Positively Oppositivity

It is no secret that the wife and I are basically as opposite as you can get. I am an ENFP; she's an ISTJ. I love sci-fi; she loves reality. I like potty humor; she isn't entertained. I don't even know why anyone employs a spice rack; she likes the spices lined up alphabetically. I'm a vegetarian; she's a staunch carnivore. I want to swim in ice cream; she wants to be enveloped in warm bread. I want to drive (enjoy the scenery); she wants to fly (get there fast). I think the perfect going-out-for-dinner "date" is sharing dinner with several other couples; she think the perfect dinner date is just the two of us. For me, watching football is purely for entertainment;  for her, it's a way of life, which means she talks in "we" when speaking about the team.

The only thing we fully have in common is a love of Mexican food. Oh, how we both love authentic Mexican food. Thank god for Mexican food.

So, it is no surprise that we take different actions and approaches when it comes to real life. She worries about things I never even think about. I do things that she has no idea of why I might even consider. It's usually rather humorous. Well, at least to me. She is not usually entertained.

Case in point... I can't remember if I've ever blogged about the engine mount issues I faced a year or two ago. To recap, my engine mount problem, in which the engine mount was "bent" but not dangerous, meant that my car was REALLY loud, especially when idling. I didn't care about it; the wife did. After many months of her obsessing about it, I took the car to my mechanic. It went something like this:

Doc Car: Your engine mount is bent.
Me: Is that dangerous?
Doc Car: No.
Me: Is my engine going to fall out?
Doc Car: No.
Me: Is it going to get worse?
Doc Car: Probably not.
Me: If it were your car, would you fix it?
Doc Car: (shrugs shoulders) Depends on if the noise bothers you.
Me: Does it bother you?
Doc Car: (shrugs shoulders again) No. Does it bother you?
Me: No.

You know the result. I did not get the engine mount fixed.  It had nothing to do with money. I couldn't care less about the money to get if fixed. The noise and vibration didn't bother me one bit. Why fix something that isn't bothering me and that isn't dangerous?

I'll tell you why I got it fixed. Because the wife drove me bonkers about it. (Well, that and because my sister-in-law was mortified by the sound and vibration while I was driving her somewhere. I guess I didn't realize how obnoxious it really was.) My decision not to get the mount fixed came close to infuriating the wife. That noise and vibration consumed the wife. It's all she could talk about when riding in my car. That opposite way of being made for many a comment from both of us.

The wife: (Scowl on face) I can't believe you didn't get it fixed.
Me: It's not dangerous. It's not like my engine is going to fall out.
The wife: I can't stand it. Why wouldn't you get it fixed?
Me: Because it doesn't bother me.
The wife: It bothers ME.
Me: So I gather.

I finally acquiesced and got it fixed. For the record, it was worth every penny spent because it got the wife to stop talking about it.


Flash forward to yesterday. I took my car back to the mechanic for a different noise. My car gives an initial "scream" when it's started the first time every day. It only does it when it's 50 degrees or colder outside. It only does it once. The car starts just fine. It runs smoothly. Besides the initial noise, there is no other noise. It makes me laugh.

Imagine a baby pterodactyl getting pinched in the butt when sleeping, so it is startled and wakes up in a panic. That's kind of how the noise sounds. As you can imagine, this noise REALLY bothers the wife. She doesn't like the baby pterodactyl. Me? I figure the car starts just fine, runs just fine, is just fine. This has been going on for about nine months. Since the weather has been warmer than usual, the screaming hasn't been that bad....

....unless you are the wife. Then, the screaming is blood curdling and a sign of certain doom. The engine is going to blow up. The house is going to blow up when the engine blows up. Her Mustang is going to blow up because my Honda blew up.

Now, I'm not saying a screaming engine is a good thing. I'm100% sure it's not a good thing nor is it normal. The majority of you would not like having a scream to start your engine. I honor that.

I finally did a web search and figured that this screaming thing might be more problematic than I considered. After nine months, I gave in and called the mechanic. I dropped off the car and left it overnight so the mechanic could enjoy the full effect of a cold engine scream. While I was standing with a co-worker, I got a call fro Doc Car. Humorously enough to me, the conversation with the mechanic about the scream resembled the conversation about the engine mount:

Me: Did you hear the scream?
Doc Car:  Yeah. It actually did it a couple times for me.
Me: (laughs) What do you think it is?
Doc Car: I'm not sure. It's probably the starter.
Me: Do I need a new starter?
Doc Car: Up to you. It's pretty expensive. At least $500. The starter is buried way back in the engine.
Me: I don't care about that. Is it dangerous?
Doc Car: No.
Me: Am I ruining my engine?
Doc Car: No.
Me: Am I ruining anything?
Doc Car: Probably the starter.
Me: Am I gonna get stranded somewhere?
Doc Car: Well, you could get stranded at any time because of anything.
Me: (a milli-second of contemplation, then laugh): That's true.
Doc Car: I've got other cars that make the same noise, run just fine. Usually don't make the noise when it's warmer out. It's up to the owner.
Me: It doesn't bother me. So, I can leave it?
Doc Car: Up to you.Yeah.
Me: (thinking about how much I love my mechanic--he never tries to sell me anything..no pressure, no panic) As long as I'm not ruining my engine....
Doc Car: No, you're not ruining your engine.
Me: Okay, I'll leave it. I can always fix it later.
Doc Car: Sounds good.

As soon as I said this, I KNEW the wife was not going to be happy. After hanging up, I left the wife a voice mail and then I turned to my co-worker...

Me: (laughing) The wife is SO not going to be entertained about this. She is NOT going to be happy.
Co-Worker (also laughing) I'm guessing not.
Me: Would you get the car fixed?
Co-Worker: Get the car fixed.
Me: You're no fun. So, you'd replace the starter?
Co-Worker: Get the car fixed.

Just as soon as she said that, I got a text from the wife, directing me to call her. Oh dear. That didn't take long. I'll leave it to your imagination what she had to say about my decision to leave the screaming pterodactyl in place. Suffice it to say, she didn't agree with my decision and couldn't believe I didn't get the car fixed.

I got a well-deserved and much earned lecture. Can't say I enjoyed it but can't say it swayed me to change my mind. Again, it wasn't about right or wrong or money. It was because the noise doesn't bother me and because I'm not ruining my engine--what is the hurry? I offered the wife the opportunity to call the mechanic back and make an appointment to get the starter replaced. If it bothered her that badly, I'd get the starter replaced... but, she had to call. She declined to do so....

The baby pterodactyl gets to live another day!

I'm sure he won't be around for too long. Maybe spring break. Maybe summer. Maybe when I can't take the comments anymore. Until then, I'm gonna smile every time he screams. I'm gonna pinch his little butt....

....I'm gonna drive it to the nearest Mexican restaurant. I'll take the wife alone, not with a group. I may be dumb but I'm not stupid.

**********************************************************************************

Adios Twenty Fifteen.

Twenty Fifteen. Come and gone in a blink of an eye. It ends with unseasonably warm weather--so much so that some spring plants are popping up here and there....

...I hope Mother Nature is not storing up for a stupendously cold and blizzard-filled January and February 2016. That would be just plain rude.

I'd could write a rhyming poem, but I think I'll write an ode instead.
I could look back at my FB page and check the year's blog posts, but that would be cheating. Off the top of my head, I pay homage to the year as it closes.
I am grateful to have so much positivity flowing through our lives.

Twenty Fifteen.
A prime-numbered birthday age for both me and the wife.

A quietly fabulous year.
Not flashy, not mundane.
Balanced in such an adult-like fashion.

The blog's ten year anniversary.
A new tattoo.
Three trees removed.
A to-be teacher-now graduate house guest.
A dog no more....
....a suddenly pet-free house.

Two Doctor Who-related conventions.
Four baseball stadiums.
Blurry-eyed Netflix binges.
A trip to the Mecca for a Green Bay Game.
I thought the Cubs were going all the way...
....just wait until next year.

More cheesy wiblets.
Less house projects.
A new iPad for the wife.
A trip to Gluten Free hell for me.
An android purchase...
...I secretly lust an iPhone.


One kick-ass regional professional presentation by the wife.
She's a physical education pedagogy rock star.
One crappy state-wide professional presentation by me.

At least I got to wear one of my suits that are collecting dust in the closet.

