Little Inked Lion

Friday night, I went under the needle and got another tattoo. Yes, another blob of ink drilled into my aging but still hanging in there skin. It's a big tattoo. When I say it's big, I mean that it is the biggest tattoo I've ever gotten. It's big enough that I thought about not showing the wife for as long as I could avoid doing so.

You, delicious reader, might be asking why on earth I would get YET ANOTHER tattoo. I know psychologists have a whole lot to say about tattoos. There are all sorts of thoughts and judgments about tattoos. Some think they are for attention; others insist they are secured as a sign rebellion. Do they freeze time, a moment, a memory? Do they suggest that the wearer is a drunken slut swimming in youthful discretion? Is it cool? Is it outlaw? Is it art? Is it anti-art? Is it just another way of branding ourselves? Is it ridiculous? Are they, in the words of the wife, "too pricey, too painful and too permanent?" Do people get tattooed in an effort to fit in or stand out? To be counter-culture or to be part of the culture? Are they about a masochistic need for pain or pleasure? Do they serve as a permanent, desperate quest for self-esteem? To scare anyone? To say screw you or bless you to the establishment, whatever that is?

My tattoos are about love. My tattoos are a purposefully placed, cartoon-blazon map. They pay homage to those who helped mold me into who I am, to those who have my back. They serve as a narrative, a story lived out loud. I didn't get tattooed to fit in or stand out.

I get tattooed as a giant, public THANK YOU card, a billboard I carry with me day in and day out. Every tattoo has a very specific meaning and records a piece of my history. I'm not fool--I know the placement and the cartoons and the medium don't serve justice to this love letter. As an art major, I know I could have drawn a picture, painted a mural or built a sculpture to say thank you. But, what fun would that be?   :-)

Back to the new lion tattoo. The biggest one. The newest one. I wanted to get something in memory of Freckles. Lucy is represented as a blue bird tattoo on the inside of my left leg. Lucy made it easy. Her symbol fell into our lap. She says "hello" all the time. Lucy just about waves to us. Freckles, a dog deserving a place on my map, wasn't so obvious. She's quiet, waiting for us to figure it out. The more I thought about Freckles, the more I thought about how she was bigger than her stature. She was in charge. She was loyal beyond measure, a guard dog in a fluffy (and smelly) coat. She was regal. A shih tzu.....

...it was then I remembered that the shih tzu is often referred to as "the little lion." Tibetan in nature, guards of the castle....Freckles was a little lion, both in breed and in being! If any dog ever thought it was royalty, it was her.

So...the next day, I was riding as a passenger in a co-worker's car. Without warning, I blurted out, "I'm going to see a lion!" 

I scared the shit out of her. I mean, she had no idea why I'd suddenly yell I was going to see a lion. I apologized and explained I was looking for a symbol representing my dead dog.

Um, yeah. That probably didn't ease her mind. Who the hell asks aloud for a symbol of a dead dog? I turned and peered out the windshield. I reiterated loudly, "I am going to see a--"

And, right there before both of us: a sign with a Lion on it. I can't make this stuff up. There it was.
I had never seen that sign before. I didn't have some unconscious knowledge that there was a lion up ahead. I think my co-worker almost drove off the road. I think I almost peed. I was SOOOO glad I had said aloud what my intention was. It gave it that much more power. Thank you, Freckles!

Being skeptical (oh, ye of little faith) I asked again later that afternoon. I asked aloud to Freckles if she liked the idea of a lion being her symbol. "If that's good with you, show me a lion." God bless America, there she was, in less than a minute! Another sign with a lion on it.

So, my map now contains a little lion. Well, a big lion. Okay, a really big lion. When you see it, I don't want to hear about how my tattoo lion is a male and Freckles was a female. Freckles was a lion. When you think of a lion, I bet dollars to donuts you think of a lion with a mane--which is a male lion. The signs I saw were lions with manes. No offense to female lions--you just don't look like lions when it comes to lions in the mind's eye. Freckles is all good with having a mane.

She'd be pissed if I didn't get her a mane.

I had the tattoo created as if it were made in one of my favorite mediums: a woodcut. I love the look of a wood cut print. I love making wood cut prints. I thought Freckles might like something a little different from the other tattoos. Still cartoonish in nature, it is a bit more regal, a bit more personalized, a bit more artistic in nature. A bit more....regal. Strong. Worthy.

Condolences to the wife. She hates tattoos....

....oh, the shenanigans she endures. Oh, the ink she ignores.

Counting tattoos

Don't you thinking "Counting Tattoos" would be a great name for a band?

I wasn't going to write about tattoos--I was going to write about gardening and weeding and our dead tree--but once the concept of a "Counting Tattoos" band name spontaneously fell out of my brain, I had to go with it. One does not ignore the muse.

This could be genius.

Tattooed God: Dude, are you ready for the Counting Tattoos concert?

Tattooed Goddess: Yeah, I hear their set list is gonna include "Wearing My Heart on my Tattooed Sleeve," "Permanently Impermanent," "Blurred (Ink) Lines," "Check Your Spelling," "Removing You is More Painful than Putting You On," "I'll Never Cover You Up," and "You Should Have Put Some Ink on It."

Tattooed God: "I hope they sing their anthem, "Tattooed Grandpa's Gonna Kick Your Ass."

Last week, someone asked me how many tattoos I have. I opened my mouth to answer but then realized I didn't know how to answer. I mean, I have areas of tattoos but not exactly single tattoos...and, how does one count cover ups tattoos? It's like trying to count someone's tattoo sleeve--is it one tattoo or a bunch of tattoos made into a gestalt? Seems like cover ups should count as two tattoos even though you can only see one. I have one on each leg plus one on each arm, two on my chest and....well, a blob on my back. So, that's 2 + 2 + 2 + 1 = 7 tattoos. But, there are four cover ups, so that's technically 7 + 4 =11 tattoos. Since that didn't seem to reflect the number of tattoos I technically have, I went on a mission to secure an answer....

I decided I would count visits to tattoo parlors. 

Even that isn't fool proof, as some people can't get a tattoo completed in a single sitting or have to go back to get a new tattoo touched up. I just went back to get my new blue bird touched up. He (why I think it is a he, I do not know, especially since it is in honor of our female dog) needed a second visit....so, that's one tattoo which would be counted twice in my new approach.

Lucky you--I'm going to count. Indulge me on a trip down tattoo memory lane. While you're reading, you can think of some more hits for my newly created band, Counting Tattoos. (I see them as a rock band but they can have a little country flavor, if that helps. Lots of tattoos, of course).

Counting Tattoos: The start of an era. I got my first tattoo while at an art therapy convention in Denver. (Those art therapist are a wild bunch.) An interesting start to a lifetime of ink addiction. Five

art therapists in a car, driving down a street. As we passed a tattoo parlor, I happened to mutter, "I've always wanted a tattoo." A quick U-turn by the driver and four art therapists in tow, I got that first tattoo. I have no idea what the names of the shop or the tattoo artist. All I know is that no alcohol was involved, that we were in Denver and that it was near a Moroccan restaurant. It was (I say "was" because this little guy got covered up in honor of my 50th birthday) a little cartoon dog with my nickname over the top of the dog--Ziggy's dog, to be exact. (Okay, raise your hand if you know who Ziggy is.) We're talking the size of a nickel, a cartoon outline with no color, on the left upper side of my chest. No reason. I didn't have a plan. I didn't have a pre-conceived notion of what I might actually tattoo on my bod.

Twenty years later, that poor thing was a little blob of a blur. You couldn't even tell the thing had letters in it. It had to go.

