Saturday, December 30, 2017

Adios, Seventeen

Sometimes while sitting at the kitchen table (which is where I spend 95% of my time when not at work or sleeping), I am struck with the thought, "I can't believe it's 2017!"

...this is followed by the thought of how in 1980 I couldn't believe I would "see" the year 2000. I have a very specific memory from 1980 about the year 2000. I was 18, sitting on my bed, reading a graduation card from my aunt. She is the first one who pointed out the whole "2000" thing. Two thousand. The year TWO THOUSAND! That sounded a bazillion years away, an almost-impossibility.

We're now 17 years beyond that. Eighteen years, if you wait a few more hours.

It is hard to wrap my head around this. So, instead of pondering on it further, I usually just get up and get another piece of chocolate.

Problem solved.

Twenty-seventeen was not the wife's favorite year. In fact, I'd guess she'd rate it as one of her least favorite years of her lifetime. I choose to believe her year was salvaged by the arrival of two rescue dogs but I think that might be a stretch. From Aaron Rodgers breaking his collar bone to being in the medical loop, the year tested her mettle. Come 11:59 PM on New Year's Eve, my guess is that she'll blurt out: "Adios, 2017--and, don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out."

(If it were me, I'd be throwing in a bunch of swear words, but that's not her thing.)

As for me, I find the rescue pups erase any fleeting "low" moments in 2017. Oh, there were challenges and real life stress and one-too-many-hour spent watching Netflix and one orange idiot in charge, but the world kept turning, everyone kept breathing and the orange idiot didn't get us blown off the map. I loved the solar eclipse stuff, so that adds bonus points to my year. I loved being part of the Women's March (thank you, Pantsuits; piss on you, tiki-torch-bearing asswipes). I am grateful for the wake-up call to get involved, get moving, get vocal. I got a teeny, tiny new tattoo (no, seriously--it's a teeny tiny semi-colon), stopped dying my hair, taught myself basic html, avoided bedbugs, survived traffic in Boston and, in the last fleeting moments of the year, purchased a new car (godspeed, pterodactyl). That's a mighty good year, if you ask me.

No Cheetos-in-charge is going to ruin my year. 

And so, another year comes to a close. I look forward to 2018, with its promise and clean slate and already-in-motion plans. I make no resolutions beyond doing my best to avoid gluten and to continue changing the toilet paper roll whenever it runs out. Good enough for me.

As for you, may you have the happiest of years. May you face few obstacles and enjoy much beauty. May doors that close lead to even better doors that open. May you consume vats of chocolate. And, in the most Irish way of being:

May the road rise to meet you, 
may the wind be ever at your back. 
May the sun shine warm upon your face, 
and the rains fall soft upon your fields. 
And until we meet again, 
may God hold you in the palm of his hand.

Happy New Year from the Addiverse!
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Sunday, December 24, 2017

Ode to an Addiverse Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the house
Not a creature was stirring...
...well, besides Rosita pooping in the living room and Bandido biting Rosita's head and the wife throwing up her arms in defeat...

The stockings were hung
by the chimney with care
which is a hell of a lot better than socks running away from the hamper or shoe-carrying dogs flying past or me not putting my socks away or me wearing my shoes in the house.

If we had children, they'd be snuggled in their beds
with visions of sugar plums.....
sugar plums....
...certainly not sugar plums dancing in their heads.
I mean, what the hell is a sugar plum? Do they dance? Do kids dream about sugar plums, let alone dancing sugar plums? Do kids dream of anything besides video games and social media? Do sugar plums have a Twitter account?  Is there a dancing sugar plum story on SnapChat?

When out on the lawn 
There arose such a clatter
Bandido jumped on the ottoman and scratched the leather and barked at the blinds she ruined a few months ago
to see what was the matter

When what to my wondering eyes did appear
Not a miniature sleigh
but the neighbor dog pooping on our lawn--
Not eight tiny reindeer poop. Dog poop.
PICK UP THAT POOP, DAMMIT!
It's a holiday, for Pete's sake. Get your six feet off our lawn. That ain't no Saint Nick.
POOP.ON.YOUR.OWN.LAWN!

As I drew from the window 
and then turned around
I heard Ol' Saint Nick give a big sound
Swearing and screaming as he plummeted through the chimney,
splattering into the fireplace, covered with 22 years of soot in a chimney that we've never had cleaned. Man, did that make a mess. The wife was SOOOO not pleased. Soot all over the rug. Lots of soot. Black soot.

He was fat. Sooty. Coughing. Smoking. 