Lots of health and happiness.
Lots of laughs.
Lots of family cheer.
One naughty elf.
Friends, oh the friends!
Food, oh the food!

A good year, indeed.
Of nothing to complain.
Of nothing to whine.
Of much to embrace.
Of much to celebrate and reflect.

I hope you, too had a fabulous year.

I wish you a very happy, healthy, boisterous-to-your-liking 2016.

Picking Your Poison

Things are hopping in the Addiverse. Between Freckles barking incessantly and a recent bout of food poisoning (that really kept things hopping), it's been like having the circus in town.

I suppose the dog is number one on the list, as she's the loudest and most obnoxious. She's taken to barking non-stop in the morning. It's piercing as it echos through the kitchen and interferes with my desire to enjoy my coffee in the solitude of the wee hours. This started after Lucy died, so our first thought is that she has finally gotten past her depression stage and has moved on to her anger stage: "WHERE IS THAT DAMN OTHER DOG?" It's tough to understand the disappearance of a sister and even tougher when you are more blind and deaf than not. I know she misses Lucy and see her look for her at times--well, look for Lucy's food, which is the same thing as looking for Lucy. That said....

....after much observation, I know we've moved  from anger to "now I've got them trained." I daresay we have reinforced this "bad" behavior and Freckles now knows that we are her minions. We wanted her to shut up so we've accidentally trained her to be rewarded before shutting up. Our "Stop barking! Here's a treat" equals "if I bark, they give me a treat." Dang, I hate when that happens. She's trained us to do EVERYTHING in the exact same order every morning. Pee, treat. Eye drops, treat. The wife gets up, peanut butter treat. Louder, non-stop barking, treat. Barking, get put on the couch and go to sleep. It's not until she's on the couch after this routine that she stops barking. Weekends are a drag because we don't do things in the same order as on weekdays. That messes with her routine, which messes with our piece and quiet.

There is a saying "pick your poison." It is usually used in reference to choosing your alcoholic beverage. In this case, I say we have to pick our poison of barking until your eardrums bleed and waiting for the extinction of this behavior OR being trained by the dog to follow the same routine and to dispense treats as desired. I think it's clear with which poison we choose.

Speaking of poison, I had a delicious case of food poisoning on Monday. Well, I suppose I should say Sunday Night but the worst of it was Monday morning. The wife was sure it was the flu and I was sure it was food poisoning. It's pretty hard to prove which is which, even after a detailed research effort on the internet, as many of the symptoms are the same--both feature things shooting out of your body, feeling absolutely horrific and even having a fever. I didn't have the achy feeling like you get with the flu and this hit suddenly--I was totally fine and then WHAM! The flu tends to start slowly and lead to misery, then aches and pains and delirium. My poison started with an intense, sudden, surprising stomach ache and "moved" (quite literally) from there. I thought I was was going to die. I shat like I was preparing for a colonoscopy. The thought of eating or even drinking anything made me gag. At one point, I curled up in a little fetal ball on the floor in an effort to feel more comfortable. I think that scared the wife--I'm not known for curling up in a fetal ball on the floor. Thankfully, it left as quickly as it came. Twenty four hours later I was back to eating like there was no tomorrow and I felt perfectly fine.

Told her it wasn't the flu.

The culprit? I'd bet dollars to donuts that it was.........

.....the church pot luck.

This is why I despise pot lucks. I'm not a fan of leftovers, I am always skeptical about food left out for any duration and I'm always suspicious about the various cooks who have prepare potluck food. You don't know what's going on with that food or in their kitchens. I almost never eat at the church potlucks--I stick to the cookies and brownies as I figure those are the least likely to cause issue. I ate some rice product (I think it was rice, I'm not sure--it might have been risotto or pasta or something--it was kind of mushy) that had been sitting out for an unknown duration, was barely lukewarm and involved some "gravy-not-meat-gravy like" substance. I ate a whole bunch of things because I was hungry. Talk about picking your poison. I shoveled all sorts of foods so figuring out what might have been the culprit is difficult. Chicken-tainted hands/cross contamination, foods not kept at appropriate temperatures, fecal-surprises-under-the-preparer's-fingernails, hidden meat products, spoiled ingredients....it's all possible in a potluck.

Call it a pot shot in a pot luck.

I didn't call around because I figure I'll hear about it at church next week if anyone else got sick. I suppose it could be something from our house but I'm pretty sure that's not the case. I didn't eat out that weekend, I didn't cook anything real and there's no poop under my fingernails. I didn't handle the dog's poop or touch any canine fecal matter anywhere. The wife didn't cook anything, either--no raw chicken flopping around on the counter for this family.

I'll pick a barking dog over food poison 100 out of 100 times. A barking dog will stop if you give it a treat. Food poisoning will not stop if you give it a treat.

Oh, someone's barking. I best go get a treat. Call me Pavlov.

Honey-Don't List

The wife is on her annual "Tour of the Cheddarlands," this time making her way to Oshkosh to hang out with Tom.E.Hilfiger and family (that's a nickname, not the actual guy--long time blog readers know this). Every year she tortures herself--er, I mean enjoys some quality family time with siblings and their offspring.  I stay home and go to work every day.  Sometimes, I am pretty sure I've got the better end of the deal.

This year, the wife left me what I would consider a "honey-do" list.  I couldn't believe it!  She's never done anything of the sort before, so it was very confusing to get one. I suppose I deserve it because I don't really listen when she is telling me what she needs to do.  Interestingly, the list is a more of a honey-DON'T list, which fits my personality better than a honey-DO.


The list is relatively simple and designed so a first grader could follow it--which is good for people like me.  I need simple and direct and matter of fact.  I don't need any flowery descriptions or platitudes.  The only issue is that some of the things seemed like they were going to be much more challenging than usual. Take, for instance, directions about watering the plants.  (Note to self: do not let wife go out of town during a drought and/or hot spell--too many plants to worry about.) The first assignment was simple in itself: "Water vegetable garden, plants, front lawn." I can do all those things and I like watering things, so I was feeling very confident about this...until I read the second sentence:

"Try not to water the windows."

The wife has a thing about clean windows.  They possess her.  She goes out in 30 below to clean them.  She'll hang off a ladder to get that one last spot. She has a special squeegie and this special soap and a method that rivals the pros.  She HATES water spots.  HATES.HATES.HATES.

I steel myself for this job.  I can do this.  I will do this.  How hard can it be not to water the windows? I fret just a little about this because I really, really, really don't want to hear about water-drop-spotted windows.

So, what do you think the first thing I did was?

I went out to the sprinkler, aimed it where she aims it, turned on the hose and.....

.....all over the front windows.  Yup.  Water, water, water slapping on the windows.

It was too late to panic--after all, the damage had been done.  I'd love to say I went out there and fixed the problem but it's of no use--I can't clean the windows like the wife.  She'll know.  In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if she didn't have a shudder while sitting at breakfast this morning.  She'll probably ask her brother, "Did you feel that?" and realize something is amiss in the Addiverse.

Since I screwed up in the front yard, I thought I could do better in the back....


God bless those garden hoses, they have a mind of their own.  Not only did I end up spraying one of the windows, I splattered the piss out of the sliding glass door.  This is what I get for trying.  Day one and I was already unsuccessful in following the first Honey-Don't assignment.

I take a look at the half full glass: this will make the next several days easier, as I figure all bets are off and I can just water at will now, not a care for a window in the world.


On to assignment two: garbage.  It's garbage day.  Lots of specific, picayune directives about the garbage and recycling and dog poop and such.  I do not foresee a problem with this until I go to take the poop bag out of the can. Not only did I splatter the windows, I've been filling the dog poop can with water.  

I decide this watering thing sucks.  So does garbage.

I decide to skip assignments three, four and five.

My last assignment is to find a home for the shoes that have been on the bedroom floor for the past three months. This is a snide commentary on my lack of action in relation to these shoes that really don't fit.  I thought about selling them on eBay, I thought about selling them in a garage sale, I thought about giving them away.  I only wore them three times and they look brand new....but, since I never did figure out what to do with them, they've been lounging on the floor in front of the closet, not bother a soul....

....well, one soul was bothered.  Those shoes drive the wife bonkers.  She scowls at them.  She remarks about them.  I don't really see them, I don't think about them, I don't really care about them.  I could shove them back into the closet but then nothing will ever get done with them.  It's not like I'm going to wear them...