Parlor Visits Number Two and Three: What's a little more ink?  I enjoyed that little Ziggy Dog, so I thought I'd add Mickey Mouse on my right ankle (I do love all things Disney) and a little cartoon of my own creating on my left shoulder. At least Mickey, done by the owner at JG's, was big enough not to turn into a blob. That self-made cartoon turned into a mystery blob within five years. Some guy named "Blue Sky" did the little Addi cartoon. That shoulda been a clue. Do you really want somebody named "Blue Sky" making permanent marks on your body? No, no you do not.'

Once, a lady at Walmart professed her love for my rose tattoo on my shoulder. Um, I don't have a rose tattoo. See? I told you that shoulder Addi cartoon turned into an unrecognizable blob.

Four: When in Denver While on a trip out west to a rustic resort with O'Del and Y, we passed through Denver. I decided my new mantra should be, "When in Denver, get a tattoo." I got a little red heart with a flame on the top of my right wrist. Why the top and not the inside, I do not know. I actually had thought about this design for a few minutes.

It was little and my body rejected the red ink, so it got ugly fast. (Yes, ink is sometime rejected. I won't describe what the healing process looked like. It was disgusting.)

Saving me from myself. Parlor Trip #5 was back to JG's to have a cover up of the rejected heart with flames. I got a purple heart with wings to cover up the ugly red heart with flames. That didn't work as well as I had anticipated, so visit #6 was to cover up the cover up. (See? That's three tattoos but you can only see one. Counting Tattoos is a complicated sport.) Since the heart with wings was in an unusual spot and larger than I wished it were (for cover up purposes) and since you usually have to go "darker," I ended up agreeing to a dead-bird-batman-raven-crab tribal-ish design....from none other than....Blue Sky. No, I did not learn my lesson. Because that design was dark, I had to go back to finish it, which is technically visit #7.

This remains my ugliest tattoo. When I asked a tattoo artist about "fixing" it last year, he looked at it, looked at me and said, "Wear a watch."

If I had to pick one tattoo that I regret, it would be this one. That said, I can't regret it as it has various meanings and importance of an era in my life. It is what it is. Besides, it is a conversation piece. Thank god it's not barbed wire. The era was of tribal tattoos and barbed wire. I'll take a dead bird-batman-crab over that any day.

Two Mickey Mice are better than one. Parlor visit #8 was to get a new Mickey Mouse tattoo--this time in honor of my 35th birthday. I was back at JG's and had some young lady ink me proud. She was very talented and Mickey has stood the test of time. If only I knew her name....and, where she went. I guess she was a drama queen and they kicked her out. Too bad. She did some nice work. I'll take a drama queen as long as there is talent.

No. Names. Ever. I have a few non-negotiable rules about tattoos on my body--no names is probably biggest rule (well, that and no tattoos on the face). Still, I wanted to honor the wife with a tattoo...so, for visit nine I went to a place called Delicious Ink and had Tigger (playing the drums) and Piglet (tapping his/her foot) along with the beat. The owner wasn't there but some guy with long blonde hair was and he promised he wasn't a "scratcher." (Word to the wise: ask to see the artist's portfolio.) I love that tattoo (although it needs some refreshing). For the record, the wife is Piglet. Not that you didn't already know that.

It's nice that Tattoo Visit #9 was Piglet as that is the wife's favorite number. I wish I could say it was planned but it was not.

Pain is your friend. Parlor visit #10 was by far the most painful. The LLL and I went to a place in Lake Geneva and I secured a cartoon of Mickey, Goofy and Spongebob, in honor of my nieces, by some guy named "Chicago Bob." It was placed in the just below the center of my shoulder blades and it hurt. It hurt a lot. Three hours of this guy gorging my skin and it hurt. The other tattoos really didn't hurt. I couldn't see what was going on back there but I can tell you it hurt a lot.  I learned later that this guy basically tattooed my back bone. Heck, he might have tattooed the inside of my front rib cage. This tattoo unfortunately scarred. Today, the thing looks like a brand more than a tattoo. At least I know it's permanent.
http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2006/01/crusty-tattoos-and-more-dog-poop-new.html

The Best Birthday Presents are permanent.  MJagger gave me a gift certificate for a tattoo to a place called Sacred Art, so I felt it imperative to get this birthday present ASAP. I met some guy named Ivan. He was very quiet and super nice, but I don't think I was supposed to know that. His look suggested everyone should stay the f*ck away. I saw through that veneer. During my 11th trip, he did what I call my "coloring book outline" of cartoons relating to my mom, dad and sister. I liked it so much that I went back for visit #12 to get the remainder of my back "piece" (more like piecemeal) done--Ivan added a few more cartoons as part of the project.
http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2007/07/dont-mess-with-rules.html

I don't think people get it that the cartoons weren't colored in as my attempt to make it look like a coloring book not yet finished. I thought it genius. Still do. It makes sense to me:

My family always has my back and I'm always a work in progress. Bet you didn't think I had a plan, but I did and still do.

Thank you, Baby Jesus of the St. Louis arch. After the wife scared the bejesus out of all of us during the great hysterectomy scare of 2008, I got the word "Gratitude" tattooed under my Ziggy dog. The wife and I were in St. Louis for a vacation. The wife laid down to take a nap...and, I went out to get the tattoo--Lucky #13. I don't know the guy's name but I do remember he had been a psychology major and that he had a family and that he was super nice. That tattoo means the world to me. And, how many people can wake up and find out a tattoo was done in their honor as they took a nap?

Oooooommmmm. The LLL again inspired me to get a tattoo, so during parlor visit #14, I was joined by LLL sister Einsteina Vagina in Galena. I had the word "namaste" tattooed on the inside of my left wrist. This was supposed to remind me that when becoming dysregulated, the good in me could see the good in you. Great idea. Now, if I'd only remember to use the concept.
http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2010/11/grat.html
http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2009/10/report-from-love-loft-nifty-fifty.html

Visit #15: Happy 50th. To honor this most blessed event, I decided to use a nautical star to cover the Ziggy dog (there is an entire blog dedicated to this event), as done by some guy at European Tattoo in Rockford. He was very nice and at least half my age. I think he might have been high, as I doubt his eyes were red from crying with happiness. He did an excellent job and lined the star up perfectly with the word Gratitude, so he won big points, high or not.
http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2012/06/star-is-born.html

Visit #16: My absolute favorite tattoo--the tufted titmouse by Billy Raike at Roselle Tattoo. This is truly a work of art. If you look at nothing else, look at this link to see the tattoo. It's a testament to what can be done with a tattoo. It remains incredibly beautiful.
http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2013/01/tough-tufted-tat.html

Visit #17: I Love Lucy--a very meaningful tribute to Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia, completed by Hannah Steele.
http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2015/01/of-moldy-cheese-and-scabby-ink.html


Visit #18: Touch up of the Blue Bird and the addition of Tina Belcher, the cover up of the shoulder blob, by Hannah Steele. Hell, something had to cover that mess of a blob on my left shoulder--might as well be my spirit animal, Tina.

Tina Belcher, to be exact. 

If you don't know who Tina Belcher is, get on it. Google her, Pin her, Netflix "Bob's Burgers." Every time I look at that tattoo, I laugh. That says it all. I laugh! We all need a good laugh now and then. How awesome is it that I can laugh at myself?  Tina is my 7th grade twin. How could I say no to a tattoo of my twin?

And no, we won't share our sweet barrettes with you.

I figure I'll stop once I get to visit #20. That gives me time to get Tigger and Piglet spruced up and save one last tat for Freckles Warrior Princess or some other major life event.

I'm lying. I can't promise you anything. Tattoos are like potato chips. You can't have just one. I promised the wife I wouldn't get a tattoo sleeve and I've stayed true to that promise.....that's all I can promise.

If you're looking for us, Tina and I will be on the road with Counting Tattoos. We'll be promoting this week's mega-hit, "I Love Your Tattoos but I Sure Hate You," as well as the classics "Sugar Skull Shuffle" and "Scabby Ink Grrrrrl Blues."