What the hell, Santa? Put that pipe out. We don't smoke in the house. Those reindeer better not be pooping on the roof. Don't make me go out there. Don't you be winking at me. Bowl full of jelly? How about calling it fat? It's fat. You're a fat elf. Don't just stand there, speechless. Do something. Get your finger off you nose and spread some friggin' Christmas cheer.

He spoke not a work
but went straight to his work
And, yeah--he filled all the stockings....

....and he called me a jerk.

He went out the front door. Didn't even take his muddy, sooty boots off as he crossed the carpet. He was muttering to Dasher. Dancer. Prancer--and Vixen. Seriously. He was muttering to a deer names Vixen. That's what you named your deer? Vixen? That's a pissed-off female who's got your number. You named your deer after a hateful hussy? Does Mrs. Claus know about this? Oh god, it's not her that's the vixen, is it?

He plopped his sorry ass in his sleigh
to his team gave a whistle
That got Bandido all fired up and she was barking and howling and scratching at the door, which got Rosita all wound up and she started barking and crying and jumping on the furniture....

...but, at least the neighbor had picked up the poop. Good job, neighbor. Good job.

As the red-clothed bearded guy took off in flight
I heard him yell "Merry Christmas to the Addiverse
and to all a good night."

For the record, there was nothing but coal in my stocking

Hmmmm.... a sack of coal seems a whole lot better than pee on the rug or poop on the wood floor or wet shoes on the carpet or some fat guy pipe-smoking in our living room. Way better.

Merry Christmas to all and to all.... a safe, belly-busting, gleeful, sugar-plum-filled night.

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Two blogs in one week--what is this madness?

This is called "I don't have to work thirteen hours a day any more" madness. I actually found myself at the kitchen table this morning with nothing to do but drink coffee and eat brownies. I like this.

So, I shall tell you about my most recent adventure: buying a car.

It was a sad day when I determined it was time to retire the Civic. I had planned on driving that thing for 20 years and/or 200,000 miles, whichever came first. I made it to ten years and 118,000, so I got halfway there. Poor Ptery (Pterodactyl) arrived at the "it'd cost cost more to fix than the car's worth" point ten years early. Sigh. Some of it was wear and tear: she needed new brakes and rotors. Some of it was Honda's fault, such as the paint on the roof was cracking (they didn't fix it during the recall--they did the hood but not the roof). Some of it I had put off, like the screaming when she would start (hence, the name Pterodactyl). That would be a VERY expensive fix. I could easily live with the CD player that ate CDs or the broken center console arm rest or the rusted tire wheel things....

The tipping point? Last Saturday night when the wife looked absolutely terrified riding in my car.

We were returning from a gathering 30 or so miles from home. It involved country back roads and a whole lot of nothing for half of the trip. My brakes were making some pretty lovely noises during the travels. It was their way of saying, HEY! REPLACE US, BITCH! The noise had started earlier in the week, so I hadn't had time to schedule an appointment. I wasn't worried about it (who needs brakes?) but I could tell the wife was scared poopless.

I felt really bad but there was nothing to do but keep driving and take care of the issue during the next week.

In hindsight, I thank her for being worried. It got me to take action of which I've been putting off. I've been researching cars for awhile. Let's say a year or so. Just keeping my eyes open. Nothing in particular. Just prices and reviews and styles. The wife started saying I should consider getting a new car about three years ago. I suppose we should celebrate my dedication to my 20 year/200,000 mile plan.

Ptery was pretty beaten up. She had bumps and scrapes and dents and dings all complimenting her cracked roof paint. Ptery was a hard sell as she was a stick shift. (The wife would always say, "you're just one injury away from not being able to drive that car." How's that for motivation to get an automatic?) In the end, her fair market value hurt my heart. She wasn't worth the work she needed. I couldn't keep her as a "spare" car. She had to go.

I replaced her with a blue Mazda. To be honest, the only non-negotiable with a new car was that it had to be blue. I've never owned a blue car and have always wanted one. For the record, in order... I have had white, maroon, magenta, teal, silver (2), army green and gray cars/trucks. This does not count the car I still owe my parents for or the "extra" cars the wife and I shared.

Blue. It had to be blue. I love the deep, dark blue of my yet-to-be-named car. I could tell you about the car but why? All that matters is that it is blue and that it doesn't scream when I start it.

Well, and that the wife won't be terrified to ride in it.

And yes, I did get an automatic. That makes me sad but it had to happen. I've driven only stick shift cars since 1984. This will take time to adjust. Be warned--if you have to ride in my car, know that I will stomp with my left foot now and again as I break the habit of using the clutch.

So, here's to Ptery. May she scream loudly for someone who accepts her for who she is. I'm sad we didn't make it to my goal but we had a pretty good ride. You did good.

