Twenty.Four.Teen.

I know many of you are waiting to kick 2014 in the ass, bidding it a fond good riddance, hoping that the new year will be nothing like this one. For some, Twenty-Fourteen was brutal, with many losses, trials and tribulations, with bad news pooping all over your life parade. I started to itemize the events, losses and pains friends of the Addiverse survived, but that got a bit depressing, so I stopped. All I know is that most of you would vote 2014 was not the year to remember.

As for me, it looks like I'm one of the fortunate ones. Although we too have faced losses and stressors, I can't say anything bad about this year. For Pete's sake, we got legally married. How can I complain about a year that included such a tremendous feat, something I never thought I'd see in my lifetime? That alone makes it an awesome year.

Besides getting married (which nothing could top, even though by heterosexual-spend -$50,000-standards, it was a very non-descript event), I watched all Doctor Who episodes created since 2005, somehow ended up leading a church and was bestowed a new position at my job. I talked a lot about tampons and poop, attended a Packer game, dumped an ice bucket on my head, ran through mud as a warrior, enjoyed a most-wonderful wedding in Minnesota (or, was it Wisconsin? Hard to say), watched youngest niece graduate from high school and finally paid off a 30-year debt to the wife by taking her to see Eddie Money (go figure). I had the pleasure of having a cell phone stolen and am still struggling to re-enter all my contacts, albeit now in an android world.

And yes, you've heard all of this crap before, especially about the tampons and poop. Oh, how I love to talk about poop.

You'd think that being in my fifties would encourage me not to waste time on book de la face and on that pinning place, but I did. I chose to watch Doctors 9, 10, 11 and 12 instead of working out. I spent more time on church than I want to think about--all of which sucked time away from blogging and starting a new Netflix series of one sort or another.

That said, I had many a meal with treasured friends and dared to play "Cards Against Humanity" with my family. I waved a very sad good-bye to MJagger when she secured a new job, but I couldn't begrudge one iota because it was a great move for her. Freckles celebrated her "third-last" Christmas, which I think surprised us all. As everyone in our small corner of the world knows, we thanked Lucy Bark of Poteidaia for all the joy she brought us while she was on this earthly plane. I know there is so much more that happened during the year and I beg forgiveness for not remembering everything and everyone. I had a very good year and thank you for your part in it.

For those of you who had a rough 2014, I wish you only the best for the new year. Using the approach of affirmation, I see you having a great year, filled with things you love, need and want. I thank the Universe for the gifts it bestows you, the health it brings you, the abundance it rains down upon you. I see you oozing with comfort, support, strength and courage and for that I am grateful.

As for me, I look forward to the new year, but not because this year was one I want left behind. I haven't really thought about 2015 yet, probably because it's not quite here and you know I really do live one day (or maybe an hour) at a time. I can think about it tomorrow. I'd hate to start looking too far ahead--I don't want 2015 to get the wrong idea. I look forward to travel, perhaps a new tattoo, another Warrior Dash and maybe even one of those 5K color blast runs. I see much success and prosperity, however I decide to define that. I plan on quoting Doctor Who whenever given the chance and on spending more time outside instead of on the couch. I'll talk a lot about poop and tampons and we'll celebrate our first official wedding anniversary (dear god, don't get me started on what date to celebrate). We'll see if Freckles has a "fourth-last" Christmas.

Here's to a great 2015, party people of the Addiverse. No worries--the baby Jesus and I have your back.
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Riding the Canine Rollercoaster

The photos have nothing to do with this blog entry besides the fact that the blog is about a dog and that they brought me a smile. 
I got these off of pinterest, so I can't give proper thanks. I mean no harm and only have three readers, so please do not get all crazed and sue me.

Good Ol' Freckles Warrior Princess was acting more bizarre than usual last week, so I finally took her to the vet. Thankfully (kind of a weird thing to say), Freckles presented as confused, lost and not quite on the planet when the vet took a gander. (You know how it is--your dog has a problem and you take it to the vet and when you get there, the dog doesn't have the problem? I was so glad this wasn't the case this time.) 

The vet and the vet tech did a lot of frowning and looking and frowning and looking. Freckles did a lot of blank staring; in fact, at one point she was facing a wall and didn't know it. I explained the "milk dud unsuspecting poop thing" and pointed out how her butt looked awful (hey, your butt wouldn't look good if you were shooting out poop duds and didn't know it). I added that some days were really good and other days it was like no one was "home." I recalled how she got "stuck" in the closet a few weeks back and didn't know how to get out, how she barks at length for no known reason, how she has become ridiculously demanding at times. I ensured I included information on how "sharp" she was on many a day: perky, alert, acting like the puppy of old.

After listening to me and taking much time to examine Freckles, the vet looked at me and said,
"How much do you want me to do?"

I understood the question fully. I answered without hesitation, "I don't."

The vet understood my answer. This helped her with the decision-making process of how to help Freckles without putting her through all sorts of ridiculous, expensive, unnecessary testing. It wasn't "time" yet but the time was quickly approaching. The "doggy dementia" was a given and the milk dud poops were deemed part of the aging process.

For some reason, I spoke about how Freckles and I had made a deal--I had spent thousands of dollars to keep her alive many years ago and I wouldn't be doing that again, despite my undying devotion to her. The vet nodded as if she understood and didn't seem to judge my bizarre babbling.

After I described (in detail--you know how I am) the things of which I was most concerned (her pacing, restlessness, looking lost and somehow uncomfortable), the vet decided to treat either anxiety or pain. I didn't want to try medication for doggy dementia--that seemed rather over-the-top and probably very expensive (dogs take the same meds as people for dementia and I've seen the price tag of those meds--forget it!).  The vet and I talked about how when people get dementia, they often pace and shuffle about, almost always in constant motion. On other days, they don't do that. If the pacing was from the doggy dementia, an anti-anxiety med might be of help. If the pacing and restlessness was from pain, that was a whole different story. The vet gave me the choice of which she should treat: pain or anxiety. After listening to my choices (Xanax or some morphine-like pain stuff to rub on the dog's gums), I went with pain, as Freckles seemed so uncomfortable during the past 24 hours and I'd much rather know my dog was not in pain than anything else.

To be honest, cost was a factor in my decision: I thought pain meds would be cheaper than Xanax. Remember that I said that.

The vet did some "rear end maintenance" (I kid you not, that is what the bill itemization states), shaving her butt right down to the skin. She left the room to make a concoction of pain medication, leaving me and Freckles to discuss things like world politics, the state of contagious diseases, the meaning of Cutler's seven year contract. The vet tech returned and handed me the 1/4 filled little bottle of liquid medication. She explained how it is absorbed through the gums--all I had to do was aim for Freckles' cheeks, not force it down her throat. She waved a little syringe thing in front of me and showed me what to do. "She can take it up to three times a day, but if she's too stoned, you can cut back. You can use it as she needs."

It was then I was handed the bill. That little bottle of pain med--the size of a small eye drop bottle--filled only 1/4 of the way--cost over $75.00.

So much for picking the cheap route.

Her "rear end maintenance" cost $19.00. I thought that was a steal of a deal, considering how bad her butt looked.

The trip to the vet was a miracle cure. I never did use the medication--it's sitting in the bottle, on the counter, waiting for a "bad" day. That damn dog has been perfect since going to the vet--she's been perky and grounded and not restless at all. I took her back to the vet yesterday so they could clean her up (read: shave off some of that disgusting gunk) and the vet tech was astounded. "I can't believe that's Freckles! She's so different than she was the other day. If I hadn't seen it, I wouldn't believe it."

And so, we shall now ride the Canine Roller coaster, with both dogs in the front car. We'll keep an eye out for milk dud poops and for signs that there might be pain. Heck, I can give Lucy the pain meds if Freckles doesn't need them. Perhaps I need the pain meds and can rub it on my gums. (That stuff is stronger than Morphine--imagine the fun I could have). We'll spoil them even more rotten than we already do and we'll enjoy the ride as much as we can. They'll eat waffles (thanks, grandma!) and golden arches hamburgers and ride in the car and eat ice cream and sleep on the couch whenever they want. Freckles can drop all the marbles she wants and needs to and she can smell as bad as she does and it will be all good.