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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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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Spot the Shoes

I'm not sure which topic to write about: more new shoes or all the damn spots popping up all over my "now over 50" skin, so I think I'll write about both.

In case you are keeping score, my wellness check, complete with cholesterol test, is T minus three days.  And, yes--I've been eating ice cream.  I gave up after four days without it.  On the fifth day, I cracked.  I couldn't keep my car out of the drive through at the King of Burgers.  Besides, in the four days I stopped eating ice cream, I gained three pounds.  Now that I've had ice cream for a few days, I've lost 1.5 pounds.

My body was meant to be run on sugar.  Why mess with it if it ain't broken?

So, the wife says this morning that she wants to go to a local sporting good store today as she has a coupon for $15.00 off any pair of shoes.  I should have had her duct tape me to the kitchen chair, because once I hear the words "shoe shopping," I am no longer in control of my being.  I wasn't going to go along but it was on the way home from church so I figured we should stop on our way.  It was way too hot out to stay in the car (we're talking 90+ degrees out there), so I couldn't use avoidance techniques.

You know what happened, right?  She walked out empty-handed and I walked out with $110 gym shoes.  See how she is?

It's just like yesterday....we went to Sam's because she wanted to see if they had solar garden lights.  She walked out empty-handed and I walked out with $163 of stuff that I had not previously needed or wanted.

My new shoes are supposed to inspire me to break into gentle jogs while walking.  I really want to get to the point I can once again enjoy a 5 or 10K without vomiting.  I miss running.  I'm really slow but I'm not in a hurry, so I'm okay with that.  All they've motivated me to do at this point is spend a lot of money on them.

At least I'll look good while throwing up on the bike path.

(For those of you wondering, I haven't run since the 1990's, so I've had lots of time to miss it.)

As for my skin, well!  I am mortified and flummoxed.  Actually, I'm more than mortified--I am uber mortified. I am covered with spots.  Age related spots.  Ugly age related spots.  Ugly, weirdly shaped and colored, surfacing every thirty seconds age spots. Looking at my dad, I knew I'd have some "growths," but I wasn't expecting so many of them so early.  All those years in the sun--shame on me.  I'd like to think I'd still have all these spots and growths and what nots whether or not I was in the sun, but I'm guessing those mega sunburns did nothing for my largest organ.

One of my sports--on my forearm--seemed to be on its own mission.  It used to be flat and like a large, bizarre freckle.  Overnight, it morphed into this red, raised, half crusty warty-mole-growth thing.  I didn't know what to think of it.  I didn't think an age spot could get inflamed or changed--I assumed they all just lay around, making everyone look older.  I stared at for three weeks.  It changed every day, I kid you not.  I finally called my dermatologist:

Me:  "I'd like to make an appointment with Dr. SkinTag to have a thing on my arm looked at."

Office: "Have you been here before?"

Me:  "Yes, I had a mole mapping and mole removed."

(Bet you didn't need to know that.)

Office: Takes name, agrees I've been there.  "Okay, we're setting appointments for the end of October right now--"

I cut her off.

Me: "October? It's August!"

Office: "Yes, ma'am. The first appointment I have is at the end of October.  Would you like me to schedule you?"

Me: "So, I have this thing growing on my arm and I can't get it looked at until October?"

Office: "I'm sorry. That's the next appointment."

Me: "I have no idea what this thing is.  None of the assistants have openings? I mean, this thing is changing daily."

Office: "Well, we could put you on a waiting list--"

I cut her off again.

Me: "Forget it.  Where else can you refer me? I really don't want to wait two months to see what this thing is. Where does Dr. SkinTag refer people?"

Suddenly, a miracle happens.  As soon as I mention I want a referral....

Office: "Well, we can get you in Monday at 8 AM."

Um, what part of October is that?

I got my appointment.

Turns out it was one of those funky keratosis things that old people get, irritated to the point it got all befuckled.  Google Image that word. (Keratosis, not befuckled.) You'll see all sorts of ugly, old people skin growths.  Brown, red, pink, black, smooth, lumpy, poopy, big, bigger, ginormous, exponentially multiplying before your eyes. I am very happy to report these are benign growths.  I can't really complain when I thin of that. Ugly and benign is ALWAYS 100 million percent better than cute and malignant, don't you think?

Looking at my skin, I have to admit that I have a lot of these keratosis things, mainly on my arms, some developing on my legs (surprisingly to me, none yet on my hands).  Most of them look like flat, brown, happy age spots.  Others are slightly raised and uglier than not. (No offense to any of my keratosis babies, but you're ugly.) She sliced and burned that puppy right off, per my request.  Why the hell keep it when you can have it removed in 30 seconds?

What else did the doctor have to say?

She let me know that with each passing birthday, I'd get many more "gifts."

In other words, I should hang on for the ride because I'm gonna be covered with chocolate chips.

Gifts, my ass.

She added that they tend to run in families and asked if anyone in my family has such growths.

I blame my father.  I may have gotten other skin issues from the maternal peeps, but the chocolate chips definitely are a paternal thing.

Maybe I should think of them as kisses instead of chocolate chips.  Little kisses from my father.

I feel better already.

You know, I could get some tattoos to cover the spots but I'd rather be able to see my father's little kisses than blur them out with tacky colors.

If I start to feel badly about my aging skin, I'll just go have a bowl of ice cream and then go for a walk in my new shoes.  If that doesn't work, I can always go buy another pair of shoes.

If that doesn't work, I'm gonna have to go get some more tattoos.  One must do what one must do....

Kiss kiss, a spot like this.
Keratosis brings me bliss.
Little age spot, not so bad,
Makes me think of my spotted dad.
*******************************************************

I do, you do, we do

No blogs have come your way as I've been in the middle of writing a wedding.  Yes, a wedding.  Me, the traveling minister, the renowned Pastor Master sister mister, official officiant Addi, is on the job.  I am performing a wedding for the wife's sister this weekend.  Not only is it hilarious that I will be officiating for such a large wedding, it is the wife's sister, birthed from the land of conservative Catholicism, that will be my subject.  This might just push the wife's family over the edge.  It's bad enough that the bride isn't getting married in a Catholic church during a full Catholic Mass--she has the nerve to have me do the honors.

Me, a heathen, a giant ball of sin, oozing gayness from every pore, a gone-wrong, divorced Catholic covered with Leviticus-ignoring tattoos.  Be still, my sacred heart.

To them, I say: Jesus is all good with me and my ministering. I can rock the pulpit like no one's business. Besides, isn't it better to have someone who has known you for thirty years to do the ceremony as opposed to a priest you've only met a few times?

For the record, I am ready.  I finished the first draft a week ago and the final edition last night.  I will practice tomorrow. I am tickled pink by this opportunity, so I put lots of extra time and effort into the creation of this ceremony.  This is one of those life highlights that we all hope to experience.

Writing a wedding is relatively easy, as the components of a Christian-type or semi-secular service are all spelled out and the wording tends to more alike than not.  Oh sure, you can throw a hand fasting or jumping over a broomstick in there, but for all intensive purposes you've got the welcome, the dedication, the readings, the declaration, the vows, the rings, the blessing and the ending.  With today's access to the Internet, you don't even have to be very creative--you can glean full services right off the screen. Hell, I've had two "weddings" of my own, so that has to count for something.

We've all been to weddings, so we kind of know what to expect.  A lot of the readings are the same, many of the rituals are the same or dang close to being the same.  Actually, I learned the most about weddings when I was a janitor for the college church--I cleaned between weddings.  I sat in the closet/storage area, out of the way of the activities, and sat through ceremony after ceremony (no windows, all cement room, no radio reception).  I noticed that one of the main ministers said the exact same thing every time.  He had a script and he stuck to it, even for people I know he knew.  It was rote, boring, a thing to be done, not to be lived or enjoyed or celebrated.  It was kind of like he was checking off a task on his to-do list.  Worse, he used that "clanging gong" verse every single time.  For the record, I didn't like it then and I won't be using it now.  The wedding would last approximately 20 minutes.  Yadda yadda, yes, yes, I do, I do, I now pronounce you man and wife. Next!

