, your ability to get equal right?

IMHO, the telling of U.S. history finds it best to keep such stories (like the one told in Hidden Elements) under wraps or twist them to reflect the best about the folks who are large and in charge. The history books of which I consumed during my education may have encouraged feelings of patriotism, but the books provided a tainted view based on opinions, distorted thoughts, perhaps even hateful rhetoric of the majority. I am so glad they made this movie. I had no idea that such "behind the scene at NASA" women and minority stuff was going on. In fact, I hate to admit this, but I imagine a bunch of white nerdy guys sitting in mission control when thinking about NASA in the 1960's. It never dawned on me that women and minorities might have been involved.

Why did I limit my thinking?

Because that's what I was taught. No one ever mentioned the women or minorities as part of the space race. Of course they didn't. It didn't serve the story or the superiority.

I now step off my soap box.

Back to the movies. I was tickled pink to see two good movies in a row. I usually have an uncanny ability to pick out stinkers on which to throw my money. I would see both of these movies again, which says a lot.

I have committed to seeing the Power Rangers movie with some clients. I doubt the Rangers will inspire me to greatness but one must do what one must do. Who knows? I'm a comic book fan. Maybe they'll turn out to be a great group of crime fighters who represent truth or diversity or equality. Yes, maybe I'll be tickled pink. I've always thought the Pink Power Ranger to be a good omen. Maybe she's just what we need at this time of women stepping forward, donning their pink knitted caps.

Pink hats, pink Power Ranger, pink ribbons, pink attitude....

I think I may have discovered a new favorite color.
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Saturday, March 18, 2017

Commandeering My Shopping Cart

Left: my creation regarding 45's refusal to shake a foreign-official-who-happens-to be-a woman's hand yesterday. Call this my healthy coping skill. Cheaper than staying drunk or having the FBI show up at my house.

A short political note: the local political calls have picked up in frequency. Why these people don't have to be on the "Do Not Call" list is beyond me. The people running for mayor of our town call more and more. I think I'll cast my vote for the one who calls the least.
Three magic words: 
NO. HOT. FLASHES.

I am incredibly pleased to report that the OTC Estroven (or whatever it is called--I'm too lazy to go get the box) has put an end to my repeated bursting into flames. Every once in awhile between 7-10 PM, I feel as if I might be starting the what-used-to-be inevitable, but it never develops into a full-fledged anything. I have a bottle of DIM waiting in the wings, just in case the Estroven stops being as effective as it is or if I learn that this stuff is bad for me.

It'd have to be pretty bad before I'd discontinue. Like, parts falling off or out of me. That'd do it.

Since I'm not having hot flashes 10-15 times a day anymore, I've been able to do everything without interruption or hatred for humankind. This means I can stay focused for extended lengths of time.... which means I can shop on Amazon without interruption. This is good and bad. My money man (yes, I have one of these now--a sure sign of the aging process) would tell me shopping on Amazon is bad and supports impulsive purchases. My brain tells me it is good because I do research, comparison shop and then make the purchase of which I was always going to make.

I'm not sure if I like my money man or not. I hate when people have my best interest at heart. He sure puts a damper on impulsive spending.

Money Man: Why do you have Amazon Prime?

Me: Because I use it all the time. Two day shipping, baby!

Money Man: Perhaps it is better not to have it--instead of immediate gratification with two day shipping, put purchases in the shopping cart and leave it there for a few days. If you still want it, go ahead. If not, delete it or leave it in the cart.

Me: [blank stare at Money Man] [I think to myself] Who is this spawn of the devil? 

Money man: Do you use Amazon Prime Video:?

Me: Yes! (I'm hoping this is the right answer. It's the honest answer but I'm not sure his motive for asking.)

Money man: Okay, that's good. It's worth the cost. You should keep it. I watch Amazon Prime Video all the time. Would you consider waiting before making purchases, thought? Do you really need to get your orders within two days?

Me: Ummmm. [I kinda-sorta nod yes, but I'm not very definitive.] "Hold the shopping cart," I say (which is just a statement, not a promise).

My money man makes me nervous. I have put my faith--and my accounts--into his hands. So far, he seems to be headed in the right direction. If he ever contradicts my beloved Suze Orman, I'm firing him. No one messes with my Suze.

Money man wants to put me on a budget, which is irritating, bordering on terrifying. After all, I already put money into savings, don't have any debt and don't make that many impulsive purchases. The reason he wants to do this (well, I suppose there are many reasons, none of which I like) is that my retirement fund leaves a lot to be desired. I already knew this--I didn't have to get a money man to tell me such obvious things. But, it is his job to point this out, whether I know it or not.