Um, the only thing they need to do is let us sleep. The wife is so sleep deprived that she no longer knows if she is coming or going. Those dogs keep her up all night. 

When the day comes, we'll get off the roller coaster. I won't ride one minute longer than I have to because I won't put the dogs through that. After all, they have given me so much more than I can ever give them.

This won't be the last you hear of these dogs, as I'm sure there will be many a tale--or, should I say tail?--to tell. Here's to pain meds and ice cream! Just watch where you step if you visit our home.

Of Marbles and Ta-tas

I was up last night--purposefully--until 4 PM. As we get up at 4:50 AM, I almost went to bed when I was about to get up. I served as MJagger's designated driver for her going away party, so I had to wait until she was done partying before I got to go home. I envisioned 2 AM, not 4 AM. She and a bunch of party-goers decided breakfast was a must after a night of drinking. Tacos. They wanted tacos, so tacos they got. I feel like I got hit by a truck. I cannot imagine how all the party-goers feel this morning. More about this in a dot.

Freckles is unknowingly dropping little poops around the house. She still barks to go outside when a "real" poop on is on the way, but for some reason, little milk duds fall out now and then. It's happening on a more frequent basis, so I'm thinking this is not a good sign. I had a talk with her three years ago (when she could still hear) and told her when she started peeing and pooping in the house, it was curtains for her. I explained that I would not be spending thousands of dollars to keep her alive, as I had already done that once. I reminded her that she had had a great life and that she lived better than most humans. I assured her that I would not rush the process and that one poop in the house was not an issue. Now that marbles are falling out on a more frequent basis, I am keeping a closer eye. I'm hoping this is not a case of "I don't know what's going on back there and so I'm pooping." She still eats like a pig, is a fat sausage, gets around despite being basically blind and deaf and is a champion in the happiness department. Oh sure, she needs eye drops five times a day and she smells like a dirty vacuum and she has all these awful growths on her skin. She's old. We all get growths and smell and need things like eye drops. But, pooping. Pooping little marbles around the house is not part of the deal. (She also peed on the wood floor last week. You can imagine how happy the wife was about that.)

As for Lucy, she gets wibbly-er and wobbly-er with each passing day. Her legs on on their own mission. She too remains seemingly happy and the tumor hasn't grown much, so we focus on the positive and enjoy each passing day. She has found her way into sleeping in our bed, which is something the wife assured me would NEVER happen. Lucy sleeps like a baby when she's in the bed. It's a whole lot better when she stays up licking all night--for some reason, she doesn't lick when she's allowed in the human place of sleeping. If she sleeps, I sleep because the wife sleeps. When Lucy is licking, the wife is always whacking me to tell Lucy to stop it. No wonder I wake up exhausted some days. I'm up all night yelling at the dog because the wife is yelling at me.

Back to the reason I was up until 4 AM. MJagger's going away party was event to remember. Well, I will remember it, as I was sober. I'm not sure who will remember what because a lot of alcohol was involved. It started out innocently enough but kept getting a little rowdier, louder, naughtier and drunker as time went on. At one point, I got punched in the face with some guy's elbow. It was totally an accident but it hurt like a biscuit. My glasses got smooshed and I was seeing stars. It took the breath out of me. I was so glad he didn't punch me in the teeth. I like my teeth. Anyway, the guy was very apologetic but I couldn't see who it was because (1) my glasses were smooshed, and, (2) my eyes were watering so badly that I couldn't have seen even if I had my glasses on. Some of the friends in our party thought I got punched on purpose, which was problematic because they were looking for a fight. Dear god, I am way too old to be around drunk people who want to get into a fight. It took a lot of repeated insistence that the guy didn't do it on purpose at all.

Then, MJagger decided that it was time....for no known reason, she decided she needed to stick her face in a now-ex-co-worker's cleavage. MJagger is mighty straight, so this is very confusing to me. She had been talking about doing it, but I thought she was kidding. I mean, she's never done anything like that so why she would start now? I did a pretty good job of keeping an eye on her all night--after all, that was my assigned task--but, I was unable to intervene when she decided to plow ahead and nestle her entire face in the large, voluptuous ta-tas that were in front of her. There was no warning. BAM! Face in cleavage. She got a hold of those puppies and gave a champion-level motor boat.

I must admit that it was the hit of the party. Straight girl gone wild. What more could anyone want in a party?

Looking for a fight, slurring words, hanging on each other, bad ideas and ta-ta diving. Affirms why I don't drink. I'm glad MJagger is a happy drunk. There was only one incident that I thought might lead to an issue for me--she decided she was going to walk home. At 3 AM, By herself.  In a dress. While in a drunken ta-ta fueled funk. Thankfully, she acquiesced and let me drive her home as planned, but only after she had eaten tacos with the last of the party goers. I won't even try to explain what transpired at the restaurant. Suffice it to say, the F word was included in every sentence.

I woke up this morning with a god-awful headache. As I write this, I feel like I am hung over, which is awful as I hadn't been drinking. How unfair is that? Between getting punched in the face, being up so late, having sinus issues and not getting much sleep, I feel pretty rough. I can't wait to talk to MJagger later today and see how she's doing. Knowing her, she's probably fine. Heck, she might still be drunk.

The wife just walked up to me, holding a small marble of poop in a napkin. Sigh. Another errant poop. Oh, this does not bode well......perhaps I should check out doggie diapers.....

....at least MJagger did not poop or puke on me. That's saying something. I had a barf bag in the car, just in case. She didn't present as a vomit risk, but one never knows. I wasn't prepared for pooping--how does one prepare for that?--so, I'm glad that was not an issue. She didn't pass out so I didn't have to carry her. She agreed to not walk home without too much argument. She was a happy drunk so I didn't have to deal with the ickiness that sometimes arises when alcohol is involved.

MJagger is facing a tremendous amount of stress at this time. Life-straining stress. Drinking doesn't solve anything but it gave her a reprieve for a few hours. She would have celebrated her change of jobs in the same manner had she no stress, but I'm glad things weren't wilder than they were due to the level of stress involved. I put out good thoughts for her and her family. I hope you will, too.

Today, I'm on call. We'll see how that goes. God help me if I have to go out in the middle of the night. I pity the fool that has to see me. I'm sure I'll be a crabby patty beyond compare by that time. Heck, I'm teetering on crabby-patty-ness at this very moment. I think chocolate, ibuprofen and a nap will put my world back in order.

....if you come to our house and find a Milk Dud on the floor, DO NOT EAT IT. I can guarantee it is not a Milk Dud. You have been warned.
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Ode to MJagger

Someone said to me yesterday that people who say they are busy are actually not as busy as they think they are; when they look at the data (read: someone sits around and figures out what you do in a day), they actually find out that they aren't busy....I spit on their data. We've been getting up at 4:45 AM in an effort to squeeze 15 more minutes into the day. More Facebook time! 

Two big events are approaching: the wife turns 50 in a few weeks and MJagger is leaving our place of employment.  The wife will need medication to get through the birthday festivities; I'll need medication to deal with MJagger's resignation.

MJagger secured a new job in a different field, something that she's talked about for quite some time. Whatever the reason, she didn't take the leap until now. I am very proud of her for deciding to do something completely out of her comfort zone. It's a tough thing to do, but she's doing it and she's gonna rock it, by God. It's a new beginning for her. How can you not love that?

Of course, this means the of "training selfies."  How disappointing. For the past year, we've taken a selfie at every training we were forced--er, I mean asked to endure. That was the one big thing to look forward to when trudging toward the conference room. No matter the topic, I always knew there would be a selfie and a laugh. I'm taking applications for someone to replace her, but it just won't be the same.