Hey, I have an idea! Why don't I wear the shoes while I am watering the plants?  Win-win, two assignments in one....genius!


Stand back: Honey-Don't One and Five are in motion!  Maybe she'll be so excited to see that the shoes are gone that she won't notice the water spotted windows.


Who.
Am.
I.
Kidding?


Well, one out of five ain't bad.

Bikini Sighting: East, West and South

Now that I'm 50 and the tattoo is healing and the vacation is over and the celebration is grinding to a slow halt (one more weekend to go and then the partying's over), I've had time to reflect on all this fun. It was the best.birthday.ever.  And, I'm not just saying that:

It.was.grand.

I must confess there is one noticeable drawback to being 50.... my breasts are moving east, south and west. When I wrote in my previous blog that it is hard to take a self-photo of a tattoo located on the chest--even with those new-fangled cell phones--what I really meant was "my boobs have gone east and west and south and that distorted tattoo look in the phone photo is really the distortion of my breasteses (pronounced breast-est-es)."  I didn't realize how far things had "traveled" until I put my bikini top on in preparation for the tattooing.  I thought it a smart idea to wear my bathing suit to the tattoo parlor, taking into account the location of the desired tattoo.  I slipped the top tie over my head and hooked the back of the bikini into place.   I went to adjust the little triangles of fabric of which bikinis are made.....and was stunned--STUNNED to see how far the triangles were from each other.

Adding insult to injury, there was a whole lot of nothing going on between those two triangles of fabric.

I might as well have put the triangles of fabric over my armpits, that's how far things were off course.

Some might burst into tears, but I burst into laughter.  I called to the wife, "You have GOT to see this!" I don't think she was prepared for what she was about to see.  I mean, there is NO WAY you can see something like this and not burst into laughter.  It took less than 1/2 a brain cell to determine it was no longer appropriate for me to sport a bikini top of this caliber.

In case you are wondering, I wore a purple sports bra to the blessed event. Had I worn the bikini top, the 23 year old tattoo artist would have needed therapy for the rest of his life; in fact, he might have been permanently scarred.

In addition to the armpit triangles of bikini top trauma, I noticed that my gratitude tattoo is now:
GRAT  ti   tude
sadly sloping toward
                          the south 
                                  and east.   

The word gratitude used to be perfectly spaced and level. Not so much anymore.  I should have given the guy a bigger tip, as he was able to align the star with the sloping word with nary a snarky comment.

Soon, I'll have a falling star.  Ah  well, we can fix that when I turn 60.

Anyone need a new bikini top?

It's been a weird, hormonally-charged few days in the Addiverse.  When I say weird, I mean "there's a coyote in the backyard" kind of weird.  We don't live in the woods.  We don't live near any woods.  We live the suburban life.  Coyotes are not part of our landscape.  As for the hormones, well let's just say the IT guy at work probably won't be doing me any favors over the next few weeks.  I know better than to ever piss off the IT guy.

I plead insanity.  

I keep calling people by accident while trying to learn how to use my iPhone. It's rather irritating--to me and most likely the person I am accidentally calling. The wife is trying to make me practice (such a teacher thing to do) but I don't have problems when I am practicing.  I'm not sure where I go wrong.  Don't get me started on how I ended up with an iPhone.  I didn't start out to get one. I went to Horizon, place of hell, and asked to see an old-school phone with an actual QWERTY keyboard...something I could drop several times a day and nothing would go wrong.  Now, I am butt dialing friends and family on a phone that talks back to me.

If you haven't had the pleasure of hearing Surrry (that's what I call her) answer your questions, find someone with an iPhone and ask some questions.  Here's an example of an actual "conversation" I had with Surrry...complete with "her" responses (and I swear to go that I did not make up these answers--these are word for word what she had to say):

Me: Surrry, do you want a beer?
Surrry: I'd rather not say.
Me: Are you a boy or a girl?
Surrry: I was not assigned a gender, Addi. (Yes, she knows my name. It's kind of freaky.)
Me: Where were you born?
Surrry: I'm right here.
Me: Huh.  Where were you made?
Surrry: I was designed by Apple in California.
Me: Where is your home?
Surrry: I'm not allowed to divulge that information, Addi.
Me: What do you think about this shirt?
Surrry: It's nice of you to ask, Addi, but it doesn't really matter what I think.
Me: You're hot.
Surrry: Oh, stop.
Me: Do you want to go on a date?
Surrry: I have very few wants, Addi.
Me: Do you like Madonna?
Surrry: This is about you, Addi, not me.
Me: Do you love me?
Surrry: How can I tell?
Me: Do you want to be spanked?
Surrry: Now, now, where were we?
Me: Are you a moron?
Surrry: I don't even exist--how can you hate me?
Me: I'm sorry, Surrry.
Surrry: It's okay, Addi.  Really.
Me: Will you forgive me?
Surrry: A fine question, Addi.  Now can we get back to work?'

Those engineers in Appleland must have had a lot of fun thinking about what people would ask and what answers would be appropriate.  I am sure she is trained to address really inappropriate questions, too but I'm too shy to ask.  I mean, what if there is a list of saved questions somewhere in my phone...or, worse...somewhere in Appleland?

Okay, so I admit that I asked, "Do you want to have sex?" (I couldn't resist at least one question with the word "sex" in it.) She replied, "I have everything I need already."  Touche.

Let's get back to the coyote.  I'm minding my own business this morning, typing on my lap top while seated at the kitchen table when I hear these sounds emitting from the wife--the kind of noises one makes when scared or freaked out.  As she is outside watering the plants, I'm not sure what she could be fearing.  She bursts in through the doorway and exclaims, "THERE IS A COYOTE IN THE BACK YARD!"

Uh huh.  Sure there is. I take a sip of my coffee and turn to look out the patio window, toward the area she is pointing to in an almost hysterical manner. I start to say, "there can't be a coyo----" but stop because there IS a coyote in our back yard and he is standing there looking at me.  He's pretty scrawny looking, so I figure he's hanging out with the hopes that ol' sausage girl Freckles will waddle by and serve as a tasty breakfast food.  What a coyote is doing in our yard is beyond me.

I decide to engage in a stare-down.  I win. Heh heh. He turns and slinks away.  We decide not to let the dogs go out unless we are literally standing next to them.  Don't mess with my dogs, Wile E Coyote!  We will need to be extra careful over the next few days to make sure our canines don't become coyote chow.

I asked Surrry if she saw the coyote in the back yard.  She said she had no opinion on that.  I think that means she saw the coyote.  I profess my love for her: "I love you, Surrry."

Her reply? "All you need is love.  And, your iPhone."

She probably should have added, "and the IT guy.  You're going to need the IT guy."  Did I mention I plead insanity?

Of dogs and dinners

I've got my lap top, kindle and iPhone all going at the same time, so if this blog implodes, at least you will know why.  I still cannot believe I caved and purchased an iPhone. I am so not an apple grrrrl.  But, in the end, all those cool features that the wife is always oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing about won out.  The camera alone makes it worth while because if you saw the photos I take with my "real" camera, you would understand my pain.

I wasn't going to blog about the dinner (just wait--I'll get there) but all bets are off, now that the wife has admitted she hasn't been keeping up with my blog.  Here I thought the person sitting across the kitchen table was a regular reader.  Imagine my surprise when she didn't know about my ball chair antics or other dribble from the Addiverse.  The shame, the horror, the pain.

So, I shall now speak of the "Great Dinner Disaster of 2012."  (It really wasn't a disaster but the wife kept exclaiming, "this is a DISASTER!" so it must have been at least a little traumatic. Perhaps disaster-esque is more appropriate.)

.....before I get to that, I need to make a confession right now: I am playing veterinarian with our dog.  I just couldn't bring myself to take her back to the vet and pay even more money to try other antics to fix her itchy eye.  I did many a web search and learned all sorts of ways to address allergies and itching.  Since the first round of vet bills didn't cure her, I decided it was time to take things into my own hands. After checking one last time to make sure a tooth wasn't sprouting out of her snout, I pulled out my dog medicine cabinet (trust me, I've got a canine pharmacy going on in our kitchen), perusing the leftovers from Freckles brush with death last spring.  I mixed and matched what I had learned on line and what I had pretty much known from previous bouts of allergies.  It was time to pull out the big guns....I reached for the almost full bottle of prednisone.