As for Blue, all I can say is zoom zoom. You've got some tough shoes to fill.
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Thursday, December 07, 2017

Like a Big Pizza Pie

The other day, I made a frozen pizza. It was one of those fancy kinds--you know, an explosion of organic products and "healthy" eating products. It was delicious.

Trust me when I say this babbling is going somewhere. I'm setting the stage here.

Being a gluten-free vegetarian means I read a LOT of labels. I must have a PhD in label-ology by now. It's a good thing I have great glasses, because all those little labels put a strain on my eyes. I study the fine print, looking for words like "wheat" and "malt." It's a bonus when the box says "gluten free" because that makes life a whole lot easier. Once I figure out something is GF, I then work on the vegetarian part. (I've learned that this is the better of the two routes.) When I find something that meets both requirements, it is only then that I determine if it's something that I want to eat or not.

When I find a 'lazy grrrrl's dinner product' that is gluten-free and vegetarian (i.e able to be zapped into shape via the George Foreman Grill or the poisonous microwave), it's usually in the frozen food department. I look for the familiar and most definitely stick with it. Tried and true. It makes shopping easier and quicker. It's also much easier on the eyes.

Back to that delicious frozen GF, vegetarian pizza. Despite it being small in size, I shared it with the wife. (She says I never share my food. Well, here I am, sharing my food, so she is wrong.) It looked and smelled great. We're chomping along, nary a care in the world. I comment on how amazing this pizza is, as it truly was amazing. It was delightful! The wife agreed, even adding, "this pizza crust is delicious. I think this is the best gluten free crust I've ever eaten. It's even better than the kind at restaurants." We're eating and enjoying and praising the pizza.

As I take the last bite, I am hit by a thought. The thought? "This is too good to be true."

I get up and go get the pizza box. I look at the front, I look at the back. It all looked correct. I take a closer look. Yes, this is the correct brand. Yes, this is the correct title. Yes, this is vegetarian. Yes, this is.....

I see the dreaded word. That word is contained within the first ingredient. That word explains everything: Wheat.

This is NOT a gluten free pizza. No wonder it was so delicious. 

It appears there are two versions of this pizza--one with and one without gluten. I never knew that until that 1/2 of pizza was gone, now safely in my belly.

The wife and I had a BIG laugh. We decidedly agreed that gluten-made pizza crust is a whole lot better than gluten-free pizza crust. That thing got a 10 out of 10 from me.

It's been 2.5 years since I had "real" pizza crust. I didn't think I missed it. But, ooooooh boy, after that mistake.... I miss it.

I don't miss most things because there are so many tasty gluten-free products in today's world, sometimes better than the original product. But, pizza crust remains an issue. Most of the time, the pizza crust from carry out places is a frozen slab of gluten-free cardboard. It's still tasty because of the toppings. But, the crust does indeed leave something to be desired. I eat it because I love pizza.

Gluten-ous pizza error, 2.5 years later. I had forgotten how good a pizza crust can actually be and actually is. I think I might have shed a tear.

Seeing that I have an auto-immune issue leading to the gluten-free life, not Celiac's Disease, I had no side effects from eating the "wrong" wheat-filled crust. Well, I had a headache the next day but nothing like what happens to people with Celiac's.

The only true side effect? I can't stop thinking about pizza.

I imagine all the beautiful pizzas I've enjoyed over the years--the favorites, the incredible, the mediocre. The best toppings, the best sauce, the best crust, the best cheese. Thin crust, regular crust, thick crust, stuffed. Over and over. College Pizza. Childhood Pizza. Road trip pizza. New York folded pizza. Home made pizza.

I'm obsessed about and with pizza.

I'll be fine. I'll enjoy my gluten-free cardboard pizza and be all good with it. It'll serve its purpose. It will be tasty enough. But.....

....it won't be REAL pizza. And, for that I am sad. 

Perhaps I could have a "once a year real pizza" party. Just once a year indulge with a real pizza. It's not like the world would stop turning.....

....but, what if it's like drug addiction? What if one pizza opens the giant keg-sized can of worms? I'll be slathering pizza all over my body, unable to stop. I'll roll in, on and around gluten. I'll eat gluten-tainted EVERYTHING! I'll run naked down the street, screaming about pizza, pizza, pizza!

Hmmm. Perhaps I should stick to eating gluten by accident, not by choice. I think it's safer that way. I' can focus on how lucky I am to have so many gluten-free, vegetarian choices in the frozen food department. I can celebrate that chocolate usually doesn't have anything to do with gluten. I can savor the ice cream of which can be savored. I'll politely pass when a piece of "real" pizza is offered. I can relish in the gluten-free life.

Santa: Please bring me pizza amnesia for Christmas. That's all I need. Pizza amnesia. Ho gluten ho ho.
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