It's been quite the ride, these past 15 years. She shot out two babies while at this job, She got married during the first weeks with the agency. She was there when there were goats in the building, busy peeing on the floor. She threw Freckles a puppy shower and was there when I picked out Lucy. I was there when she picked out her German Shepard puppy from a cardboard box. After Prom 2000 she was seen dancing in the cage (while wearing a dress, I might add). She's slapped me around in the football pool. We've eaten more pizza during work hours than should be legal. She served as my Straight of Honor. She was there when I purchased the wife's first "real" ring (and was also there to watch me throw it at the wife in a nervous frenzy--so romantic). We balanced chakras, ate at Rosas, wore pajamas to work, Who can forget the Professional wrestling, movies with the clients, seeing Wicked with work friends & spouses and....the infamous baseball game of which MJagger does not speak. For one birthday, she gave me a gift certificate to get a tattoo. THAT'S a true friend.

And, there was Madonna: Madonna posters, photos, albums, t-shirts and concerts...Drowned World Tour, Reinvention Tour, The Confessions on a Dance Floor Tour. Hard Candy Tour, MDNA, Madonna, Madonna, Madonna. We missed meetings at work just to have a chance to buy Madonna tickets on line. I can no longer think of a Madonna concert without thinking of MJagger.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the Lady Gaga concert. That was a happening in itself. I have to say it was one of the greatest concerts I have ever attended. There were other concerts, too--Black Eyed Peas comes quickly to mind. MJagger loves music as much as I do. That's saying something. I know she wishes I would stop listening to bad country music. I told her that's what happens when you get old--you start listening to country. BTW, she's a HUGE Rolling Stones fan and has even done a 'sassy dance' with THE Mick Jagger. I've never danced with Madonna, so I am a bit bitter about this. Dammit, Madge!

In true friendship fashion, we've had some doozies of disagreements. That's what real friends are for. I don't need someone giving me lip service. I appreciate the blunt honesty she affords.  We didn't agree on things at work and that was okay.We certainly didn't agree on the infamous baseball outing. I embrace her strong opinions and her passion for what she believes.

Some days, I know she wanted to punch me in the throat. Some days, I wanted to punch her in the throat. In true friendship form, no throats were punched.

I have been walking around in a grumpy funk at work. My partner in crime will no longer be my partner in crime. Oh, I'll still see her, just not at any time during the work day. For that, I am sad. I'm not sure who will have the harder time adjusting.

Good news is that Madonna still has two more tours to do in order to complete her contract, so we'll have that for which to look forward. The football pool is just getting started and there will always be a walk or two as time goes by. I am confident that more pizza will be consumed, although it might need to be after work or on a school holiday. The wife and her husband get along handsomely and we adore their kids, so I'm sure an outing or two will happen now and again. We may have to do a little geo-caching--nerds in the great outdoors--and god knows the wife won't go see a super-hero movie with me, so I'll give MJagger a call.

I look forward to hearing about her adventures...and, adventures she will have!

I'll try not to whine and pout too much as she walks out the door.... but, I'll only remain composed if she promises to dance in the cage on her last day of work....

....and takes a selfie with me while in the cage. 
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Warrior of Mud

Last weekend, I crossed off a "bucket list" item by running--er, I mean walking, crawling, jogging, praying, surviving--a local Warrior Dash. It was loads of fun, even thought I didn't dash very much. Dashing is for athletes. Surviving is for folks like me.

For those of you who are not in the know, the Warrior Dash is for morons like me who think it would be fun to run through an adult-sized obstacle course which features lots of mud.

Yes, that is real mud on my bib and finisher's medal. I didn't put that mud there. It found its way onto (and into) my being. No, I am not going to clean it off. I earned that mud. Yes, I'm going to proudly display this in my office for the rest of my life. Yes, I might wear my medal all this week at work to show my warrior-ness.

Did I mention that's real mud?

Before I talk about the mud, here are some tidbits to consider before taking part in a Warrior Dash:
**When deciding to take part in such an event, it is advisable to train prior to the event.
**When deciding to take part in such an event even though there has not been any training, it is advisable to have at least some form of upper body strength.
**When decided to take part in such an event without training or upper body strength, a good sense of humor and a love for mud will go far.

It was LOTS of fun. I suppose it's because I like mud. I love mud. It's a free mud bath. It reminds me of ceramics class back in the 1980's. It's childhood, come back to life. What's not to like about mud?

Well, okay--there are a few things not to like about mud: 

(1) It doesn't taste very good. You can't avoid getting mud in your mouth at one time or another during a Warrior Dash. I got some in my mouth and it ended up in my gum. My gum crunched for the remainder of my tenure on the course.
(2) It gets in every orifice and crevice. There is no avoiding it. I have resigned myself to finding mud in my ears for the next month. Yesterday at work, a co-worker pointed out some mud on the side of my glasses.
(3) It's cold. We dashed earlier than not, which means the mud had no time to warm; hence, we oozed our way through cold mud. Takes your breath away.
(4) It's dark. You can't see what is underneath the surface. A lot of the mud obstacles were knee deep (or more) with lots of dark, murky water on top. A surprise log scared the bejesus out of me as I slogged my way through one particular mud lake. There were thoughts of snakes. At one point, I wondered how I was going to find my shoe if I had to pull my stuck foot out of the shoe to escape the grasp of the mud. Because it's dark, you can't see how deep it is. Some mud obstacles were shallow (think calf deep) and some obstacles were waist or more deep. That's a lot of darkness.
(5) It has a grip like a vice. See #4. I'm not kidding. I got stuck calf-deep in a deeper than not in a murky pool of mud. Somehow, I got my foot free but it was not without effort. I don't remember having this issue with mud as a kid. Maybe that's because mud puddles of childhood tend not to be several feet deep.
(6) It's heavy. Once the mud got in, on and stuck to my shoes, they were like bricks. No matter how hard I tried to get the mud off the bottom of my shoes, the mud hung on. That left me to walking/jogging/climbing/ crawling with weights on my feet. Having wet shoes is hard enough. Having 10 pounds of mud on each shoe is much harder.
(7) It's impossible to wash off in a pond. The "Warrior Wash" at the end of the race was not, as I had been informed, a fire hose. Instead, this course featured a pond in which you could wade. Let's face it--ponds are just big mud puddles. It was rather pointless. I used my time to pry my shoes and socks off instead of wading in a mud pond.

I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you I was terrified a few times as I traversed the grasslands and cornfields of the Cheddarlands. At one point, I was on top of an obstacle saying aloud, "Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down." I had to say it out loud because just thinking it wasn't enough. I had to convince myself I could do this as long as I didn't look down.

Finishers get medals. Here I am taking a bite of my medal. Not only is the medal cool, it serves as a bottle opener. I kid you not. Warriors must need to be able to open a beer at any given moment.

For the record, I threw my socks out and donated my shoes. I didn't feel like carrying five pound socks home, only to have the wife freak out upon seeing them. Those socks would never have found their way into the house. As for the shoes, the pond didn't get them very clean and they still weighed ten pounds each, so I donated them. I loved those shoes but they had to go. I know they will find a good home, as the race organizers clean them up and donate them to those without shoes. I've never seen such a big pile of muddy shoes in my life. (Actually, I've never seen a pile of muddy shoes in my life, so that's not saying much. Suffice it to say, the pile was taller than me. That's a lot of muddy shoes.)

Now that I've survived and I've removed 90+ percent off the mud from my being, I ask myself: Would I do this again? After all, I did it once, so it's off the bucket list.

The answer is.........

Yes. Of course I would! Next time I might train.....or, at least wear a costume. But, I'll only do another Warrior Dash if they have something better than a pond in which to wash.....and if MJagger will come along...