I want to tell my money man, "Listen, pal. I can't help it people like you started retirement savings right out of the womb. It took me a long time to get here. Respect your elder!"

Thank goodness he loves Doctor Who, lest I have to fire him.

My money man pointed out that I spent more money last month than I brought in. I look at the numbers and think, "huh." Yup, I did. I do not know how to explain why I still have money left if I spent more than I brought in, but the numbers show I still have money. I don't want to challenge him on this, as I'm afraid he'll make my budget that much worse. It's at this point I wish I had lied to him and low-balled my expenses. Ah, hindsight is foresight.

Thankfully, he has compassion and thus is agreeable to putting things like making charitable contributions, feeding the birds outside and even looking ahead if we want to get a dog. To do this, though I have to think about my spending.

Money Man: How often do you go out to eat?

Me: [I know he knows the answer. I gave him detailed data and it's right in front of him. I know what he's doing.] For lunch?

(Yes, I'm stalling. It's kind of like lying to God.)

Money Man: Per week.

Me: Um, well... probably three or four times a week for lunch. Probably twice a week for dinner. (I'm totally lying. I eat out more than that.)

Money Man: Would you consider eating out a few less times for lunch?

Me: Sure. (I hate this man. I begrudgingly acknowledge he is right.) I could bring my lunch two or three times a week instead of going out.

Money Man: And coffee?

Oh no. Those are fighting words.

Me: I only go to Dunkin' Donuts. I drink the cheap stuff.

Money Man: How much per month?

Me: Well, $30 in the month? That's not bad, considering how much Starbucks would cost me. (Yes, I'm justifying my habit. This is one small luxury I want to keep.)

My money man is wise enough to leave this topic alone. 

Money Man notices I haven't budgeted for things like clothes, taxes or insurance. Piss. I hate when that happens. I point out to him that I had to buy new tires for my car last month, so that is the kind of money I use to by clothes ore taxes. I stress how that is the reason for overspending my incoming money last month. It is then he starts on the purchase of a car.

Money Man: Do you plan on buying a car in the next few years?

Me: No.

Money Man: How long do you think you'll be driving your current car?

Me: Five more years. (I'm hoping this will buy me time to have money for more coffee.)

Money Man: What kind of car do you drive?

Me: A Honda.

Money Man: Great! That can run forever. (Shoo. My coffee is safe for the time being!)

I neglect to tell him I buy new license plates every year. I justify this to myself by saying it is cheaper to buy new plates than buy new cars. He'll figure it out once he looks at my budget. Lie of Omission, I will tell him politely.

Forward to today. I have purchases in my Amazon shopping cart. They are killing me, sitting in there. They've been there since last night. That's probably a record for me. I keep clicking on the shopping cart. Yup, the stuff is still there. I do research and then go back to the shopping cart.

Do I need it, I ask myself?

Can I stall on the purchases? Can I? Will I?

My shopping cart is crying. I hear it call my name.

What's that other sound? It's my money man, whispering on the wind, reminding me that two-day shipping and ordering a WANT, not a NEED is not in the budget. Want. Need. Want. Need. Want. Need....

He is trying to commandeer my shopping cart, the rat bastard! I weigh the pros and cons of having to explain to my money man why I made those purchases. I weigh the odds that he will even notice the money has been spent from my checking account. I consider if I will or won't click on the button to make the purchase.

I'll wait an hour. But, that's it. That shopping cart is mine.

Stay away from my coffee and shopping cart, Money Man. And, don't mess with the ice cream, either. I've got my eye and my two-day shipping on you. I'll give up the license plates if you give me the cart, coffee and ice cream.

Don't make me run you over with my shopping cart, Money Man. I've done worse. One hour. The clock starts now.

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Thursday, March 09, 2017

Rum, Wind and Fire

This bursting into flames thing is getting old. Thankfully, there were 55 mph winds yesterday, so all I had to go outside for a minute and feel better. Mother Nature feels my pain.

Picture this. I'm at the local grocery store, picking up food for the agency training I am about to lead. I can barely get out of the car because the wind is so fierce. Once I finally escape, I head toward the door--hair flying into bizarre shapes, jacket flying open rendering me a flying squirrel. Because I am running a bit behind schedule, I'm moving through the store like a shopping ninja.