(I will not do this.  Every couple is different.  Every couple deserves something individualized.  I guess that's easy for me to say, as I'm not spitting out ceremony after ceremony.  But, if I ever get booked for gigs, I'll stand firm to my belief that each couple has earned their "own" day, their own words, their own approach.)

The priest was always more passionate and engaging.  He seemed to know the people and changed it up every mass.(Well, as much as a Catholic priest can change things up...I'm talking the homily, not the actual service.  You can't exactly change the Mass.)   I don't remember him mentioning a clanging gong, so points to him.  Those services were at least 45 minutes long, usually more like an hour.  Although it meant I had to sit in the storage closet longer than I'd like, I enjoyed listening to him lead the way to matrimonial bliss.

It's ironic that a priest, a man who cannot and has never been married, is professing the way to a happy, successful marriage.

Every once in a while, someone would bring in their "own" minister, which gave me something to enjoy (it's pretty boring sitting in a storage closet hour after hour).  Heaven help me when the minister would read the verse about the woman submitting to the man.  It took everything in me to stay in that storage closet and behave when they'd read that diddy.

Submit to my husband, my ass.

The wife's sister's wedding will be a sob fest, as the wife's family cries at the drop of a drop of a hat.  They cry in happiness at everything.  The wife was crying last night just listening to one of the songs her sister will be playing.  It's a good thing I don't cry too easily, lest I be rendered useless at my post.  We'll be throwing Kleenex instead of tossing rice.

This wedding will feature two special components: the sand ceremony and the butterfly release.  I hear there is a shortage of butterflies in the world right now.  I think that might be solved when all those butterflies are released at the wedding.  I've only been to one other wedding that had a butterfly release and that was done after the service while we were taking photos.  This one will be during the service, right before the pronouncement.  I shall pray to the baby Jesus that all the butterflies are alive and float gently away.  It would be a buzz kill if one plopped to the ground, don't you think?

Oh dear, the wife is listening to the music for the wedding....I see little tears forming.  How is she going to get through her reading if she can't even listen to one song from a vampire movie, from the comfort of our deck with no bride or groom in sight?

You know, maybe I should go watch that vampire movie again.  It did have a pretty good wedding scene.  I don't remember any butterflies but I know there were no clanging gongs....
*************************************

Happy Birthday, Freckles "Helen" Warrior Princess, 13 years young.  The wife and I cannot believe this dog is still kicking.  We originally guessed she'd be on the planet for 16 years, then changed our minds when she had her brush with death--we decided we'd be good with getting to ten years.  Although mostly blind and mostly deaf, this dog rocks and she most certainly could make it a few more rounds.

Recently, the wife and I were invited to go to friends' summer home.  Being the gracious hostesses that they are, our friends told us they would provide everything, including the food.  They asked if I wanted some veggie burgers; I assured them that was not necessary, as I can always find things to eat from the foods others are eating.  (I can usually feast on non-meat-ified side dishes, if nothing else.)  Besides, they said we'd be making shish-kabobs and those are always easy to modify for vegetarian needs.  I was so sure of the situation that I didn't even bring chocolate along for the trip.

Those who know me know that I cannot live without chocolate.  This is not an exaggeration--it is a bonafide addiction.  I'm not sure what possessed me to leave home without chocolate, as I am not kidding about taking it everywhere--I've held up lines in airports as the TSA tries to figure out what is in my carry on (Dove Dark Chocolates make for interesting x-rays, I guess), I've hidden bags of M&Ms so I wouldn't have to share them, I've planned for days how I can bring chocolate wherever I am going.  Why I decided this trip not to bring any is beyond me.

So, we get to the house and all is well.  It is absolutely delightful and it is wonderful to be with friends in such a stress-free setting.  As it is lunch time when we arrive, we are ushered into the house....

....and, that is when we learn our friends are on a five-day, "reset" liquid diet/cleanse.

We had NO idea that our friends would not be eating this weekend--heck, we had no idea that they would even consider a five day cleanse, let alone do such a cleanse on a vacation.  Who goes on vacation and sucks down nothing more than diet shakes? I mean, isn't that against the law? If it isn't, it should be.  And, if they aren't eating....what have they brought along for us to eat? I had envisioned a lot more than something that shoots out of a blender.

I was stymied about why they were providing the food when they weren't planning to eat any of it.

I surveyed the counter and didn't see anything but a mound of shake packets, four bags of chips, two bags of popcorn and a bunch of pears.  Now, I like a good chip now and then but I'm not a big fan.  I don't eat popcorn 'cuz it bothers my parts and I hate pears.  (I apologize to the pears of the world--I'm just not a fan.)  I saw a loaf of bread and a bag of giant fire-pit-sized marshmallows...I don't eat those, either but I do love bread.  I figured if marshmallows were on the premises, Hershey bars couldn't be far behind.  I cursed myself for (1) saying "no" to veggie burgers; and, (2) not bringing chocolate on the trip.   I found a 1/2 jar of peanut butter in the cupboard, so I whipped up a peanut butter and butter sandwich with a side of chips.  Good enough for jazz.  At least I didn't have to have one of those shakes.

The chocolate thing REALLY bothered me; in fact, I was on the verge of panic. I had found the Hershey bars but they were very limited in number and definitely had been set aside for s'more making.  I knew it would not be appropriate to break into the pack during the first hour at the house.  There was nothing else.  I was doomed.  Not only would I be eating peanut butter and butter sandwiches, I would be twitching on the ground, going through sugar withdrawal.

I hate to admit it, but in the wee hours of Saturday morning, in a moment of desperation, I dug through every drawer, every nook, every storage bin and the entire pantry.  I am pleased to say I hit the jackpot when I found a 1/2 bag of chocolate chips (probably from 2009).  A true addict, I opened that bag and shoveled them in.

And no, I did not share them.  In fact, I did not mention that I had found them or eaten any of them.  I made sure I'd have some for Sunday, too.

Suffice it to say, when it came time for s'mores, I was first in line.  I had several non-marshmallowed s'mores, weeping silently to have access to the chocolate that had taunted me.  I don't know what the hurry was, as our friends certainly weren't eating any.  While shoveling in s'more #3, I realized that it really would be okay to eat the extra chocolate bars.  Score! Breakfast was planned for tomorrow......

Who doesn't love a peanut butter, butter and chocolate bar sandwich?

I should have put some chips on the sandwich. That would have taken it to gourmet level.

I am pleased to report that a good time was had by all and that their liquid diet didn't really slow me down in the long run.  I suppose I should "do" something about this chocolate addiction but really have no motivation to do so; in fact, I have more motivation to go on a five day cleanse than address my chocolate consumption.

They did mention that one of the shake flavors was chocolate.....

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.

Tough Tufted Tat

Beloved members of the Addiverse, I am so excited to tell you about the new tattoo plastered onto my ever-aging skin.  I am all aglow because this new tattoo ROCKS! It's so well done that it actually looks fake, as if someone drew this on my body, not permanently inked it into my skin. Lest you think I exaggerate, here is a photo of my new tufted titmouse tattoo:

(Hold the thought about this being a tufted titmouse.  I'll get to that in a second.)

I mean, come on! That tattoo looks like someone painted a bird on my chest.  It looks even better in person.  Can you believe that's a tattoo? MJagger thought I was kidding and that I had put a decal on as a joke.  This is a tattoo, truly a work of art by an artist.  

Oh, if only I had found this tattoo artist a few decades earlier.  I'd be a work of art instead of an explosion of tacky scratchings and covered-up-cover-ups.

....well, he would be under age ten if I found him 20 years ago, but that's beside the point. 