.....and, if I have duct tape. I'd duct tape my ears shut so there would be no mud in them. Silver duct tape. The real kind of duct tape. Warriors don't wear any of that new-fangled hot pink or patterned duct tape.
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Vigorous Jazz Hands for Humanity

An avid Addiverse fan wrote in to alert me it had been one week and five days since my last blog. Okay, okay--my mother emailed me and inquired about my silence.

Um, I've been busy. Very busy. Well, I THINK I've been busy. Have I been busy? This is a question to ponder. What HAVE I been doing for the past 12 days?

Well, since it is the third snowiest winter of this town's recorded weather history, I've been shoveling. Like everyone in northern Illinois (and like I've whined about in a couple of blogs just a few entries ago), I've been shoveling and I've been shoveling. Did I mention I've been shoveling? Heck, right before coming in to write this blog, I was....

.....that's right: shoveling.

Doesn't Mother Nature know it's March 1st and it's not supposed to snowing like this? That it shouldn't be below zero AGAIN? That those little crocus should be peeking out?

I've spent a lot of time wondering where to put all the snow--it's gotta go somewhere and I've run out of places to put it. I spend a lot of time trying to keep the dogs' potty area suitable for use.

Yes, that is a photo of Freckles pooping. If you zoom in, you can see the poop just about to exit the building. Dropping the kids off at the pool.

I've made it a priority to practice "safe walking" as part of this end of winter snow show:

Dang. My yaks de tracks are nothing in comparison to a certain sister warrior princess:

If I were you, I would NOT mess with her or her shoes. 

Of course, I just posted a photo of her foot without asking, so I guess I'm messing with her. Perhaps I should think twice. I don't think my yak tracks can outrun her spikes of doom. Argo, your spikes are blog worthy. I couldn't help myself.

I have to admit that I have been doing a lot more than shoveling...for instance, I just learned about birthday-cake-flavored Oreos:

 Someone should win a Nobel prize for inventing those things. Genius. Terrible for you, chemically-laden but genius. I had to step away from the bag lest I consume the entire package in one sitting. I think I now have a shelf life of 20 years.

I've been keeping an eye on the gay marriage saga in Illinois. Gay marriage is legal as of June 1, 2014 yet that "wait until June 1st" thing has now been challenged in Cook County. Those sassy Chicagoans are already getting gay-ly married. This means that the wife and I could at this very moment go to Cook County and get gay-ly married, June 1st be damned. Doing so would dissolve our civil union right on the spot--BAM!--which is kind of mind boggling in itself. Of course, I'm not sure this "get married before the law goes into effect" is a good idea and I'm not sure dissolving a civil union is wise--after all, as of June 1st, we can "upgrade" our civil union--for free--to a marriage and the date of the marriage is retroactive to the civil union date. How 'bout them apples? Our marriage date, as secured in 2014, will be in 2011.

You think that hurts your head? I'm sure it really hurts the noggin of the director of human resources at my place of employment. I mean, if you have to alert Human Resources of a qualifying date--which a marriage most certainly is--within a specific time frame (usually 30 days), how do you do that if the qualifying date is actually in 2011, even though it's 2014? Think about that. What a great technicality for all those HR directors! "I'm sorry, you missed the window of opportunity for the qualifying event." Or, how about if we go get married in Cook County before the June 1st deadline--couldn't HR say that the marriage isn't technically legal and thus no qualifying event has transpired?

Don't even get started with the whole federal level thing. HR could come back and argue that gay marriage really isn't legal in the eye of the Federal government and thus they do not have to offer my spouse coverage even though they would provide a straight employee's spouse coverage with no questions asked. Think I'm kidding? I'm not. Insurance is an evil game.

I'm thinking the best option might be to get a civil union divorce and then get married after June 1st. How bizarre would that be? I'm not sure HR could argue against that but they most assuredly will. I see an argument or five in my future about all this. And, I see some emails flying from the wife's computer. She is understandably not a happy camper. Who can blame her? My peers get insurance with no question asked and we have to fight and claw and still get denied. Someone pass me an Oreo. STAT!

I learned a new party game: Cards Against Humanity. It is absolutely, positively the most politically incorrect game I've played in a long time....inhumane to the nth degree....yet, I've never laughed so hard while playing a game. I don't think it's a game you'd bring out to play unless you were sure of your audience--I mean, there are times it's even hard to read aloud what the card says. Let me give you a peek into the cards I was holding in my hand:

Told you.

Best news since I've been away? Between shoveling, watching all 13 episodes of "Orange is the New Black" in a week, pinning stupid pins of this or that, stewing about insurance and playing a sophomoric card game most assuredly created by some drunk guys in college....The best news is that....

I found Jesus.

I didn't even know he was missing.

And THAT is what I've been doing. 
'Nuf said.
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Word! Cured.

Good and bad news, visitors of the Addiverse: My Replacement Lady Chiropractor cured me.

I am in no pain. I need no over-the-counter medication. I'm no longer walking like I have a corn cob stuck up my ass.  Seat pillow be damned!

You would think this a very good thing.....but....

...this means My Replacement Lady Chiropractor kicked me right off her table and out her office door, never to be seen again unless I want to do preventative work or if I have problems. She kicked me out....

...Free.Of.Charge!

Who the hell tries to give you an adjustment, sees you for your scheduled appointment and doesn't charge you?

I'm so sad. I was just getting to know her. But, when I told her I was in no pain and she found me to be lined up perfectly with nary a thing to snap, crackle or pop, she threw me out.

Well, okay--she politely told me to leave and that she wasn't going to charge me because there was nothing really to adjust.

I can't and don't credit her for my whole recovery, despite how wonderful she is. After all, bones heal with time, rest does wonders, sitting on a donut pillow helps, getting some full-body massages (featuring lots of time on the back side muscles), envisioning happy, healthy bones and not doing anything stupid (like going for a three mile jog) makes all the difference in the world. Going to the chiropractor was the icing on the cake. I'm not negating her efforts; I'm just looking at the whole picture.

Getting a free non-adjustment made me feel all that much better and makes the icing that much sweeter.

I've heard horror stories of people needing six months to year to heal from a broken tail bone, with some people telling me how they still have pain twenty years later. I chose not to be one of those people. I don't have time for six months of pain, let alone twenty. Maybe I've got fast-healing bones. Maybe I'm just lucky. Maybe my break wasn't as "bad" as their breaks. I choose to believe I have the power!

Today, I am going to go for a walk around the block with the wife. I'm tired of sitting around and she's got cabin fever, so I figure a short walk will help both of us. We'll walk in the street because it is snow covered and doesn't feature any ice. The side walks are off limits--they're an icy mess and I don't do icy messes any more. She's been really struggling with this long, Polar-Vortexed-winter. The sun is shining for the time being so getting her out and about my give her a shot of Vitamin D and lift her spirits a wee bit.

She might feel even better with a short road trip. Later today, we're going into the Cheddarlands this afternoon to do a Christening....

...with me as the minister.

For an adult.

In a bar.

With beer.

I kid you not.

It's a long story.

We will have much fodder for the blog. MJagger will be there to help with the event. It was her idea to use beer instead of water. The mother of the christening-to-be daughter wants to use hard liquor but MJagger insists it needs to be beer. I concur.

The wife is mortified and sure we are all going to hell.

We're not going to Hell. We're not even going to Limbo....

We are going to a bar in her home state, full of cheese curds and snow piles....

....maybe we'll need to baptize her, too.

Wonder if she wants light beer or full-flavored beer?
*************************************************
I'll take photos.
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Oh my achin' nystagumus

If you are hoping I am going to talk about the weather, I am sure to disappoint. Oh sure, it's cold but I'm on vacation and don't have to go outside if I don't want to. I've taken up the Olympic sport of "100,000 Meter Couch Potato-astics." I excel at this, so bring on that -20 degrees! You know where to find me. On.The.Couch....getting an Olympic gold, right after I finish the "One Pint Chocolate Oreo Explosion Dash."