I get my bread, butter, creamer, salad and veggie tray. I find the french bread and load up on simple carbs. I zip through the pizzeria line to pick up the piping-hot vat of mostaccioli. I realize that I've forgotten a dessert product, so I grab the closest thing-- 2 for $6.00 Oreos. I fly toward the check out and get in line.

I pick the shortest line, which is often the kiss of death.

I see the guy behind me is only holding a bottle of Bacardi. Even though I'm in a hurry, I'm not in that much of a hurry. I flag him to go ahead of me.

This, of course, ends up complicating things.

When it's his turn, he starts yipping and yapping with the checker, which is fine. It's when it becomes very obvious that he knows the checker AND the guy who was in front of him in line that the issue occurs. They start talking about various topics, all the while the checker stops checking. The guy in line makes fun of Bacardi Man, telling him to take it easy on his liver. Bacardi Man is talking about being 60 years old and having no liver since being a teen because he drank so much. The checker chimes in, wondering where his wife is. Bacardi Man announces "mama's out in Wisconsin with some friends" and proceeds to talk about how he'll be drinking this bottle today while she's gone. He turns to me and drags me into the conversation. I smile and nod and laugh, all the while thinking SCAN THAT BOTTLE OF RUM SO WE CAN GET OUT OF HERE!

That's when thing get volcano-lava complicated.

I feel the familiar tingle in my face. It's just enough to get my attention. I hope that I am wrong but the little tingle continues. No, no, no.

It's not like I can stop what is about to transpire.  It's not like Bacardi Man can distract me out of this happening. My ears begin to turn red (yes, I can feel this) and the fire within my being begins to spread (slowly at first) and work its way out to my chest, neck and face. The insides of my elbows begin to sweat (it's disgusting and most definitely where I sweat the most). Then, the blast of heat consumes me. I want to shout (in my best Sweet Brown voice):

LORD JESUS, IT'S A FIRE!


If I don't get my coat off, I'm going to die. I let Bacardi Man keep yipping while I tug at my coat, trying to be casual about the whole thing. Once that's off, I tear at the thin sweater I am wearing, as I'm beginning to get desperate.

If it were appropriate, I would have taken off my pants. 

I casually drape the items over the cart, hoping that my bright red face and ears aren't giving me away. I can feel the insides of my elbows dripping. I try to remain calm while the three stooges keep talking about his drinking problem. I focus on how this is a "power surge" and that it is a positive sign that I'm nearing the end of egg producing nonsense.

Things don't get much better when it is finally my turn. I hand her the "tax exempt" letter. She starts yapping about that, talking about how she hasn't seen our agency for awhile and that we're not in the system anymore but she's gonna hand-enter it. She's asking where "we've" been and how we are doing. All the while I'm thinking "SCREW THE TAX EXEMPT. SCREW IT!" No, she is going to triumph at this task.

By now, I'm starting to cool down. Thankfully, being on fire don't last long. I'm still miserable but I'm under control. My ears are no longer on fire, which is always a good sign. She finally gets everything in order and I'm on my way, now 10 minutes late.

The wind. The wind now takes control.

I'm trying to empty the cart but the trunk keeps slamming shut because of the wind. Since many of my groceries are heavy, I need two hands to move them from the cart to the trunk. I grab the giant salad and off pops the lid, sending sausages and onions onto my binder. I swear, put the now-no-top salad back in the cart, only to have one of the two receipts I have escape from my grasp.

Dang, I need that receipt! The business lady is going to kill me if I don't have that reciept. So, I am now running against/with/against the wind trying to catch the receipt. I am here to tell you that receipts fly REALLY FAST when the wind is 55 mph.

No, I did not catch the receipt. Business Office lady, forgive my sin.

That's when I see the cart is rolling down the aisle at breakneck speed. It's rolling along as I watch in horror, frozen. It suddenly starts veering left....now heading towards some really nice cars. I gasp and break into a sprint, all the time yelling, "NOOOOOOO!" I catch the cart, in the nick of time. I'm sweating again, only this time due to terror and effort.

Getting the food into the car was a major undertaking. Each time I bend over to take something out of the cart, the wind blows the door shut. I'm swearing and I'm fighting and I'm one hot mess--pun intended. I stop for a breather, hoping that NO ONE is filming this endeavor. I am now at least 15 minutes late. I leave the escapee sausage in the trunk and turn to put the cart away.