I did oodles of research, checking dosages and dangers, so i felt pretty confident I wouldn't kill her with my new-found career.  I knew that if I took Lucy to the vet, they'd just suggest giving her a shot of some form of steroid, so I thought it best to give it a whirl with what I had in hand.  After much calculation and consideration, I laid out the three week plan and began the treatment.

May I just say that after three days the improvement was so profound that I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it? Her eye is no longer swollen and yucky.  Her chin isn't red and puffy.  Best of all, she's not throwing herself all over the rug in an effort to scratch all those things that itch.  She hasn't kept us up all night with all that obnoxious (and probably quite painful to her) scratching.  I can actually see the white of her eye again.  Praise the baby jesus, I think we might be on the road to recovery.

Now, I know lots of negatives come with using steroids but this was a necessary evil.  It's very short term.  I also know I haven't identified the cause of the allergies, so that hasn't been cured--I've just put a band aid on the problem.  For now, I'll take the band-aid and two good eyes.

Back to the supposed "disaster."


The wife and I decided to have our friends Otis and Newman over for dinner.  Whenever we go to their house, Newman makes us all sorts of delectable tidbits...home-made, fresh, probably organic, always a new recipe to try, always incredibly tasty and healthy to boot.  We're talking cold soups, interesting ingredients, molten cakes.  Nothing for the faint of heart.  We always feel guilty when we finally have them over because we usually end up doing something like pizza.  It is intimidating to cook for those that actually know how.  The wife decided this time to make something in the crock pot, because nothing ever goes wrong in the crock pot.  I have to admit that in our quarter century of cooking, we have never had one mishap with a crock pot adventure.

You DO realize where this is going, don't you?

The wife decided to make a new chicken crock pot dish. I focused on convincing her that we needed a salad and something other than the chicken.  I was surprised when the wife announced she was going to try something new, as it is NEVER a good idea to try out a recipe on people other than with whom you live.  She seemed very confident, announcing that the dish "only needs three ingredients and the chicken," adding that she got it from her "light" cooking book.  (Newman is very fond of Weight Watchers, so this seemed like a nod to her efforts.)  For one-millisecond, I was skeptical and opened my mouth to protest trying something new when serving dinner guests.  But, I was lured in to the 100% success rate of our crock pot endeavors and thus said nary a word.  I went back to arguing about what side dishes would compliment the chicken.  Somehow, spring rolls and fruit fluff ended up on the menu, so I was really happy.   I stopped worrying about the chicken and focused on the fluff.  I went to work and left the fretting to the wife.

I came home an hour or two before our guests were to arrive.  I, a non-teacher, had been working all day.  The wife, a teacher, had been at home torturing herself over this dinner. (I'm guessing that going to work was a much less stressful day than fretting at home.)  One look at the wife's face told me something was very, very wrong--in fact, she looked so distressed that I thought someone might have died.  She turned to me, eyes moist with tears and exclaimed, "IT'S A DISASTER!"

I looked toward the crock pot and gave her the "one eyebrow raised question look."  After I established the the disaster was in the crock pot and that no one had died, I stepped closer to the counter where she was leaning (head now in hands). While repeated several times about how this is a disaster, I thought how can a crock pot be a disaster? No one has crock pot disasters. We've never had one thing go wrong with a crock pot meal.....

....and then, I looked in the crock pot and realized we had a disaster on our hands.

"What happened?" I asked in my most empathetic, sympathetic tone.

"I don't know! Oh my god, what are we going to do! This is a disaster!"

I peered in.  The chicken looked like little dried hockey pucks.  "It looks kind of dry."

The wife looked like she was going to vomit.  "I can't serve this!"

I took another gander and asked her to cut a piece so I could see.  Oh dear.  Hockey pucks. (Does anyone else think it's funny that the vegetarian is checking to see how the chicken looks?)  It was dry as a bone.  "I don't understand.  Did you cook it longer than you were supposed to?"

The wife shook her head "no."  I paused and then in the most supportive-non-judgmental tone I could muster asked, "Did you have it on high?"

She let out a squeak, trying to hold in the sob....."No! It was on low.  I followed the directions. This is such a disaster!"

In an effort to lower her anxiety, I explained that this was not a disaster.  The space shuttle exploding, wars in foreign countries, Madonna's latest album sales--those were disasters.  "You're right.  We can't serve that."  I used my art-enhanced-right-brained creativity and confirmed, "isn't one of their favorite places to eat the Imperial Castle?"  The wife nodded in a very tentative manner.  "Do you know what Newman likes to eat?" (I figured this was a really easy question as the wife and Newman have eaten lunch there a bazillion times.)  The wife had a moment of terror cross her face. I could tell she didn't know what Newman liked to eat, even though Newman ordered the exact same thing every time they went out for lunch. Through process of elimination while staring at the take-out menu, the wife was able to identify a few potential dishes. "She gets the one with "woody-ear" but she gets it without the woody-ear."  I offered to go pick up the chinese take out if she called to order it.  I'm not sure how she was able to pull herself together enough to find the number and make the call, but she did.  She wisely asked the worker about the ingredients of the "potential Newman dishes" of favor....and, with this information was able to identify Newman's treasured dish.  We guessed on something safe that Otis might like, staying with the chicken theme.  It was a huge bonus when the worker indicated that they had free delivery and would be there in an hour or less.

While waiting for the delivery guy, I tried to convince her that we would get a really good laugh out of this but the look on her face alerted me that it was a little too soon to be laughing or making such statements.  I did have a moment of panic, wondering what we would do if the delivery guy failed to surface as promised, but with that the doorbell rang and we were saved from certain doom.

I knew that Otis and Newman wouldn't have cared if we served them cereal with soy milk. It was just the stress of the chicken-gone-wrong that made it hard to remember that.

Once the food arrived, the arguing commenced.  Can I just say that we don't have any matching serving bowls? In fact, we really don't have many serving bowls of any kind.  Why, oh why didn't I go ahead and let people buy us gifts for our civil union? We could use some serving bowls and dinner plates.  We were finally able to get a grip and figure out some bowls that would suffice for serving of the food products.

I think Otis and Newman were tickled pink and quite entertained by the chinese take out and the story of the chicken-gone-wrong.  It wasn't a disaster at all and the fruit fluff was a huge hit.

Maybe we should have put the fruit fluff on the hockey puck chicken.....

....personally, I think we should just say no to having people over for dinner and go out for meals instead.  I know this great chinese restaurant.....I hear they have "woody-ear" dishes that don't need the woody-eat....

Gone to the Dogs

Yesterday morning, I got bit by a neighborhood dog.  Right on the forearm.  That dog grabbed on and didn't let go.  It was like those police training dogs where the giant German Shepard bites the trainer's arm and doesn't let go until the trainer yells some command in German.

That sounds pretty dramatic and you know how I love drama, so I thought about leaving it at that, but really... I did get bit by a dog and I do have a mark and it was quite the exciting way to start the day....

....but, I was saved by the wife's winter coat (a Packer coat, no less) and thus needed no medical attention. (The coat will need a seamstress.)  The dog only weighed like ten pounds (it's those small ones you have to watch out for) and the owner was in route immediately after the dog charged out the door....

It happened so fast.  We were out for our daily morning walk.  I was lost in my own pity party thoughts when I heard the dreaded sound....the sound of dog tags jingling a little too loudly. I looked to the street and there it was--Cujo Light, a little ball of black fur and white teeth, screaming toward us, leash dragging behind.  I knew I'd have to act fast, as Cujo Light meant business, white fangs snarling and drool flowing.  I knew the dog's name and called out to it, hoping for some form of recognition, but there was none--it was full speed ahead. Lucy and the wife were hysterical--Freckles blindness came in very handy as she didn't see a thing (Cujo Light came in from the blind side).   I realized this dog was going to have the wife and Lucy for breakfast unless I did something pronto:

I threw myself in the way of danger.

I crouched down in front of my "pack," pulled my hand into the sleeve of the coat (it's amazing all the things you can think to do in 2.5 seconds), folded my fingers into a fist (no fingers for breakfast) and shoved my forearm in front of me with a block that would have made the NFL proud.