If you are hoping for an update on using the sleep tracker app on the dog, you're in luck.  I tested the app by putting it in Freckles' bed. (See previous blog.) She slept the whole night through, so I couldn't test the awake/sleep part. No surprise--her results were the same as mine. I still don't know if dogs have REM sleep but I do know that the dog and I "measure" the same on a free app. Not sure if that's good or bad.  Next, I will put my phone (and thus the phone app) by the wife and see what happens.  She's always awake in the middle of the night, so she makes it easy to test. To ensure the data is not corrupted or skewed, I will not be telling her about the experiment.

I lead a VERY exciting life, as you can tell.

My pupils are dilated right now, so typos are not my fault. Nothing says "good time on vacation" like going to the eye doctor to get your pupils dilated. Ate the ice cream (technically, custard), got off the couch, drove to the mall, picked out some new glasses. Since the glasses cost what I would have spent on an actual vacation, it made taking a stay-cation feel that much more festive.

Do not focus on the bags. Focus on the giant pupils. I shall now hypnotize you. You are getting sleeeeeepy.....

You might be wondering why we are home during my vacation? We're taking care of the dogs, putting eye drops in four times a day, carrying Freckles out the door when she is ready to do her duty, placing gates in strategic places so she doesn't do another tumbleweed imitation, staring at Lucy to make sure she's okay (of which she most certainly seems to be). Someday, we will one again vacation on tropical islands but that will have to wait.

While the wife was in the Cheddarlands for the Packer game last weekend, I was at home wondering what the hell was wrong with Freckles: she was wandering around in circles, tipping her head to the side, walking into things. She looked lost or drunk. I thought she might be trying to figure out the lay of the land but the noticed she made smaller circles when in the middle of the room. She was in slow-but-constant motion, wandering around even in the wee hours of the night. After 24 hours of this, I took a close gander and noticed a very bizarre thing--her eyes were doing this weird pendulum motion, quickly going back and forth, back and forth. Further observation noted her head was also moving in the direction of her eyes but in a much slower, less noticeable motion.

So, what did I do?

I took a video and sent it to MJagger. I only go to the most reliable sources: friends.

She thought Freckles' eye movements were probably normal for a blind dog, noting that blind people sometimes have the same problem.  I wasn't satisfied with this answer; besides, Freckles wouldn't wear the sunglasses I kept trying to put on her face (who the hell wants to look at a blind dog's eyes going back and forth? Very disconcerting.). I didn't think anything was horrible amiss--I was more intrigued than worried.

So, what did I do?

I googled "eye movements in dogs." Oh, the answers I did find!

There are some things in life you should not miss. Here is the visual evidence (pun intended). If you get this blog via email, you may have to go to the actual website to see the video.)

I knew Freckles wasn't in crisis, wasn't having a stroke, wasn't having a seizure. I was confident she wasn't having a brain tumor issue.  I didn't take her to the vet. I didn't even call the vent because I was so sure of the correct diagnosis made via the internet....my "research" led to the conclusion that she has a case of nystagumus.....the "involuntary and rhythmic oscillation of the eyeballs."

No wonder she was walking around in circles--she was dizzy. Tell tale signs of the issue include tilting of head and walking in circles.

Nystagumus is mighty common in older dogs, shows up unannounced and goes away whenever it is damn ready to hit the road. As the Addiverse always aims to educate it's readers, know that Freckles' diagnosis is officially known as "Old Dog" vestibular Disease. There are different kinds of issues that might be tied to this weirdness but what she seems to have is idiopathic and only needs time, love and patience.....

So, she's old and dizzy. Not much different than the majority of my friends. (I couldn't resist.) Best news? She's already on the mend. After three days of this nonsense her eyes have stopped spinning around in her head and all seems well.  She's no longer wandering around in circles and she slept through the night.

I'd never heard of this nystagumus thing before. I'd guess you haven't heard of it, either; hence, I find it of important mundane value to share with you, beloved reader. It happens in people, too. In an effort to educate you further, here's a video of which demonstrates not only the eye movement but also the "left ear shuffle" and the "ever so slight head tracking:"

Reminds me of my college days. Just sayin'.
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Vowing to Camouflage

The wife and I took part in one of the best weddings on the planet. Unfortunately, I cannot do it justice trying to blog about it--it's one of those events that "you had to be there." At one point, the wife turned to me and said, "are you writing this stuff down? Because this is unbelievable."

And, she was right.  It was unbelievable.

I didn't blog about it right away because I wasn't sure what to say.  A few days of reflective distance did nothing to help me put words on describing the event.

I was the minister, clad in a camouflage shirt & cowboy boots, as requested.  I had written a standard ceremony, as the bride and groom were all good with that approach.  There was no practice, no rehearsal...heck, they never even read the script.  I looked around and took in the scenery, as it is of great benefit to "play to your audience."  

Well, the event was held in a bar, so that gives you an idea of the venue.  "Keep it simple," I thought to myself.

They had brought in wooden benches, so there was an aisle and "pews."  That seemed traditional enough.

The men were wearing red rifle shell casings as corsages--on their camouflage vests.  "Keep it respectful--these people have access to weapons--don't mess with the hunters," I muttered.

The women were wearing necklaces and earrings made of bullets and their bouquets were fashioned out of blue jean material and bullets.  "Bet you've never seen that before," I mused to myself.

The bride and groom were milling about the bar, drinking and visiting, laughing and thoroughly enjoying themselves.  Who has time to worry about the groom not seeing the bride before the wedding?

The crowd was casually clad in jeans, cowboy boots, various forms of camouflage, enjoying a drink or three before the start of the official festivities.

The wife was smitten as there was a little gift shop on the premises, featuring a 70% off sale for polo shirts.  She exclaimed, "These are perfect for work! Can I use your credit card?"

Okay--I realized I needed to keep it simple, respectful, fun, light-hearted--and, short.  Keep it short.

There was a college football game playing on the wide-screen.  I wasn't sure they would turn the TV off for the ceremony (for the record, they did).  As I turned away from the television, I mentioned to the mother of the bride how I had never seen camouflage wedding attire before.  She responded:  "it's not as unusual as you think."

While standing there, contemplating this fact, the groom noted how he & his friends had blown up pumpkins this morning--you know, with guns--in an effort to decorate for Halloween.

The ceremony was held......right under a giant photo of Lambeau Field.  I kid you not.  The only way it could have been more appropriate is if St. Vince had been in the photo.

The bridal party walked down the aisle to Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven."

(By the way, the bridesmaids and groomsmen were all carrying their drinks while walking down the aisle.)

The bride walked down the aisle to a Metallica song, accompanied on one side by her biological dad and the other side by her step-dad.

The kids in the front row were doing "The Wave."

I cannot make this stuff up.  

It was wonderfully surreal, very personalized, oozing with fun.  Thankfully, the wife and MJagger were there, lest no one would ever believe me.

Although it sounds like I'm making fun of this event, I'm really not.  It was very touching and was "them." It made sense.  It fit perfectly.  It was classy in its own way.  The decorations were beautiful.  The jewelry home-made, ready to be sold on ETSY. The antics couldn't have been more appropriate.

I truly enjoyed leading this ceremony.   At one point, I had everyone raise their glasses (yes, everyone was drinking during the ceremony) and toast the bride & groom, as a sign of support and blessing.  I quoted Duck Dynasty.  I noted how this was the first time I had been asked to wear camouflage while serving as a wedding officiant. I emphasized how getting married under a photo of Lambeau Field meant this was a done deal--no getting divorced now.  When the groom's ring wouldn't go on, I employed witty banter. I kept it short and kept 'em laughing, all the while respecting these two fine people.

It went swimmingly.

I'm beginning to really like this minister gig.  As long as I can play to the audience, I can rock the pulpit. Dearly beloved, indeed!