This tattoo was  done by a friend's son.  Weedeater and I had gone to high school together and, like everyone my age, reunited via Book de la Face.  She mentioned that her son was a tattoo artist and had gone to school at the Art Institute of Chicago.  I took a gander at some of the photos posted on her page and couldn't believe it....

I had found the man of my dreams.  I started saving my pennies and thinking about the next tattoo. 

Oh, the poor wife.

This time, I wanted a tattoo visible to me on a daily basis.  The majority of my tattoos are on my back.  They are there because these "people" have my back--it was conscious process but it really didn't work out because I can't really see them except for in the mirror when I remember to look.  (Unfortunately, the wife has to see them every day and she hates tattoos.  Lose-lose.)  The "50th-birthday-present-to-myself-nautical-star-tattoo" on my chest is fabulous--I see it every day, it has many meanings to me and I have all sorts of happy thoughts when taking a gander. I love it and what it represents. So, I figured I still had half a chest to go and that this would be my canvas. (At my age and at my size, it is safe to put tattoos on my chest. I do not suggest this for other women.  Just keep that in mind when planning your chesty tats.)  I thought sticking with the old school, traditional tattoo might match best with the nautical star, so I started there.  My love of birds (a bird nerd I am) lead me to looking at traditional-worn-by-sailors sparrows.  The tiny bird fit the theme and style, would fit where I needed it to fit, would have meaning.  I scoured the web and tattoo magazines in search of the perfect sparrow and came up with several ideas.    

Since some of you might not know what this kind of bird looks like, I've put an example here.

During my search for the perfect bird design, I found a photo of a tattoo featuring a realistic-looking bird, as opposed to the old school traditional bird.  This got me thinking--why not get a real bird instead of a stylized one?  I love birds.  I adore birds.  The wife and I have been known to go bird watching.  We have a bird book and binoculars in the kitchen, just in case something fun new bird visits our back yard.  A bird....a real bird....I dunno, I dunno...

I gathered up my sailor birds and included one photo of a "real bird" in the pile.  I took the ideas to the tattoo artist of choice (Billy Raike of Roselle Tattoo Company) and gave him carte blanche.  He set up an appointment, many weeks into the future (he's that good, people!) and indicated he'd draw something up for me by the time I returned.

Fast forward to this week. My tattoo time had come! I went to the appointment as scheduled.  He hadn't drawn anything yet, as he needed more information--you know, important things like where I wanted this tattoo placed on my body.  So, we got in a discussion about sailor birds.  He studied the designs I had provided, asked a bunch of questions, took a gander at my chest (the area for the tattoo, sillies--not my actual chest).  He then pointed to the realistic-looking bird I had included and indicated he could do something like that.  That did it.  Screw the sparrows, let's go with a real bird!

I had him googling all sorts of birds, explaining that I am a bird nerd and that this "real bird" design was actually a much better idea.  I gave him names of birds to google (which reinforced my nerdiness to the nth degree) and bantered back and forth about the merits of each winged friend.  Neither of us were really satisfied with what we were seeing when it hit me.....

I burst out laughing and told him to type in "tufted titmouse."  I.am.a.genius!  What could be more hilarious and more fitting than putting a tufted titmouse on your chest??!!  This is bird humor--"tit" means "small" in some Scandinavian language and "mouse" means "bird"--so, we're talking small bird...which is going to go on my small chest....

....an itty bird bird for an itty bitty titty.

I'm 99% sure he thought I was kidding.  I mean, who the hell has ever been told to google a tufted titmouse? Who the hell besides bird nerds has even heard of a tufted titmouse? I don't think he believed his eyes when he typed "tufted ti" and up popped tufted titmouse in the image search box. Wa-la! There it was, one of my favorite birds (again, I kid you not).  Both of us knew it when we saw the photo. There was no question.  There was no further thought about a nautical sparrow.  There was no discussion. This was THE bird. 

The rest was history.  He drew the bird and two hours later, I was the proud owner of an incredibly gorgeous tufted titmouse.  

This was by far the best tattoo experience I've ever had.  If you don't have any tattoos, you might be scratching your head about that, wondering what does and doesn't make for a good tattoo experience.  Well, EVERYTHING was perfect about this tufted titmouse experience--the artist, the design, the shop, the cost, the music, the result.  Everything.  It was so perfect that I can't stopping about my titmouse and won't be shutting up for many months to come.

I have gotten overwhelming rave reviews from everyone except for MJagger--not because of the actual tattoo (she agrees that it is amazing), but because of the subject matter.  She can't believe I didn't get a hawk or an eagle or a raven or something like predatory like that.  She's still laughing and shaking her head. "A tufted titmouse? Are you kidding me? THAT'S your tattoo?!!"  

I hope a tufted titmouse poops on her.  I'm not going to point out birds anymore when we walk.  I'm going to savor them myself.  She would never have noticed those adorable nuthatches without my keen birding prowess.

My tattoo is so perfect that it makes me want to get a whole sleeve of birds....perhaps a rose-breasted gross beak befriending a chickadee and nuthatch?  A cedar waxwing keeping a watchful eye on an American Oriole (why they no longer call them Baltimore Orioles, I do not know)? A soaring Cooper's Hawk across the shoulder with an Eastern Towhee perched above my "what the hell is that blob" wrist tattoo?  We'd no longer have to carry a bird book--we could just look at my arm and know what bird we were watching.

For now, I will adore my tufted titmouse in the here and now and carry a bird book.   One can always dream of birds to come.....

Em. Are. Eye.

Yesterday, I had an MRI done on my knee.  If you've ever had an MRI, you know they (1) shove you in a big tube; (2) are noisy; and, (3) tell you to hold still no matter what.  I had an MRI done on my neck in the very early 1990's, so I had a good idea of what to expect: tube, noise, don't move.  Although technology has come a long way, I figured not much probably changed.  I was right--tube, noise, don't move.

Before getting shoved into the noisy tube, I had to fill out a form.  They want to make sure you don't have any weird metal things inside of you--shrapnel, clips or clamps, pacemakers, etc.  I quickly went down the list: no, no, no, no, no, no....then, I got to the last question, which inquired if I had any tattoos.  Tattoos? My first reaction was why the hell would it matter if I had tattoos?  My second reaction was, "oh shit, I am covered with tattoos." My third reaction was, "they didn't ask me this last time," but, then I realized back then I didn't have a tattoo so I probably didn't pay any attention to the question.  I circled "yes" and hoped this would not delay my testing.  My final thought was, "there are a bazillion people with tattoos that must need MRIs, so I'm not gonna fret about this." When the lady came to get me, I handed her the form and then asked about the tattoos.  Her question? "Where your tattoos done in the United States?"

Huh?

She explained that tattoo inks used to be made with metal flakes in them; thus, those old-school kind of tattoos could technically heat up during the MRI process.  She said this might happen in recent times if I had gotten my tattoos in foreign countries.  Now, this sounded ridiculous, so I asked her if anyone had ever experienced this "heating of the tattoo."  I didn't care about hot tattoos--I just didn't want ugly-from-the-test tattoos.  She said no but added that in theory this could happen.

I am SO going to do research on this--both the metal flakes and flaming hot MRI tattoos.

She took me to the room and showed me where to put my belongings.  I was confused by this as I was standing in a wide open hallway.  Last time, I had to take every stitch of clothing off and they wrapped me up in hospital gowns.  I was like, "I am not taking my clothes off while standing in this hallway."  She must have realized this and said, "oh, just take off your jacket, jewelry, glasses and shoes." I got to keep my clothes on. Oh sure, I had donned my bestest, prettiest, newest undies for the event and no one got was going to get to see them.  She didn't check anything. The only thing she confirmed was that I wasn't wearing a watch. I must have given the lady a worried look--after all, how did she know I wasn't wearing an under wire bra or a chastity belt? I tripled checked my jewelry and started to walk to the room when she stopped me and explained I'd have to leave my glasses.