WHAM! Cujo Light bit into my arm like there was no tomorrow.  It grabbed and and did that shaking thing dogs do when they are killing a rabbit.  The dog was airborne--I pulled my arm up and there it was, dangling and shaking and growling and drooling.  It hurt.  It hurt a lot because the dog had me in a "pinch;" although the coat (and sweatshirt underneath--thank god I always overdress) saved me from punctured skin, it could not save me from the pinching jaws of death.  I knew I'd have a bruise by the time the event was over.  The owner frantically ran our way, screaming the dog's name the whole time.  She ripped the dog off my arm and we all took a moment to gather our wits.

(I am SO glad that dog didn't get hit by a car running across the street to kill us because that would have been much more traumatic than a little "ankle biter" putting a rip in the wife's Packer coat.)

The owner looked understandably mortified.  I assured her I was fine and I tried to convince her that we totally understood....she had opened the door to take her dogs for a walk and Cujo Light squeaked out the door as she spotted us.  I told her a few days ago Lucy had squirted out of our front door and went after the city's school superintendent & dog (never a good idea).  She kept thanking us and apologizing.  After she was finally convinced I was fine, our neighbor took Cujo Light in hand and we continued on our walk.


For the record, I do have a bruise.  It's kind of disappointing, though, as far as bite bruises go.  It's still a bit swollen and you can see where the teeth were if you look hard enough (kind of like how you can see the stitching of the baseball in the bruise from a baseball to the eye, not that I would personally know what that looks like) but it's really disappointing.  You can't say, "Man, I got bit by a dog today!" and then point to this pathetic excuse of a bruise.

Not that I'm complaining.

I have been bitten one time before, back in my days of running.  I was running in the middle of the side street, nowhere near the sidewalk or fence lines, when a little white "ankle biter" squirted under the chain link fence and grabbed on to my ankle (hence, proving the point of the nickname).  Yeow! The owner screamed the dog's name...and, the dog literally let go and fell over on its side, playing dead.  I kid you not.  I looked down and saw that the dog had drew blood.  I looked down and saw the dog playing dead.  I looked down and saw the dog was wearing an up-to-date rabies tag.  I decided to jog home and call it a day.   I didn't need medical attention, so no use worrying about it.

For the record, I did not turn around and see if the dog ever got up.

Yesterday must have been a dog day, as we ended up spending some time talking about dogs with an 80 year old farmer.  He was playing with Freckles and Lucy when he started talking about his own dogs over the years.  (Before I go any further, may I just say that old farmers have a MUCH different view of pets than I do?)   He had a gleam in his eye as he talked about his most recent dog, Skip (of whom I knew lasted less than a year but I didn't bring that up).  "Skip was a great dog, loved to run around.  I loved that dog.  Made him a little pen--he'd get all snuggled up in the blankets.  Ran out by the road, got hit by a car, crushed his nose.  That was a good dog."  He gave a chuckle.

"Dog before that was Lucky.  That dog loved everyone. We loved Lucky. He loved to run and play.  Got hit by a mail truck and needed to get his arm amputated.  I carried him back from the road and took him to the vet.  Crushed shoulder, had to have that arm cut right off.  Leaned a lot after that, did just fine with three legs.  Now, Snoopy--well, Snoopy was a good dog.  Huh.  He ran out in the street and got hit by a car, crushed his snout.  I loved that dog.  Carried him back from the road, died right in my arms."  He chuckled again, quite reflective in manner.

We pray he will stop telling us about dead farm dogs but there seems to be one or two to go...."Sparky was a great dog. He was the family dog.  Ran around free on the farm, loved to run.  Well, we had these bolts that had been cut short, between the fence & chicken coop.  Ran over those, cut his belly wide open, front to back.  I loved that dog."

Thankfully, he stopped with Sparky.  I don't think I could have taken one more dead farm dog story.

When he left, the wife and I made sure Lucy and Freckles knew just how lucky they are to not live on a farm. I reminded the wife that having a dog with one blind eye really isn't so bad.  I thanked the powers that be for having me wear that winter Packer coat in the middle of May...and, maybe....just maybe..I was a wee bit grateful for having such a lame bruise.....and, for not having to live on a farm.

Say.Hey.Cay.Nine. Cracker.

I'm sorry I'm a few days behind in blogging--I've been very distracted by the whole New Madonna album, new Madonna video AND the pending Madonna half time show at the Super Bowl.  It's an exciting time to be a Madonna Whore....

...almost as exciting as the mail Lucy and Freckles received today.  No, they did not receive tampons in the mail (which is ALWAYS exciting); rather, they received St. Francis of Assisi Pet Medals from their beloved grandmother.  Talk about dogs that could use some love from St. Francis.  These party pups are going to wear these medals every day for the rest of their lives.  Thanks, Wild Mama!  Four paws up.  Here's to lowering our vet bills through some good old fashioned patron saint prayer.

But, back to our previously scheduled program.

Lucy's visit to the dog chiropractor went swimmingly.  The wife and I loaded the pups into the car and we headed west.  Dog chiropractors seem to be few and far between in these parts, so a road trip was a requirement of this endeavor.  We set off into the setting sun (literally--dear god, it was rather torturous driving straight into the sun) with hopes of cures and miracles.  Forty five minutes later, we were in the parking lot of said dog chiropractor's place of business.  We were greeted by our friends Spotted Owl and Ingabor Logjammer, dog fans and dog chiropractor supporters who live in town (which is our out of town).  The wife, friends and Freckles got comfortable in the waiting room while Lucy and I headed to the treatment room, a large open space in sight of the business area & office staff.

Those of you who know Lucy know that she LOVES everyone and she LOVES to give disgusting, smelly kisses and she NEEDS to be with everyone she sees. NEEDS! It PAINS her when she cannot give a proper greeting or share a hearty display of affection.  So, you can imagine how much she loved waiting for the doctor to arrive, all the while unable to profess her love to the office staff.  At first, it was just tail-wagging and wiggling in happiness.  Next came some little puffing sounds.  Next came the small barks. Then came the big barks!  Since that wasn't working, she gave the "cattle are lowing" sound, always an attention getter.  When she does that, she is miffed.  Oh, the agony of having to sit in that corner and wait her turn!  

Thankfully, Dr. Cay Ninecracker entered the room and saved Lucy's day--no more cattle are lowing sounds needed.  If you are wondering what a dog chiropractor looks like and what he or she wears, I tell you to picture what your chiropractor looks like and you will have your answer. This makes total sense because Dr. Cay Nine Cracker IS a chiropractor of people.  Dr. K9 Cracker put on her lab coat (so she wouldn't get dog fur on her people patients) and gave Lucy all the love and attention she had been so desperately seeking.  As Lucy was jumping up and down on her back legs, it was pretty clear that the reason for her visit was not exactly present itself in a fashion it would have a week before.   No matter, Dr. K9 focused on giving Lucy lots of love and kisses; thus, Lucy was quite satisfied and very forgiving.  

I liked this lady immediately.  I can't put a finger on it and it's one of those intuition things that I don't like to listen to....but, I liked this lady immediately and Lucy liked this lady as soon as she entered the room and the whole thing just felt right.  How can you not love when there is lots of love and affection and laughing and tail wagging and squirming and jumping going on?

Dr. K9 was playful and efficient.  All work with lots of love.  Check, check, check of the vertebrae.  Kiss, kiss, kiss, work, work, work.  She asked me to hold Lucy so she could complete the next part of the exam......

....when she got to the "problem," it couldn't have been clearer.  Talk about obvious. If Lucy were a cartoon, her eyes would've bugged right out of her head, her tail would've shot straight up and her being would've made a loud, surprised WHOOOOOP! sound.  I'm telling you what, it was hilarious!  So dang obvious.  I'm not kidding about how she looked: eyes bugged, tail up, WHOOOP sound.  Bingo!

Surprisingly to me, Dr. Cracker didn't seem to think it was Lucy's back. (Thank you, baby jesus!) She gave Lucy a squeeze near the back again (WHOOOOP!) and pointed......to.....

wait for it, wait for it.....

.....the dog's pelvis/pelvic area muscles.  

Of COURSE it was her pelvis area.  Why wouldn't it be? Our dogs seem to share our miseries.  In this case, it was rather like Lucy was sharing my pelvic mesentery mysteries, just like Freckles getting so sick when the wife was a sad sack of pain and angst one year ago. Stop it, already!