The reception featured bottles of Boone's Farm "wine" (and, I do use that term loosely) on each table, surrounded by center-pieces made of--you guessed it--rifle shell/casings. The groom ripped his shirt sleeves off, leaving him with a camo vest and bare arms.  Dessert featured six different kinds of cake. Most of the people gathered around the bar to watch the college game of the home state.

As we were enjoying the after-ceremony activities, I commented to the wife and MJagger how "today's brides" sure are different than what I traditionally picture when thinking about brides--they don't have rehearsals, they don't get nervous, they have their own vision, they don't do a first dance or a daddy/daughter dance or a dollar dance, they don't seem to worry about much of anything. There are no rules. I wondered if all weddings were like that. The wife said, in a deadpan voice, "maybe it's only the ones that you do."

Smarty pants.

If any bride asks me for advice (and, I highly doubt brides are going to come rushing to me for advice), I am going tell her to make the ceremony fit who she and her groom are, to make it personal, to have fun, to be creative and to just be true to themselves.

It's their day.  You can't do it wrong.

I'm also going to tell her that camouflage really does work as a color palette.
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Fine Line

A few commercial messages before the meat (or, in my case tofu) of the blog:

Happy 20th Anniversary, LLL peeps!  Since October 1993, we've gathered at least twice a year--sometimes three times a year--for food, friends and fun. These are fine, upstanding women with whom I love to spend time.  We've done everything from kayaking to tye-dying, so we are a well-rounded group of people. We've played video games, card games, board games. We've gathered on college campuses, state parks, private properties. We've eaten more food than should be legal.  Despite the passing of twenty years, I think we look fabulous.

Speaking of aging and looking fabulous....when I mentioned to MJagger about my previous blog (glowing about how me and my friends look spectacular at our ages), she was silent....and, then spoke: "That's why eye sight gets worse with age.  You can't see as well and thus you think you look a lot better than you do."

Ouch!

Remind me not to have younger friends.  On to the main event.

I've always said it's a fine line between staff and client within the mental health field.  Some days the line is even finer.  Today was one of those days.  I was talking to a client about this and that and it turns out I was agreeing with a lot of what he was saying.  We had quite the in depth conversation. I found myself shaking my head in agreement.

The problem is that he has been deemed psychotic.

So, if I think the same thing as he thinks, does that make ME psychotic?

I think not, but only by the thinnest of lines.  Today, the only difference may be that I have keys and a name tag and he does not.

As he was talking, I thought about how in other cultures he would be revered, not labeled as ill.  I considered how he was indeed brought up in a different country and that what he was saying would be accepted without question there.  I thought about some of my friends and how they subscribe to the same tenets of which he was speaking. I thought about how he would have served as a good shaman somewhere across the globe. I recalled how I had written my thesis on the use of shamanism in the realm of art therapy. I thought about how we slap labels on people in the US and that those labels are based on a list of symptoms that really are nothing but subjective descriptors.  I was thoroughly enjoying the conversation and recalled that there really is a fine line between staff and client.....

....then, he started talking about being from another planet (actually, another galaxy), which snapped me back to my own reality.

For the record, I do not--nor have I ever believed--that I am from another planet or galaxy, so score one for the keys and name tag.

Or course, I can't prove that he is NOT from another planet or galaxy and I can't prove that I am not from another planet or galaxy, so I did not argue.  How does one prove such a thing?

So, I let it go.  I left him on his planet and I stayed on mine.  I decided to worry about MJagger thinking my eye sight was in question and that my changing skin might look different than what I was seeing. Me and my cronies, blinded by our own pathetic eye sight.

.....she best be careful, lest me and my blind friends knock her good eye sight and healthy skin right off this planet.

Then we'll see who's psychotic and who's not.

Aging is for Chesee

I was talking to some co-workers the other day, explaining that the wife and I were going to a party for one of our friends; thus, we wouldn't be able to attend the work party.  I explained how I felt badly that we couldn't go to the work festivities, but friends before work.  We're yipping and yapping until I notice the look on their faces.  I couldn't figure out what I could have possibly said that would elicit slack jaws and wide eyes, quickly hidden behind nods and polite, close-mouth smiles....

....then, I realized the problem.  I was talking to 20-something and 30-something-year-olds about going to a party for a friend's 60th birthday.

Sixty????!!!  That stunned them right into silence.

I never really thought about how "old" I am in their eyes until that conversation.  I should have taken a clue when two people in the past weeks have asked if I have any grandchildren.  I stopped and thought about how  I "look" to them.....

Almost every one of our friends is in the 50-60 year old category.  I don't think about it because we are in the same boat and we've all been growing "old" together and we all do pretty dang good for our age. You don't see people age as much when you are on the "inside" as those who are on the "outside."  Besides, isn't 50 the new 40?

Thank god I have MJagger as a friend, as she is only 41.  She brings the age average down for my gaggle of friends.  Without her, I'm thinking the average age would be 59 and I'm not kidding.  I think she brings it down to 58.

The wife is by far the youngest person in our circle of friends...and, she is 49.  When I say that, I'm thinking, "wow, she's really young."  I can't believe she is "still" in her 40's. When I tell that fact to my co-workers, they can only smile politely, as 49 is ancient to them and I am "ancient-er."  ANCIENT!

I do not even want to think about how our teenage nieces view us.  Please do not ask them.  I will be morose for weeks and need to triple all medication.

I took a quick survey of our friends.  Although most are in their mid-to-late 50's, they really do look good.  Well, they look good from my 51 year old perspective. No, really--they look good for their age.  (That's a cold, cold sentence--when someone says you look good for your age, you should probably slap them.)  When I started to think about why this might be true, I decided the following:

1.  Shooting out babies ages you by a zillion percent.  Not the actual shooting out of the baby; rather, it is raising said baby, losing all those hours of sleep--whether it be from new born crying or waiting for that naughty teenage to return in the middle of the night.  Not sleeping has to age you.  The majority of our friends have not given birth to anything but pets and that doesn't count.  When I asked the wife what she thought was the number one thing she thought ages people, she said, "having kids."  She didn't even know I was writing a blog, so this is an untainted answer.

God love you parents.  We salute you. 

Now, that's not to say we don't have friends who have had children--we have many friends who are parents. For some reason, they've maintained their youthful glow.  Dee Zee and Chick-a-hello both gave birth to children and they look amazing.  Maybe they had kids that slept through the night, thus no sleep was lost and they kept their youthful glow.  I'll have to ask them their secrets.  

2.  We dress younger than we are.  That can be good and bad.  We might end up looking ridiculous but the majority of us don't seem to mind, care or notice.  Perhaps it's because the group of friends I am picturing eschew frumpy house dresses & menopausal-pooch-enhancing polyester pants.  I'm sure MJagger is mortified by my wardrobe selections, but she has to give me props for avoiding stretch-pants, giant floral prints or Velcro anything.  No one in our group wears mini-skirts, daisy-duke shorts, mid-drifts or mohawks, so I think that is in our favor.  We tend to comfortable clothing, spitting on anything that causes pain or discomfort.  (Why people insist on wearing uncomfortable shoes of any kind, I do not know.  Life is too short to wear uncomfortable shoes.)

.....you know, if I take the view that my 20-something year old co-worker has, I'm thinking I might be mortified by my wardrobe choices and think we look ridiculous, too.  Piss on him.  He needs to respect his elders.

3. We have a youthful, gaggle-supporting approach to life.  We are, for the most part, physically active, fun-loving, friend-supporting, life-loving people.  We have an amazing network of friends, which is timeless and ageless.  Everyone should have friends like we have.  Talk about rallying the troops when needed--our gaggle flocks around those in need without even asking or judging.  Friends help keep you young, happy, healthy, whole.  How can you be old when laughing to the point you are snorting or peeing?

Side note: I do not pee when I laugh but will gladly point the finger at those who do.  I don't usually snort, either.  I do slap my hand on my thigh and throw my head back like a Muppet when guffawing but no pees or snorts.  Just sayin.'