Lady, I don't leave my glasses behind for nothin.'  I can't see a thing without them.  Those of you who think I am exaggerating need to look through my glasses.  I honestly can't see a thing without them; in fact, I need my glasses to find my glasses.  I have actually dropped my glasses on the floor and had to call the wife to help me find them.  I keep a spare set in my car.  So, when someone asks me to leave my glasses behind, I get mighty nervous.  I told her I can't see without them.  She assured me I should just follow her.  Um, okay.  I just told you I can't see.  Thankfully, she was wearing bright blue and the MRI room was basically white, so I could see a blue blob moving in front of me.  Follow the blueberry, follow the blueberry....

Before you have a tender moment of sadness about my inability to see without my glasses, don't waste your time--not being able to see when having an MRI is wonderful.  If I were claustrophobic (and, I'm not, but if I were), it wouldn't matter as I really couldn't see much of the tube at all.  It's a huge bonus. When I had my neck MRI done, they shoved me in the tube head first and it was not an open MRI.  I didn't care as I couldn't see what the hell was going on.  They explained it would be very normal to feel closed in.  I didn't feel anything at all--just curiosity about the process.

I was ready to be all mummy-fied, as last time, they really wrapped me up and strapped me in.  I couldn't have moved if I wanted to.  I mean, they had my head strapped in place, my legs mushed between these pillow barrier things, my arms across my chest, placing a panic button in my hand.  (I guess if you freak out during the testing, you push the button and you shoot out of the tube.  I kinda wanted to push the button just to see what would happen.) This time, all the technician did was put this plastic thing on my knee and told me not to move,  She sent me into the tube, legs first.  So boring.

It was a rather uneventful event except for one thing....

...I've been desperately trying not to get the cold the wife has been enduring for the past week.  I have willed myself not to get sick.  In an effort to help myself, I've been sucking down Vitamin C and zinc lozengers all week long.  If you've ever taken those zinc things, you know they can make you rather nauseous, especially if you eat them on an empty stomach.  Well, I had THREE of them on the way to the MRI facility.  (I told you I have been working hard not to get sick.) I hadn't eaten in five hours, as I planned on eating right after the test.  Well, three zinc drops on an empty stomach is not a good idea.  How do I know this?

I am laying in the tube, listening to bad country music when a wave of nausea came over me.  It was awful.  It was that zinc-on-an-empty-stomach nausea of which is not pleasant.  I felt like I was going to throw up.  I stopped and actually about this and realized....if I throw up, it is going to go straight up into the air and then rain down on my face.

It was right then and there that I decided I would NOT be throwing up.  After all, who wants to vomit rain down onto their face, even if it is ones own puke?  I did everything I could to think about anything that didn't involve my nausea.  I concentrated on my non-hot tattoos.  I thought about tattoos oozing out of my pores. I thought about new tattoo designs. I thought about how I was going to enjoy the DWTS finale tonight.  I listened to the music, thankful for the awful commercials.  I tried to see the blinking numbers (I think they were numbers) on the outside of the machine.  I did every single thing I could think of that did not involve moving and that had nothing to do with zinc.

I am happy to report that I did not throw up and that none of my tattoos burst into flames.

The blueberry wasn't very much help when the test was over.  She announced, "that's it!" zipped into the room, removed the plastic thing from my knee and kept on moving.   She told me, from somewhere in the room, to be careful when stepping down in case my knee was stiff.  Um, lady? Remember I told you I can't see?  No, she obviously did not remember.  The blueberry left me sitting on the edge of the table.  I called out and reminded her I can't see.  Thankfully, she heard me and accompanied me (well, walked quickly ahead of me) to the locker area.  There I was reunited with my glasses.

And, so that is the story of my MRI.  Rather mundane, don't you think?  I anticipate the results will be just as mundane.  You know how that goes--have pain, finally do something about it, stop having the pain.  I anticipate the best.  I know you do, too.
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P.S. I emailed my boss today and told her I won't be at work tomorrow, because I have the winning numbers for tonight's record Power Ball.  I assured her I would not be resigning as I would need productive things to do when not out on vacations or on altruistic adventures.
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Won't you be surprised.

Punk like Me

Shoo! It took me two weeks but I'm back.  I have nothing to offer you about my disappearance.  I was here the whole time, hidden in plain sight. I wish I could say I had been on a Caribbean cruise or hanging out with Mickey at the World of Disney or I was in Chicago getting a full body suit tattoo, but really....I was sitting on the couch watching anything that promised not to show me political adds, playing fantasy football, watching my niece play some brass instrument in the marching band, planning my Halloween costume, attending a Green Bay Packer game, trying out three new cell phones while still using the two I have every day (who the hell carries five cell phones? Me, that's who.  Don't call me.  Please. I never know which phone to answer).  I've been avoiding Book de la Face like the plague, as I can't stand all the political bickering and partisan hate going on.  (Do you really think your social network postings--ridiculous on both sides--will change my mind?)

Halloween was especially delightful this year.  It's my favorite holiday (if you can call it a holiday--we don't get the day off and there's no holiday pay, so it's not really a holiday) and I have always enjoyed everything about it....what's not to love about chocolate and costumes? As we have a Halloween party at work every year (during work hours, designed for the clients), I always try to base my costume on something that the clients will like and to which they will relate. I've been Spongebob Squarepants (one of their all time favorites), Snape, Steve Irwin (before he died, thankfully), one of the evil step-sisters, Mr. Hankie the Christmas Poo...heck, I've even dressed as one of my coworkers one year (and she dressed as me).  This year, I decided to go as a professional wrestler, as if there is one thing the clients seem to love, it's wrestling.  No matter how fake, no matter how over-the-top, no matter how ridiculous, they love it.  I have a love-hate relationship with this "sport." I have no interest in it, I don't watch it on TV, I've never quite understood the draw....but, we've gone to two live professional wrestling matches this year (the clients and me--not the wife-the wife does not find wrestling humorous or of any interest) and I have to say, it is ALWAYS a good time to go to a wrestling match.  It's kind of like a Madonna concert--it's not a concert, it's an EVENT. That's how wrestling is--it's not a match, it's an EVENT.  The whole thing is actually very hilarious, especially the part where people actually believe this stuff is real.  Now, I mean no disrespect to the wrestlers, as they do end up beating the crap out of each other even while faking the fight, but really--it's so fake, you can see it from the upper sections of the biggest stadium.  It is the crowd that makes the trip to a wrestling match worth it.  I won't say anything more about the crowd, but trust me when I say it's colorful and the best part of the show.  (I started to write about the attendees but couldn't find a way to say it without sounding incredibly judgmental, so I stop here--hell, I'm sitting there with them having a good time, so I have little room to talk.)

It's like a soap opera for macho men in tiny tights.

I decided to dress as my favorite (and I do use that term loosely) wrestler, CM Punk.  I figure he's current, he's from Chicago, he has lots of awesome tattoos, he's the reigning champ (even though everyone says he's a cheater), he's easily recognizable by wrestling fans, he was featured in a recent article in my favorite tattoo magazine (does it scare you that I have a favorite tattoo magazine?) and he's a punk rock kind of guy.  What's not to love about that?  The only thing I had to buy was the championship wrestling belt, which I found at Wally World.  (Little did I know it was the "wrong" belt, which was explained to me by many a fan--sigh.  I had no idea.  It was the only belt Wally World had and I thought it looked awesome so I went with it.)  I donned my tattoo sleeves and snow-shoe gaiters, put my "only wear once a blue moon" contact lenses and slapped on some make-up to make a beard.  Wa-la! Punk!

The wife kept calling me CJ instead of CM.  Shame on her.

Let's see if you can tell which is the REAL CM Punk....

Not bad for a 50 year old woman using items in the house to create a costume, eh? CM Punk should be flattered.