As for theories, Dr. K9 Cracker surmised that Lucy must've done the splits (like the Chinese splits) and pulled/ripped/hurt/stretched/strained/whatever the pelvic/hip area muscles, probably slamming onto her "sits bones" as she finished her splits. Yeow! It would be pretty painful and would take time to completely heal.  Think about when you pull a muscle--it sucks.  Think about when you bruise a bone--sucks worse.  Think about when you do both at the same time, on both sides of your body.  Pass me the pain meds!  Dr. K9 reminded me that dogs tend to heal a lot faster than humans.  The doctor did a few adjustments (yup, just like they do with humans) and said Lucy didn't have to return unless the symptoms returned or other symptoms surfaced.

Wait, did she just say we don't have to come back?  Is this not the greatest thing since sliced bread? I couldn't believe it.

Can I just say thank you to all the dog loving friends who have used a dog chiropractor.? We can't thank you enough!

In case you are wondering if going to a dog chiropractor is expensive, it is not.  For me to say that, you know it has to be reasonable.  I swear I spend more money on their food for the week than I did for the appointment.  I suppose I might feel otherwise if we had to have adjustments three times a week but I found it very reasonable for the visit.

Lucy seems to be well on the road to recovery.  I am slowly weaning her off the various meds I've been pumping in her, as she seems in need of nothing further besides a a little rest and relaxation.....

.....This means that Lucy will NOT be allowed to dance on tables while Madonna is performing her half time show.  I may let her do a little sassy dance when Madge's video debuts tonight, but that's it.

As for me, I will be dancing on the table.  My pelvis is just fine.  Sassy dance, indeed!

Back to Back

It's been one year since the wife fell screaming to the floor after blowing her disk out one work morning at 5 A.M.  Remember? She went to brush her teeth and instead she found herself writing on the bathroom floor, unable to get up or do much of anything.  She spent the next five days on the floor--literally FIVE long days of hell--on the floor. 

So, imagine my surprise when I one year later hear a blood curdling scream emanating from the upstairs hallway on a work day at 5 A.M.

I've never heard anything quite like this scream, tho...that's because it was a dog.  It was Lucy, to be exact.  I didn't know dogs could scream but I am hear to tell you that they can.

What happened next is a blur.  I jumped off the toilet (yes, I was peeing) and threw myself toward the dog.  The wife....well, she went streaking out of the area and hid in the other bathroom, screaming "DO SOMETHING! DO SOMETHING!" from afar.  Freckles was shaking so hard she was blurry and she kept trying to get to Lucy.  I bent down on the floor and gently scooped the dog toward me.  She kept yelping like there was no tomorrow.

My heart hurt hearing that awful yelping.

In case you are wondering, I did remember to pull up my pants.  Also, in case you are wondering, you are free to laugh at any time during this story because envisioning this scene really should bring you at least a guffaw.

So, I talked in a gentle voice to Lucy, all the time doing an exam of her parts.  I kept thinking that she must have blown out a knee or ripped a tendon or something awful. I looked and I searched and I reassured (the dog, not the wife--the wife was on her own for the time being). Front legs-- good. Back left leg....good.  Back right leg....good.  Both eyes....in the socket where they belong.  No blood, no bones protruding, no nothing.  Just this pitiful yelping and whimpering. 

I was finally able to soothe her to the point she stopped crying.  Poor Freckles was still a blurred mess and the wife was still in panic mode.  I talked to Lucy but she had little info to share.  I explained to her that we needed to go outside for the morning pee (her pee, not mine--I already peed).  I put her down on the floor as I put on my shoes....I noticed that she when she tried to get back up the stairs, she couldn't.  I mean there was no way in hell her body part(s) were going to let her do that.  She couldn't jump, she couldn't dance, she couldn't go up the stairs.

Great.  Now we have one dog that can't go UP stairs and one that can't go DOWN stairs...and, we live in a tri-level.

Stairs.  That's all we have. Stairs.

I had to carry Lucy in and out so she could do her duty. By this time, the wife had surfaced from the bathroom and Freckles was only shaking a little bit. Although I could still see nothing wrong, I could tell there was something definitely wrong with her gait and that she couldn't use her back end like normal.  I wasn't sure what to do.  I couldn't miss another day of work--I just missed one for pooping my brains out.  I couldn't leave her like this.  I couldn't take her to work.  I did the only thing I could think to do:

I drugged her. 

I took a pain pill left over from her tooth surgery and shoved it in.  I made sure she was safe and as comfortable as possible and then I sucked up all my guilt and went to work.

As I was driving, I took solace in the fact that her tail never stopped wagging when I was talking to her.  I took that as a good sign--I figured if her tail was wagging, her back must be functioning at least a little bit.

As I was driving, I made an appointment with the vet (CA-CHING!) and only spent a few hours at work.  When I got home, Lucy was very happy to see me but she couldn't jump up.  It was miserable to see.  She wanted so badly to give me my usual greeting but her body did not cooperate.

We won't even talk about how awful it was when she went out and tried to poop.  Oh my.  I need therapy after seeing that.

The vet did a body scan, asked questions, watched Lucy walk to and fro...all the time Lucy's tail never stopped wagging.  They know Lucy and I could they were concerned.  At least there wasn't a tooth sticking out of her snout this time. The vet tech bent over but Lucy couldn't kiss her. She lamented how Lucy must really be sick if she couldn't jump up to give a kiss. I confessed my sin of drugging my dog using leftover tooth surgery medication.  Thankfully, the vet nodded at me in understanding.  "Well, it's not neurological and that's very good," the vet said reassuringly.  She then felt along Lucy's spine, cocking her head almost as if she were listening.

I could see it coming.  I could tell what the vet was thinking.  For one-one billionth of a second, I went to a very dark place....one that said, "I can't do this to my dog. I can't make her go through surgery."  I quickly knocked off the melodrama and calmly waited for the vet's proclamation.

The diagnosis? A back injury.  Just like the wife.  A back injury at 5 A.M. on a work morning.

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Suffice it to say, Lucy was given several meds to decrease the swelling and to drown out the pain.  The vet, ever so in tune with the money-pit-ness of our dogs, stated we could do the rest/relaxation/medication route for the weekend. If things didn't improve, x-rays and other tests would follow next week.  The meds weren't a cure but would give Lucy time to heal. She reassured me that it was nothing that we had done or not done--"all it takes is a sneeze."

Like I didn't already know that.  Geez, the wife was just reaching for her toothbrush when she went down in a blaze of glory.

I'm happy to report Lucy is giving us a run for the money--literally.  We are supposed to be keeping her quiet and calm.  We're trying to make sure we carry her up the stairs, that we don't let her try to jump up on the couch, that she not dance in happiness when she sees us.  I am here to tell you we are doing a really lousy job--those pain meds have her feeling good to go.  She moves faster than us. She is doing extremely well and is able to get around without issue.  I'm cautiously optimistic.  In the meantime, I going to learn more about canine spine issues. I'm going to learn how to use pressure points to help her heal & to lower the pain with less medication.  I'm going to seek direction on how to help her prevent this in the future.  If I have to, I'll build a ramp to the couch and to the yard.

I'm not sure if you can help a dog strengthen its core, but if you can, we'll be doing it. 

......One who can't walk up stairs and one who can't walk down stairs.  The wife and I are building our cores and all our other muscles carrying these mutts up and down the stairs... it's all good as long as the wife and I can get up and down the stairs on our own.....

Whose idea was it to buy a tri-level, anyways????

Of Dog Food and Tax Time


Here's a photo of Freckles trying to take a nap in the sliver of sunlight that remains available this late in the year.  Oh, for a bit of sun to cure all our SAD.

All these years I have been feeding Freckles & Lucy the best of the best dog foods--meat as first ingredient, the least amount of fillers, a balance of canned foods along with dry kibble, the fewest gross ingredients, even organic when given the chance.  They certainly eat better than me and the wife. I did lots of research to find the best foods.  I read label after label of ingredients.  I special ordered things I couldn't find locally....

....but, after spending all that money on those vet bills this year--despite feeding them all that costly food--I've begun to question my sanity.  All that expensive, organic, high-quality dog food didn't seem to make them any healthier.  Here my dogs are eating caviar and all the other dogs on the planet are eating candy...guess who has the healthier dogs?  The owners with the dogs eating the "candy" food, that's who!

What is "candy" dog food, you ask? It's the cheap food you find in the grocery store--you know, the dog food most normal people give their dogs.

Could it be that--gasp!--the expensive dog food did little more besides make me poorer???