4.  We are delirious.  Since we see each other so often and as we are aging together, we really don't see how old we look or are.  We look like us.  When you see someone all the time, you don't notice the subtle changes until it's too late or it's uber-obvious.  The numbers 50 or 60 don't mean anything.  They are not associated with an "old" or "young" age.  They are just numbers and reality says we are delirious and don't think about this.  I think being delirious is a great thing, so I plan on staying delirious.

5.  We are in complete and full denial.  See Number 4 above.

6.  No, seriously--we are delirious and in denial.

After all this contemplation, for me, it comes down to this: age is a number and aging is for cheese, not me.

And, if I don't look in the mirror, I can't really see the things that suggest aging is indeed in progress--you know, deepening wrinkles, changing chin and neck lines, sagging this or that.  My insides tell me I'm much younger than my outsides suggests, so I'm going with what's inside.

I plan on being a tattooed-converse-gym-shoe-wearing-xena-t-shirt-clad 80-something-year-old. And, I will still feel much younger on the inside than what you see on the outside.  I promise I'll stop dying my hair by then, but only because I want to, not because anyone says I should.

Of course, that means our friends will be between 80-90 years old.  You best get out of the way of these ladies because they are going to run circles around you 50-60 years old....

....you have been warned.  Try to keep up.
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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.....

Of Tires and Dogs

Oh dear, it's been an expensive few days in the Addiverse. That thing called real life is acting more like a cash register than anything else.  Every time I look at something, it costs me money.  I've got the anti-Midas touch going on.

Before I go further, I must make a very, very sad announcement: my beloved lady chiropractor has left the Midwest and returned to her home in the land of Game Cocks.  I know this because I was stalking her--er, I mean I was looking for contact information so I could return to her for treatment.  I figured if I were going to resume chiropractic care, I should go back to her, not only so I didn't feel like I was cheating on her, but also because she was awesome at her job.  Imagine my pain when I learned she had moved just a few months ago.  I wish her well in her new business but I spit on her for leaving me behind.

At least I don't feel like I'm cheating on her any more.

Back to the anti-Midas.  Take, for instance, this Friday.  Thankfully, it was snowing Friday morning--I know, weird thing to say by this time of winter--so, I happened to be in the garage earlier than usual.  One glance at my car led to the sound of the cash register: Ca-ching! Flat tire.

I have been one very fortunate grrrrl--I have not had the pleasure of a flat tire during my tenure as an adult.  There was a flat tire back in high school when my sister and I were driving the parental unit's car in town, but that doesn't really count--it wasn't my car, we were in town going about 2 MHP and I didn't have to do anything about it.  (Side note: it was before cell phones, so it did make calling my dad a wee bit more exciting.)  My father showed me how to change a tire right before my friend and I took the family car on a road trip to the east coast, but since there was no flat involved during the practice, that doesn't count, either.  I had a spare tire stolen off my truck, so it's good that I didn't have a flat during that time period. I've come close to having a flat tire--after all, who hasn't run over a nail? I averted the "true flat" by hearing the hissing sound and taking the tire for repair before it actually became a flat.

This was one pretty flat-looking tire.

I just kind of looked at it.  I tried to recall if I had a can of fix-a-flat somewhere in my world. Then, I wondered if it had enough oomph in it to make it to the gas station a few blocks up.  I thought about putting the spare on and then going to the tire store to get the flat tire fixed/replaced, but it was really cold out and there isn't much room in the garage to do such maneuvering. Suffice it to say, I limped to the gas station and filled that puppy up best I could.  (I do NOT suggest anyone ever do this--I know I should not have done this.  Hey, I live on the edge.)  I could hear the hissing as soon as I put air in.  I knew time was of the essence.  Filled up, I zipped to the tire store.

I have replaced tires on this car before; in fact, I blogged about that process. This time, there was no time for research or blogging or thinking--I had to fix the flat and get moving for the day.  I got to the tire store, pointed out the once-again-flat tire, held out my wallet.

The tire guy came back in and told me my rear tires were on backwards.  Geez, I know I look dumb but do I look THAT dumb? He must've read my face--he clarified that my current fancy tires are "directional" and thus have to be put on the car in a certain manner.  Imagine how pleased I was to learn of this when I just had the tires rotated at the dealer a week ago.  (This is the same dealer that forgot to replace my dead battery when the car was at the shop to get a new battery and tires rotated.  Don't ask. I got the battery, thanks to the wife, not to the dealer.  I will NEVER be going back to that dealer again.....ass wipes.) So, not only did I have a flat tire one week after getting my tires rotated, I had backwards tires.

Those of you know me know that I did not leave that place with one fixed flat.  Nope.  I came home with four brand new, fancy-ass, love-them-in-the-snow tires (which are NOT directional--I know because I asked).  I figured I was on the way to needing new tires, anyway (they don't make 'em like they used to, fancy or not), so why not get it done while on the premises.  Ca-ching!  They are beauties and are fabulous in the snow.  It's not a bad day to have a flat tire when four new tires come your way.

The same morning, I had to take Lucy to the vet (which is definitely a charge card kind of event, no matter what the issue).  I noticed several days back that Lucy had this twitch/spasm/whatever thing going on in her left "arm;" in fact, it was so twitchy that you could see it from across the room.  You know the twitch--you've probably had one by your eye or in your leg--you twitch for awhile, for no known reason, then it goes away and you don't twitch again.  Well, this twitching didn't stop.  She twitches even when sound asleep. The wife gave me grief about it, lamenting about how I pay too close attention to things and that most dog owners would never notice, let alone worry about, a twitch.  Still, something seemed amiss.  No one twitches like that for days on end. I don't know how anyone could miss something like that, dog lover or not. To the vet we went....but, not before an internet search and a perusal of my dog health book...

....of which MJagger and the wife suggest I never do.  Hey, I like to be informed.  It's not like I'm trusting my life to wikipedia or anything.

By the time we got to the vet, I knew that it was probably one of two things.  I did not speak of these things; rather, I let the vet do her job and I put out happy thoughts.  The vet furled her brow while the vet tech demonstrated how Lucy's paw moved involuntarily with each twitch.  They had Lucy wandering back and forth, each step scoured for clues.  There were lots of serious looks going on in that room--I didn't like it.  The vet did some neurological tests, of which Lucy seemed to be flunking.  (It sucks to know too much. I knew this was a bad thing if it were true.)  With much consideration and examination, the vet indicated she thought it was Lucy's neck.

Thank you, St. Francis!  That's the better answer of the two.

The vet  prescribed medications and encouraged me to take Lucy back to the chiropractor for examination and possible treatment.  For those of you who think I'm kidding, I'm not--I took Lucy to a chiropractor last winter.  One session, worked like a charm. (I wrote blogs about that, too. I'm too lazy to look for the link, though.  You're on your own.)  The vet indicated that if it's not her neck/spine, it might be neurological.  I could tell the vet knew I knew this was not something good.  I figured we would cross that bridge when the time came.

I brought Lucy home and told her to relax for the rest of the day.  I looked at her and her twitching arm and sadly thought that Freckles (aka the ol' unhealthy, lumpy, smelly, mostly blind, definitely deaf, escaped the brink of death a dozen times Fatty Patty/money pit #1) might outlive Lucy.  That didn't even seem fathomable.  I decided not to worry about it and instead went back to work, enjoying every mile on my new tires.

Lucy is still twitching today.  I won't be able to get her to the chiropractor until sometime during the week, as it's out of town and I'll have to get some time off work.  She's worth the time and money...and, despite needing oral surgery, still has a budget to be spent.  Freckles, on the other hand, is going to have to sponsor her own fundraiser if she wants to have further medical intervention of any type. She has busted her bank.

Maybe Freckles would like to hold a fundraiser for Lucy's chiropractor and my new tires. Sounds like a plan to me.