There are NO shopping cart stall thingies in sight. Who has a parking lot without these things spread all over? The nearest one is at least four rows over. This means I'm going to have to take the cart back into the store, lest I damage unsuspecting vehicles. I push that empty cart as fast as I can, all the while praying, hoping, begging that no one is using their camera phone to capture my endeavor to post on Facebook.

Once in the car, I'm freezing. Of course I am. All that sweat combined with freezy wind has left me shaking. I am now 17 minutes late. I'm wishing I too had purchased a bottle of rum.

When I get to work, I drag the items in, one by one, still fighting the stupid trunk lid. As I carry in the various items (getting really pissed off at the outside entrance, which also won't stay open), everyone is staring at me--where have I been? Why do I look like I've been through the war? Where's the food? Somebody with brain cells and empathy (and a history of hot flashes) asks if I need help....

YES. YES--OF COURSE I NEED FRIGGIN' HELP. LOOK. AT. ME! People jump up and start helping. Damn right, they did. Respect your elder, under 40 crowd!

I'm pretty sure I looked like a deranged, rabid flying squirrel who had been caught in the cross fire during squirrel hunting season.

Suffice it to say, training went off without a hitch, albeit now 19 minutes late. No one cares about that when they are feeding their face with free food. I could have been 45 minutes late and they would have forgiven me--as long as there is free food, everything is easily forgiven. I plop down, finally able to catch my breath....when I remember....

....I'm parked illegally. I have to go outside and move my car, out of the way and into a more legal manner.

You know what I did? Nothing.

I. DID. NOTHING.

Screw the illegally parked car. I'm not going back out there until I have another hot flash. When I fire up, I can go outside and kill two birds with one stone. If anyone wants to say something about it, I will throw my keys at their head and make it quite clear that THEY can move my illegally parked car. Trust me, I think--I will throw those keys so hard that I'll probably take out both of their eyes.

As I said--this bursting into flames thing is getting old. But, I will continue to embrace the power surges, keeping the eye on the prize. I shall be empowered by my natural heating and detoxification unit. That said....

Mother Nature can kiss my ass. 'Nuf said.

Saturday, March 04, 2017

Tiny Tweets

Time for some lightheartedness in the Addiverse.

I've started making little images for my own entertainment. It is free therapy and gives me tiny giggles. I thought I'd share them with you along the way. If you are my facebook friend, this stuff will end up being re-runs (or, vice versa), but that's okay. Maybe that will give you two chances to laugh, groan or shake your head.

If you are someone who has referred to me as a "libtard" or "snowflake," you might want to move along as you will not find a guffaw here. Kindly move along.

I'm not sure if these are funny or not, but they are funny to me. Much more funny that having a commander who tweets all hours of the day--bad grammar, bad spelling and all. (Will someone PLEASE help the guy with spelling?) Sad to say, now all sorts of politicians are starting to tweet back and forth. Tweet wars at the highest level. I suppose if you have a commander who tweets, ya gotta tweet back to get his attention.

As I make these creative diddies, I will throw some other politicians into the mix.... After all, the circus is in town so might as well include all the clowns. 
 I'm not a tweeter. Perhaps it's time I start tweeting--or, at least start following some more tweeters. I have the Facebook down pat but Twitter feed hurts my head. I have an account but never use it except to follow Doctor Who tweets--and, I have those sent to my email so I don't have to go to my Twitter account. If I do start using this media, I won't be tweeting and I won't put time into Tiny Trump Tweets--after all, I see those on the nightly news.  I'll be stalking from afar.


At least I'm in the Twitter age bracket. God help me if I try snapping or instagramming. There is probably a law against people my age using those social media platforms.

Please tell me our Commander in Tweet is NOT snapping. He should not snap or chat. One social media platform at a time, por favor.

I guess we should all get used to this form of communication. Sound bites, tweets, status updates. Since the liberal media feeds us alternative facts, I suppose we'll have to rely on 140 characters for our national updates.

Perhaps that 140 character limit is good for our Commander in Tweet. Short, simple, familiar. Reading that State of the Union address must've been tough. Rehearsing it in the limo isn't the way to go--what the speech writer should have done is break it into 140 character tweets. THAT would have worked handsomely for his Tweetness.

Let be known that if this "140 Characters of National News" is the new norm, then I will keep making these memes. They say more than 140 characters, anyway. They make me laugh. They get my brain waves back on the positive, on the happy, on the lighter side. It's really not funny but if life gives you lemons....

...pick up the damn lemon and throw it at someone's head. Tweet that.