So, I gave in and purchased a bag of the "candy" food.  I figure  at this point it doesn't really matter and besides, they LOVE the candy food--what's not to love about eating candy? I eat candy.  I eat lots of candy.  It's not like Freckles is suddenly going to regain her eye sight or that Lucy is suddenly going to grow new teeth based on the quality of their food. They're old and deserve a little candy.  It's time to have some fun.

Don't panic--I'm mixing the candy food in with all that healthy, expensive food and I will continue to do so.  Even I can't live on candy alone.  I'll continue to give them that special prescription food that supposedly helps keep Lucy's teeth clean as well as the healthy, happy, wholesome food.

The only downside I've noticed is that they poop more.  I wasn't surprised by this, as many dog food reviews do indeed note that the better quality food leads to smaller, more compact, less frequent poop.  Of course, when one owns a Shih Tzu, it's not like giant poops are an issue.  I'm all good with a little more pooping.

As for the pending tax time, I've confirmed something I was hoping to be wrong about (apologies for the dangling participle).  Because we are in a civil union, we get to fill out our State tax forms as a couple--yeah!  I've waited a long time for that.  It rocks to be legal.  But, before we can enjoy the glory of being an officially civilized couple in the State, we first have to fill out the Federal forms "as if married" (that's the terminology the State uses) and then use the data from the "as if married" Federal forms to complete our State tax return on the "as if married" federal data. Meaning, the wife and I will each do our "as if married" federal taxes (separately but pretending not to be separate), then do our State Taxes together as if married, then each re-do our Federal taxes as single, as our "as if married" Federal forms are not legal. This hurts my head.  (Strangely enough, the State indicates that couples in civil unions cannot file electronically--they have to file the old fashioned way.  WTF?)  I can't say I'm looking forward to tax time--I can already hear the arguing:
Me:             "No! That's the State form! We need the Federal form."
The wife:    "Are we married or not on this form?"
Me:              "We're single."
The wife:     "Are you sure?"
Me:              "Of course I'm sure.  Is that the State or Federal form?"
The wife:     "It's the "as if married" form."
Me:               "Which is the Federal form on which we base the State form."
The wife:     "Yes."
Me:               "Then, we are single but we're acting as if married?"
The wife:    "If that's our real Federal forms, yes."
Me:              "Yes what?"
The wife:     "Yes, this is the real form which we are using to make the as if married form                            so we can base our State taxes on it."
Me:              "That's not the right form.  You've got the wrong form."
The wife:    "I've got the correct form.  You've got the wrong form."
Me:              "You know we can't file this on line."
The wife:     "Do we both have to file this or do we file one?"
Me:              "I don't know.  I just know we can't do it on line."

Thank goodness for tax-filing computer programs and for the wife being a math major. Start praying for us right now.

....hey, think all that expensive dog food is tax deductible?

Planes and Trains and Memory Lanes

Thank you to Wicky for the info on saving my blog (saving as in keeping a copy--not saving from poor grammar or sophomoric content and certainly not saving in the Baby Jesus way). It is appreciated!  The thought of losing my ramblings is enough to send me to therapy.  I am proud to be your first wife of a wife!

Update on Lucy: Oh my my my.  She is healing very nicely, thank you for asking.  I can't say that the surgery slowed her eating down very much.   We will be out of pain pills today, so that should be telling.  Now that I've been able to take a gander in that little mouth of hers, I have personally witnessed that she basically has no teeth on the lower right side.  I am not exaggerating.  No teeth--just a lot of gums.  How did we miss all those teeth falling out of there? We didn't see any in her poop (and, trust me, we exam dog poop around here--we are professional dog poop inspectors).  We never saw any on the floor or in her bed or anywhere.  Perhaps there is a little pile of teeth hidden in some corner of the house.  Maybe Freckles at them and that's why her poop was so weird way back when.  Maybe the wife's been serving them to me--hidden in a ball of tofu or maybe in my bowls of cereal--in an attempt to get me to turn from my vegetarian ways....


BTW, here is visual evidence that Lucy sleeps with stuff animals in her mouth....the most likely culprit of her dental decay:
 
Thanksgiving.  How did we get to Thanksgiving so quickly?  Can it already that time of year when people ooze gratitude and throw boatloads of money at various business establishments? Where does the time go? Wasn't it just a week ago that the Packers were winning the Super Bowl and the snow plow guy was crashing into our garage door? Wasn't it just a few days ago that we were getting civilized? Alas, you avid readers already know that I am grateful about many things, so I'll skip that for today.  Instead, I shall speak of last weekend's stroll down memory lane.

The wife and I were in the Chicago suburbs last weekend for various events, including our beloved aunt's memorial service.  (It's all good--I said good bye to her three years ago, so I went to celebrate her life, not mourn her death. Hope that doesn't come off as cold or uncaring....as it is most certainly not what I mean.  I mourn for her children and send them heartfelt condolences.  But, for her I had smiles.)  On the way to the cemetery, I subjected the wife to yet another rendition of memory lane.  She's been tormented countless times with this tour--whenever we drive by my old stomping grounds, I narrate the trip, historic markers of the Addiverse.  As usual, I pointed out my junior high school, my orthodontist, my church, my grandparents' house, the gazebo, the factory where my aunt had worked.  I told her of the ubiquitous trains that always made you late, of living in the landing pattern of O'Hare, of riding my bike down the arteries of gravel alleys--the sounds of these three things make me giddy--there is nothing like a bike tire crunching on the gravel in the alley, hearing a train chugging down the tracks in the distance or the thunder of the jet roaring off the runway. I lamented about how the town's bowling alley had been turned into a church (a church!), how some of my favorite local landmarks were missing.  I recalled happy memories of Christmas Eves long ago, of visiting my family just blocks from my childhood home.  I explained how we would try to guess the color of the caboose and count the cars of the yet-another passing train. I took a long look at my grandparents home as we went by, as that is also where my mother, aunt and her children lived.  I paid due respects as we meandered toward my aunt's service.

When we got to the cemetery, I learned that my sister had done literally the same thing as she was driving, torturing--eer, I mean educating--her daughters and friends with the same stories of old.  Funny how we all tend to do that.  The wife will make fun of me and my sister for doing this, but she's just as guilty as we--I've heard the same stories about the same landmarks from her childhood......"there's where my brother lost all his holy cards while riding his bike to church...."  Guilty, as charged.

As we were standing in the cemetery chapel for the service, I could hear the horn of a passing train.  It gave me pause. It was loud.  It was a wee bit distracting. I realized I was out of practice--the others probably didn't even hear the train whistle.   While standing graveside, planes continued to fly overhead, this time toward (not away) from the runway.  I'm probably the only one who was looking up at the sky as much as I was looking down at the ground.  Those two minor things, those two things that everyone in town either no longer notices or hates with a passion, made me feel right at home.  The gritty colors, the factories, the soot....all part of "home," even though it's a home that hasn't existed for me in thirty years.  Although I wouldn't ever want to live there again and even though I've lived where we now live longer than anywhere else in my life, it is good to have somewhere in the world you can call "home."

They say "Home is where the heart is."  In my case, home is where the soot and the traffic and the noise and the grime is.  Home is where you get caught by yet another train--sometimes even two at a time.  Home is where you can see the landing gear of an approaching airplane or have to stop a conversation because you can't hear over the jet engines.  Home is where I can find a bowling alley that has been converted into a church. 

Happy Thanksgiving.  May you be home where your heart is.  May your heart be where your home is.

Hello Friend

We went and saw Bill Cosby last night at a local venue.  As there are no reviews to be found in our local rag (oh, THERE'S a surprise!), I thought I'd write a few tidbits about the show.  I've never seen Dr. Bill in person before, so that was rather fun.  We didn't buy the tickets--they were a gift from two dear friends, which is good because I don't know if I would have ever purchased tickets to see a comedian (I gave away my ticket to see Ellen way back when, so you know I'm not much for seeing comedians "on tour.")   We had 5th row, center seats, so it was great--we could see all the hilarious facial expressions he makes (and, he makes a lot of them). I'm very glad our friends had the smarts to send me to see him--not only is he an American icon, he's just plain funny.  I'm glad I got to see part of history, because he really is historic.  My stream-of-conscious thoughts....

(1) He's a tall fellow, much taller than I ever realized.  That really doesn't have anything to do with his show, but it did take me by surprise. I guess I was expecting a four foot midget or something.  (Can I say midget? I think that's considered very offensive now. The wife says I'm supposed to say "little person."  Okay, so I was expecting a four foot little person....but, is four feet small enough to be a little person or is that too big?  Sigh.  I was expecting someone shorter.)