Of Sugar, Wrinkles and Eggs of all Kinds

Boys and girls, moms and dads! During the past week, I “dressed” as Beyonce after being inspired by her Super Bowl performance, swam through paperwork created during my North Carolina adventures (I still haven’t recovered from all that fried food), survived a state-level surprise audit at work, got tampons in the mail (including two servings of the very coveted ultra, purple box OB tampons), traveled (thankfully by van, not propeller plane or bus) to/from Chicago for yet another work-related outing, ensured Lucy got medication for her double yeasty beasty ear infections tamed & giant chest cyst drained (yum—no wonder she has smelled so badly the past few weeks), shoveled numerous times (it’s FINALLY snowing in these parts), wondered about Dos Marias’ survival of Blizzard Nemo (one for the record books I hear….what’s up with naming winter storms?), got a new car battery (always entertaining when your car won’t start before work on—of course—the busiest day of the week), met a new chiropractor (certainly will NEVER replace my beloved lady chiropractor but was gave a free adjustment at a job work event so I couldn’t say no), had my first-ever cup of coffee with MJagger (she’s decided that coffee drinking is fabulous, don’t know what took her so long to figure this out), dropped my laptop (still works so no new let’s-get-an-iMac-this-time for me), cheered for our bowling-goddess-nieces in the State tournament, showed my tufted titmouse to anyone who would look at it (even though it is at the crusty healing stage), discussed fecal implants on more than one occasion and waved a sad adios to the wife as I went of town with the Love Lofters. (Please do not ask why she didn’t go.)  Another week for the history books…another slow blogging week in the Addiverse. 

I think the two tampons in the mail was the most exciting event, but it is a close second to have a coffee with MJagger—that bordered on surreal. 

I am still talking about the food in North Carolina. My mother has assured me that the North Carolina-ian dripping-in-butter-so-delicious-so-naughty grits I enjoyed were not, as previously thought, my first encounter with real grits.  She alerted me of my grit consumption as a young child.  I don’t remember that but I do remember my father giving me a smack at my great-grandmother’s dining room table after I licked corn off a knife. (For the record, I have never again licked or eaten corn off a knife.) She also assures me I consumed real banana pudding as a child, so I will stop whining about how I didn’t get any of that during my tour of the south.  No wonder I love corn bread (not the sweet, Jiffy kind—we’re talking the non-sweet, butter soaked, made in a cast iron skillet kind).  I’m a Southern gal and didn’t know it.  Bless my heart.

Let’s face it: I love food.  I love food especially when it features chocolate, some form of sugar product, or butter.  (Huh--maybe that’s why I adore ice cream and home-made chocolate chip cookies so much—they contain all those orgasmic tidbits in one delicious serving.) I try to pace my food consumption because my peri-menopausal way of being is not conducive to eating in the manner of which I am accustom. I’ve had a talk with my pants but they say that can’t do anything.  The hip spread-butt drop is just how it goes. 

That brings me to how much one can age in a year.  I cannot believe what has happened to my face in just a few short months.  Turning fifty has given me a whole new facial experience. Gravity and age combined are cruel.  MJagger gave me some fancy cream to put under my eyes (that’s what besties are for) but I can’t see a difference after a month of use.  I thought the under the eye issue was puffiness but my Hair-a-pist says it’s just age and gravity.  No contact lens  for me—my coke bottle lens glasses hide those bags just fine.  

The MJagger eye cream smells delicious, so I think I’ll keep using it. Maybe I can slather some on my butt and see if anything happens.

I am a bit afraid my frownie brow lines are soon going to reach my widow’s peak.  MJagger suggests botox.  I suggest looking less in the mirror and distracting myself by eating more ice cream.

The new chiropractor is convinced he can cure me of my headaches, so I’ve decided to give him a chance.  I don't have a ton of headaches.  They aren't migraines.  They are probably hormonal and/or stress driven, birthed by tight muscles of which I can't reach. I don't miss work because of them--a handful of pills & a nap usually tame them enough to carry on. I don’t want my neck (or any body part) adjusted, per se.  My headaches are not related to my neck bones or back bones.  Like I said, they are most likely related to the stupid knots in my back, which travel up my neck, then curl around to my temple.  It’s like a question mark shaped headache—back, neck, head, temple. I have to give the guy credit—I went to the free event at work and he cured my headache. (I didn't get a freaky fast sub, tho as they all had meat on them.  Bad doctor.)  It was a pressure point kind of thing, nothing fancy or unknown to me.  He lamented how he wished he had his acupuncture needles with him, as he thought that would be the best way to address those stinkin’ knots and cure my current no-so-bad-headache.  After pushing the piss on my pressure points, he had me lay down.  He cradled my head in his hands and then let out a quizzical little “hmmmmm.”  After a few seconds of silence and head-cradling, he asked, “how’s your diet?”

Oh boy.  This guy best not mess with my sugar addiction.  My beloved lady chiropractor never messed with my sugar.   Where is my beloved lady chiropractor when I need her?

I meekly semi-sorta-admitted that I have a sweet tooth.  He told me he already knew this.  Maybe my head felt like a bag of sugar.  Maybe I had chocolate and butter stains on my shirt.  Maybe my frownie lines were harboring a lost chocolate chip.  Whatever the reason, he really did seem in tune with my sugar.  Since he cured my headache and since he figured out that my diet is rather pathetic (I’m one unhealthy vegetarian—one who will never be vegan because she can’t give up the ice cream…have you ever tried fake ice cream? Oh dear god.  It’s sacrilegious), I thought I’d give him a shot at fixing those knots next week.  Just this one time.  I can’t reach the pressure points on my back (well, unless I use a cane, but I don’t have access to the cane anymore—it was at my last job where I would help myself to the clients’ canes), so I might as well pay someone to do it.

I feel like I’m cheating on my Beloved lady chiropractor, even though I haven’t seen her in years.

You might recall that I had to break up with her because I moved offices and she’s just too far away to zip over during a work break.  Besides, I don’t like her boss--a very vocal fundamentalist Christian who actively and zealously solicits your donation for pro-life causes, praises Jesus while giving adjustments and has religious paraphernalia scattered through the office. That’s his right and his business, so that isn’t the problem; in fact, I’m glad he can and does do this.  After all, it's his place of business and you can choose to go elsewhere. The problem is I just wanted an adjustment by my Beloved lady chiropractor.....

.....I need to be saved from my knee problem, not from Hell and damnation.

Next week will be as busy as last week, which is just fine with me.  Busy equals alive. Alive is a good thing.  I won't be dressing as Beyonce but I will be embracing my frownie lines. I'll have another cup of coffee with MJagger and have a little acupuncture from a guy who’s right down the street.  (Proximity is always a priority.) I will have ice cream in my cereal and enjoy some home-made corn bread (I do love my co-workers).  We’ll go to a concert and we’ll give a nod to Valentines Day. I should probably ask the wife to go snow-shoe-ing and I know I have to give lectures at a local college.... 

.....Most importantly, I’ll covet those two OB ultra tampons.  I’ll put those bullets of love in the last of the ever dwindling supply box.  We’re coming down to the wire, people.  Looks like I’m going to run out of tampons before I run out of eggs.

Eggs. Another reason veganism isn’t in my future.  Eggs and butter are in all those baked goods I need/want/love.  Cookies and ice cream require eggs.  I require cookies and ice cream, thus I require eggs. 

(I pretend my eggs come from healthy, happy, free range chickens but they probably come from no beak, broken feet, sickly fowl who roost in completely unacceptable conditions.)

Just so you know, I’ll definitely run out of tampons and my own eggs long before I run out of egg-containing ice cream. 

I don't anticipate being cured of my sugar addiction via the proper placement of acupuncture needles, but one never knows.  If I'm willing to pray to St. Anthony to find lost objects and I believe that burying St. Joseph upside down in the backyard will help you sell your house, I am willing to give eastern medicine a shot.....

Well, a needle, not a shot.....just a needle.

Ice cream, anyone?