....or not.  He probably will need therapy if he ever sees this.

Maybe he should be tickled pink that I actually own his t-shirt. The wife can't even believe I wear it, let alone own it.

Anyways, it was great fun and I do believe my costume was a big hit.  It was even more fun than usual because people didn't immediately recognize me....which I couldn't believe.  I thought it looked like me with a bad beard, but people would stare at me with no recognition.  It was only when I spoke that their eyes would light up and they would then laugh.  And, laugh they did. I laughed right along with them. How can you not laugh when you are dressed up like a professional wrestler?

Had it been an "adult" party with friends, I would have worn little black undies in the true tradition of wrestling outfits, but since this was a work endeavor during daytime hours and since I hadn't shaved any of the parts that most definitely would have needed shaving, I stayed with black shorts.

Not as much fun but appropriate for the setting and took a lot less grooming time. 

Triple crown winner, baby.  That's me and my punk.   As his website says, "WWE Champion! Loveable jerk. Often confused with Batman. Once tipped a stripper with a Filet-o-Fish."

Like I said...what's not to love?

Turn that Frown Upside Down

It's MJagger's 40th birthday.  That said, she will not understand what I am about to write. She's still youthful and has young skin.  She will not understand what I mean when I say:

My belly button has turned into a frown.

I'm serious.  I knew gravity would bring the girls toward the floor, but my belly button? I had no idea.

The problem started when I went for my 'mole-mapping' at the dermatologist.  Now, THERE'S a fun time! You stand there in your underwear while the doctor looks at your skin, up close and personal, with a magnifying glass, blemish by blemish, mole by mole.  Those of you who know me recognize that this is a lengthy ordeal, as I have lots of freckles, blemishes and moles.  It's kind of gross, if you ask me.  So, there I am in my 50 year old skin being inspected by a 30 year old dermatologist.  I know she's 30 because she told me so.  She looked 30 and had perfect skin, which I suppose is good because that is what she does for a living.  Dr. Derma and I had lots of time to talk about my tattoos, tattoos in general, tattoo removal, her ex-boyfriend's tattoos....I told you, I have LOTS of things to look at.  We talked about if I regret my tattoos (I don't), why I called them tacky (because they are), if I'd ever want any of them removed (not so much) and when did I get "that new tattoo" (she gets a good eye award for noticing my new "I'm-now-50" tattoo).  She was VERY thorough, which made me nervous because it was already very hot in the office and I was already sweating and the closer she kept looking, the more I would sweat.  The entire time she's looking, she's talking and I'm sweating.  (I think the nurse was dissociating. Seen one mole-mapping, you've seen them all.)  You know, the wife has had many a mole mapping but her description never included a lifting (and subsequent flopping) of the boobs, a gander down my butt crack or a quick glance at parts of which I don't usually speak.  Well, I got lifted, flopped, gandered and glanced.  Imagine my surprise when she reached into my thankfully-new-and-fresh bra, grabbed one of the girls, lifted her up and checked for suspicious beings under my tiny town.  I was mortified.  We won't even talk about when she pulled my underwear from behind and met me cheek to cheek.

For the record, the wife claims her dermatologist has NEVER done anything like that. I'm not sure if I should be happy/got my money's worth or freaked out.

Needless to say, there was one suspicious mole on my upper belly.  I'm not sure I'd call it a mole--it was more like a spot--a little black spot; in fact, it was little enough that I have never given it a second thought.  I've got all sorts of other growths to look at--this one didn't even register on my mole-mind. I've got red moles, brown moles, big moles, flat moles, hair-producing moles.  This thing? It looked like a flat spot, more like a little blob of  black ink than anything skin related.  So, she points it out and educates me on how this is suspicious and that we should watch it and remove it in a year or if it changes.  I pondered this for a second or two and then remembered that the wife had a mole/spot/blemish just like this on her back and she had had it removed.  I inquired if I could make an appointment to have it removed; after all, why wait when you can just get the thing removed and off the radar?  Dr. Derma looked absolutely delighted.  "No need to return--we can do it right now!"  Before I knew it, the nurse was wheeling in tools, I was flat on my back and Dr. Derma was injecting me with numbing stuff.  She's still yapping, I'm still yapping, and before you can say "little black dot," the little black dot was gone and I was the owner of two new stitches.  "We'll send this to the lab.  You'll hear from us in a week.  I'm pretty sure this is going to come back abnormal but it will be nothing to worry about."  Oh, okay.  Glad for the warning.

I went home and tried to admire my new stitches and now-one-less-mole-covered belly, but I really couldn't see much from my vantage point.  That's when I decided to try and take a photo of it so I could see it better.  I figure my fancy camera phone might as well be good for something.....and, I thought it would be absolutely hilarious to post a photo of my stitches on Book de la Face.....

....this is how I learned that my belly button is now frowning.  The photos do not lie.  There it was.  A frown.

Oh. My. God.  If you listen to nothing else I have to say, listen to this: DO NOT TAKE A PHOTO OF YOUR 50 YEAR OLD BELLY BUTTON WITH A CAMERA PHONE FOR ANY REASON.

It's not pretty.  I thought it was just the angle, so I tried again.  That was worse.  After 20 or so photos, I gave up.  Each was worse than the first.

It doesn't matter that I am relatively average in the belly department.  50 year old belly buttons and surrounding skin areas should not be photographed, especially if you have a 50 year old belly button that has been pierced but no longer sports jewelry. I knew I had two holes in my skin (belly button piercing holes remain quite visible) and I knew I had moles and I knew I had a "inside my belly button scar" from my laproscopy and I knew my skin was becoming a little saggy but I had no idea how frownie-licious I had become.  I was struck how the arrangement of the removed mole, belly button piercing and belly button lined up to make a face (albeit with only one eye).

I became terrified: one day I will look down and my belly button will be gone, lost in the land of sagging skin.

A few days later, I tried taking a photo again, as I wanted to post a photo of how the area had turned black and blue (don't ask me--I don't know why--it certainly didn't hurt).  You would think that I would have learned the first time, but no.  I had to try again.

It got no better.  I did eventually keep one of the photos because it made me laugh.

For the right amount of money, I will post the photo.

Suffice it to say I am now left to embrace my frown.  I must love my frown of which I can't turn upside down...well, unless I stand on my head....which might help in all sorts of ways, considering how rude gravity is.

Screw you, gravity--I'm taking me and my mole-mapped skin and going to bed.  Maybe if I stay prone, gravity won't have such a dramatic grasp on my dermal affair.
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P.S. Yes, I will be removing my own stitches.  Was there a doubt? I can't let the doctors have all the fun.
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Going for the (Green and) Gold

Note to my mother: You said Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia, looked like she lost weight.  I took the dogs to the vet today to get some kennel cough potion stuck up their noses and while they were there, the tech weighed them both.  Seems the problem is not that Lucy lost weight....it's that Freckles Warrior Princess has gained a lot of weight, thus making Lucy look thinner.  Freckles may be going on a diet--that little sausage of a dog has gained over two pounds.  When you only weigh 15 pounds, that's a lot of weight.  Woof!

So, I look up and it's Thursday.  How did this happen? I don't even remember Tuesday zipping by and here it is Thursday.  This begs the question: what have I done with all my free time?

I thought long and hard about this (okay, about 14 seconds) and realized that I've been frittering away my life by watching a lot of the Olympics, trying to figure out my bra size, reading Book de la Face statii, trying to ignore nonsense about religious chickens/public kissing, looking for my lost blog photo folder (how did I ever delete that on my computer?) and ordering nonsense on the Internet (including new bras).

In other words, I am rather pathetic.  Exceedingly entertaining to myself, but pathetic nonetheless.

(And, no--I did not figure out my true bra size. I'm going to need professional intervention on this one. I thought about only wearing sports bras as that seems to be an easy way out but really--you can't wear sports bras for all occasions.)