(2) He's a casual guy.  He was wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt, grey sweat pants, black socks and slip-on sandal-type shoes.  I liked it.  Made him present as your grandpa sitting in the living room, telling stories in slow motion.  Since that was his goal (to make it like he was talking to us in the living room), he succeeded.

(3) The "hello friend" screened onto his sweatshirt and placed on the back of his chair is purposeful.  I had heard or seen it before, but I had no idea what it meant...a name of a book? A title of a skit? A tag line from a show? No, it's a tribute to his son (who was murdered in the 1990's).  I had no idea and had to google it when I came home.  I am so out of the loop.  He didn't mention why he had that on his shirt and he never said it (well, not that I heard) but it's about his son, who according to Wiki (and we all know that that site is ALWAYS right--cough cough!) used to say that when he would meet people.

(4) He is a lot funnier in person than on TV.  Case in point: he was on Letterman the night before he was in town and I didn't laugh. Not once.  I didn't get it.  I thought his topic was funny but there was something wrong.  After seeing him in concert, I get it--it's not that he isn't funny--it's just that TV doesn't allow him to emit the humor he is afforded on stage, in person.  TV is about speed and punch-lines and getting to the point. It's not personal.  We live in snippets.  His slow banter in a five minute interview is not what he is about. On stage, he is afforded the luxury of building the story, making expressions, playing off the audience, developing a rapport.  I loved his TV shows, but that's different.  TV shows aren't live. In person, he just oozes what he needs to ooze to be funny.

(5) Three stories can take 90 minutes to tell....and, it's wonderful.  Three stories! Maybe two and a half stories--depends on how you count.  Any more would have been too much.  I'm not sure what today's youngsters would think about this, but for the audience, it was just right. 

(6) He lives on the east coast.  I had no idea. Why I pictured him in California, I don't know.  Where have I been, under a rock?

(7) Sit near the front.  If you can go, make sure you spend the money to sit close.  His facial expressions really are priceless.  Oh sure, you can see them on the big screen, but they are funnier "live." 

(8) Clean can be fun.  No need for raunchy.  No need for filth.  No need for swear words or shock.  Good, clean fun.  Yum!

Makes me want to go eat some Jell-o.

Brewin' the Crew

Last night, the Brewer's clinched their division.  Now, if you are like me, that doesn't mean much--it means that the wife's team won an important game.  If you are the wife, it is like the baby Jesus swooped down upon her and bestowed sainthood on the family.

I thought she was going to implode while watching the game, as it was the last game of the series and ended up going into extra innings.  I was fearful for her well being.  Thankfully, MJagger stopped by and distracted the wife from certain doom.  (Due to MJagger's presence, the wife did not cry as she usually would.)

Right after the game ended, the wife began fretting about tickets for the Sunday home opener.  To me, this was a no brainer--she loves going to baseball games, this hasn't happened since 1982, she has been super-excited about the season--well, all season.  I guess I am a "what are you waiting for?" kind of gal" and thus if it were me, I'd buy  the ticket and go. What's to think about? Well, the poor wife hemmed.  She hawed.  She fretted.  She spoke aloud.  She paced.  She hemmed and hawed some more.  She looked miserable.  She studied the internet. She checked out seat availability and prices.  She had three browsers open at the same time.  As she couldn't read the small print on the stadium map (time for bifocals, young lady!), she had me pointing out sections on the map as she called the numbers out.

Meanwhile, I fired up my computer and make a few clicks, bought her a ticket.  There was no way I was gonna let her miss the game.  It's history.  It's exciting.  It's her people.  She has to be there.

No brainer!  There can't even have a rain out, since the stadium has a roof.  It's  meant to be.  SHE.MUST.BE.THERE!

Suffice it to say, she now has plenty to worry about. What to wear. What time to get there.  Who to ride with. Take her rally towel or leave it home. How to keep track of the Packers score which overlaps with the Brewer game. What to do when they win.  What to do if, heaven forbid, they lose.

Bring on the racing sausages, boys and girls.  The wife is in the playoffs.

 
On WIN-sconsin

The wife is in her absolute glory: she is in sports nirvana, thanks to the Cheddarlands sporting world.  For those of you not paying attention to the great state of Wisconsin and/or to the world of manly-men playing games in polyester uniforms, the Packers won the Super Bowl earlier in the year and are off to a tremendous start this season; the Badgers are crushing other teams like bugs; and, the Brewersare in the playoffs.  Three teams, three delicious opportunities for victory. Suffice it to say, the wife spends much of her time watching sports news on TV, listening to sports talk radio in the car and watching game scores on her iPad or iTouch.  Every once in awhile, I’ll wake up in the middle of the night (usually to pee or to slap one of the dogs because they are licking loudly and it’s disgusting) and catch her reviewing stats on her iTouch.   

Seriously.  I wake to a subtle blue light of the box scores.

At times, she isn't sure what to do.  It is quite stressful when two sporting events are on at the same time; for instance, last Sunday featured both a Packer and Brewer game at the same time.  Talk about trauma.  Thankfully, the wife was able to flip back and forth between channels.  Had this not been possible, I would have lost the wife to the world of the sports bar.

I am very glad that the Packers and Badgers will never over-lap each other, as there is not even a remote chance of their schedules overlapping.

Deciding what to wear is also rather traumatic.  Should she wear one team uniform at a time? Combine them? Change clothes several times a day?  You know someone out there has designed a shirt/uniform/jersey that featured all three of the colors/logos.  The color scheme is a bit over the top, but this is the state where you can wear camouflague to a wedding, so I don’t think many Cheeseheads are going to worry about color schemes. 

I’ve been to three Brewer Games this year and I went to one Packer game last year during their Super Bowl season, so I feel I’ve done my part.  I do love a good veggie dog at Miller Park and I must say there is nothing like going to Lambeau Field.  I enjoy watching a game or two in person.  I don't mind a road trip to the various corners of the Wisconsin universe. I own and wear team gear....

Side note: Did I ever talk about my last visit to Miller Park, where we had free seats in the “Beer Pen?”  The bleacher seated-beer-fest where you get a free t-shirt, free beer and the chance to sit with 300 of your closest, drunken friends?  Talk about the place to watch a game.  People my age were so drunk they were falling out of their clothes (well, actually women falling out of their team jerseys).  Beer spilling, swear-word hurling 40 year olds, that's who surrounded us. The wife turned to the guy sitting next to her and asked how he got tickets for the “Beer Pen.”   He slurred out that “I’m here with the Tavern of the Year.”  Says it all.  But, I digress—back to the victors of the north.  I’ve got a 2011 hot dog bobble head doll and some kind of player-related terry-towel to swing around the room.  I’ve got my Beer Pen t-shirt.  I’ve got ticket stubs.  I guess I am ready for the Win-sconsin World Series.  

Side side note: I met the when the Brewers were last in the World Series.  For those of you who don’t have any reason to know what year that would have been, it was 1982.  They didn’t win but they were at least in the World Series. Can’t say that about the Cubs.  She proudly displayed her Brewers pennant in the dorm like the true cheesehead she is and proudly wore her powder blue jersey for any and all occasions.

Things are out-of-control in a good way for Win-sconsin-ites.  I’ve never seen the wife quite like this.  It’s overload.  I am so afraid her head is going to explode or that she will need anti-depressants at the end of the seasons.  This is a lot of excitement for her.   This is a lot of excitement for Wisconsin sports enthusiasts. This is a lot of cheese, a mountain of green & gold and red and blue. 

Too bad the wife is being held hostage in the flatlands, where no one truly understands her giddiness.  We in Illinois are bitter people when it comes to sports.  Just listen to Chicago sports radio--FIBs (as they call us in Wisconsin) are always disgusted with the teams, the coaches, the games.  There is no home field advantage in the flatlands.  We don't own our team like the Cheeseheads do with the Packers.  Hell, we don't even have parking at Wrigley Field.  

Here's to the wife during her year of sporting glory. Here's to the stress of being in the Super Bowl, World Series and Rose Bowl all in the same year.  Here's to cheese, beer and brats.  Here's to finding "her people" while suffering through the trials and tribulations of living south of the Cheddar Curtain.

Here's to green and gold and red and blue.