The wife and I have enjoyed watching the Summer Games.  I have to say, TV sure does "do" the Olympics a whole different way they did when I was a kid.  Back then, you got to watch what you got to watch--none of today's watch the highlights and the American wins during prime time--you had to sit through the pain and the losses and everyone's teams.  You got to hear everyone's national anthem.  You got to see the entire ordeal, not just the finals.  Not that I mind the current way of watching the American victories. It does save me time to read more Book de la Face entries and it fits in with our society's ADD approach to living.

I wasn't going to watch the Olympics because I was pissed off that they took softball and baseball out of the competition. I do not understand this. Explain to me why we can have NBA stars in the Games yet we can't have women's softball? (Don't get me started about the NBA players.  I won't be able to stop.) I might even forgive the excommunication of softball because it's such an America sport, but baseball?  I would think there are plenty of baseball teams around the globe.  I know that's an American game, but really....they have field hockey and lacrosse, why not baseball?

The wife and I have really enjoyed the gymnastics and the women's beach volleyball, especially Misty and Kerri.  How can you not love them? If you don't love them, please don't tell me.  Not yet, anyways.

(And, this is not my photo.  I gleaned it off someone's Book de la Face page.  I figure that's pretty public domain.  I'd give credit if I knew where to give it. Seriously.)

Sand volleyball is an amazing thing.  I can't imagine how much it must suck the life force out of you running and jumping around in that thick, deep, surprisingly cold (at least in London) sand.  Forget jumping up and blocking a spike--just running around the court a few laps would do me in.  Try doing all that while wearing a bikini.  Oh sure, you can wear something over your bikini but you still have to wear one.  That sounds like a lot of work to me.

The look on Kerri's face says it all.  That is one happy lady. I loved the way she would thank everyone at the end of each match--from the ball boy to the line judge to the girl holding the rake, she thanked them all.  She seemed genuinely excited about the whole thing.  (Actually, she probably smiling because she knows what bra size she is. Small.)

I know the Olympics aren't over yet, but they are for me because......football season has returned!!  I.LOVE.FOOTBALL.  (American Football for those who are still in Olympic mode.) Tonight is the start of the pre-season.  Some of you might think this doesn't count but it does.  Let the smack talk begin!  I'm sure I'll take a peek at the Track and Field but my mind will be on the grid iron.  I wore my green and gold today and loved every second of ribbing I got at work today.  Oh, how I love, love, love football season....

....But, I would draw the line at professional football becoming part of the Olympics.  Dear god, I will be beside myself if they do that.  That seems so wrong in so many ways.  I can't really articulate it beyond, "that's so wrong."  Because it is wrong.  Well, it's wrong in the Addiverse and that's good enough for me.

It'd be even worse than that whole NBA-players-in-the-Games travesty and that is a travesty.  TRAVESTY!

Give me water polo and synchronized diving any day.

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Starring 50

Blogger's note: I had to change the title of this particular blog because the original title led unsuspecting internet users to my page.  They were certainly not looking for my blog.  I felt it only appropriate to save them from this and so I renamed the blog.  Sigh.  It was nice having like 4000 hits but if they are gonna find my blog by accident, they need to find one of the funnier ones.  Just sayin.'

Rest at ease, friends of the Addiverse—I have finally secured my “I’m Turning 50” birthday tattoo.  It was quite the challenge to figure out what to permanently ink into/onto my body.  I wanted it to be meaningful--even better if I could think of something with a multi-purpose meaning.  I wanted it to be well-done by someone who actually knew what they were doing. (Trust me, I am covered with all sorts of hideous, scratcher-made tattoos and paid a lot of money to look this bad).  I love cartoons but for this momentous occasion, I felt like I needed something different.  It had to be placed somewhere I could see it--most of my tattoos are on my back and I can’t see them.  While I purposefully put the cartoons on my back in representation of those who “have my back,” it kind of sucks that the wife has to look at them and I can’t.  (Such irony--the wife hates tattoos and she’s the one that has to look at them all.)  I have to give credit to the wife for agreeing with my design of choice and for talking me out of Minnie Mouse.

Those who know me know that I am a big, tacky nerd. Those who truly know me know that I am a big, nerdy fan of astronomy. (Surprised?) One of my favorite all-time Christmas gifts was a telescope--4^th grade, in case you are wondering. Yeah for Santa Parents! I was able to see the polar caps on Mars with that thing, which was a delightfully delicious thing to a fourth grader.  I have made (on more than one occasion) a special “sun-viewing box” so I could safely watch solar eclipses. During my formative years, I was introduced to the annual Perseid meteor shower that always seemed to correspond to our annual vacations at “The Cottage”  (mid-August, for those whose interest has now been peaked). I can still clearly envision laying on the pier with my mother, sister and cousins, staring up at the sky, hoping desperately to see a shooting star.  I still go outside every August and take a gander at that meteor shower, not only because I love astronomy but because of the happy memories it brings back of those glory days.

(I also lay claim of my love of ornithology—but, that’s for another nerdy day.)  

Even today, I am always staring at the night sky, torturing the wife with my semi-pathetic celestial knowledge:  “There’s a satellite—see it?”  “Did you see that shooting star?” “That’s the North Star.” “Wow! Jupiter and Venus are aligned.  Look at that!”  I love the fact that the North Star doesn’t “move.” It’s always right there, saying “Hey! This is North, over here!” If you can find the North Star, you can find your way anywhere.

Back to my birthday tattoo. I chose a nautical star, an old-school, traditional tattoo design, best known for being found on sailors. (I'm not a sailor but my godfather was, so that should count for something.) 

• The first and most compelling reason for my choice is that it represents a compass for life.  I can always use a little direction.
• The design supposedly symbolizes protection, guidance and staying on course, a positive guide toward the future. Who doesn't need a little guardian angel action?
• It’s all about finding your way safely back home. Since home is where the heart is, I figured putting it on my chest would be the perfect location.   (This was a bit bittersweet, as putting the star in that location meant I had to cover up my very first tattoo--a little dog with my nickname written over it.  You couldn't tell what it was or what it said anymore, so it really was the perfect place to put the tat, but it's still covering a piece of history.)
• It's always a good thing to reach for the stars...while keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground.
• In addition to being a compass for life, the nautical star somehow this image got tied to the Punk Rock scene, and I did love the punk rock of the late 70’s/early 1980’s.  I'm too old for the Punk Scene of today.  Punks of today need to respect their elders, so here's one for them.
• What's not to love about Sailor Jerry, king of the sailor tattoos, a master of the nautical star?  A star for a star, that's what I say.
• Maybe I could call it a "naughty-call" tattoo.  Or, not.
• And, surprisingly enough to me and most definitely an unintentional bonus, the  star tattoo was used in 1940’s-60s so females leading “an alternative lifestyle” could identify each other.  "Often [they] would get the star tattoo done on the inside of their wrist where it could easily be hidden by a watch during the day but shown off in the evening when out on the town." 

I had no idea. 
(I'm sure that use of the nautical star pissed the sailors of WWII off, but it's probably all good now.)

So, I now have a nautical star tattoo.  I'd post a photo of the actual tattoo, but I've decided it's near impossible to take a photo of a tattoo on your chest, even with my fancy "facing toward me" phone camera.  Here's what a nautical star looks like, thanks to Photobucket.  Mine happens to have blue/green and yellow in it (the green was unintended, a by-product of adding the yellow). For the record, I think the wife likes it.

So, happy 50th Birthday to me and a happy day to you.  And, remember: if you ever get lost, wait til it gets dark, then find the North Star.  It's all good from there.

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(Nerds can join me for the Perceid Meteor Shower....Active: July 17-Aug. 24, 2012; Peak Activity: Aug. 12, 2012. Peak Activity Meteor Count: Approximately 100 meteors per hour. See you in August!)