Shaking my tailfeather

First, a haiku for Spotted Owl (she knows who she is):

Oh ankle, foot, leg,
stitched, bruised and painful,
thoughts of healing quickly, friend.

There's nothing like a haiku to start your day.

And, there is nothing like a artsy x-ray to follow a haiku.  You can't see my tail bone fracture in this photo but you can enjoy the poop and hips. Hips don't lie, you know. I hope to got that's not a tampon in the photo.

Well, well, well. I never thought it would happen, but I think it is in the works. My Beloved Lady Chiropractor (MBLC--we're flashing back a few years ago here) MAY be....dare I say?....in danger of being replaced?

Sacrilege! 

I decided to shake my broken tail feather at a new chiropractor's office, seeing as my MBLC moved to South Carolina, leaving me sad and lonely and unadjusted. The wife is very against chiropractic care, so she was skeptical and concerned about my decision to once again seek the cracking of various body parts, especially in light of my injury. I'm all good with chiropractors and know that MBLC helped me immensely. I would have let MBLC crack anything she wanted.

The biggest problem I had is figuring out where to find a new chiropractor that would do the job and that I could trust. The bar was set REALLY high by MBLC so I wasn't exactly teeming with confidence. I did see a chiropractor last year but it was nothing in comparison to MBLC; in fact, I usually left there feeling sad and depressed instead of energized and whole. I asked around and decided to check out the doctor who Master Pastor Reiki sees.

Imagine my surprise when the chiropractor comes out to meet me....and, I  know her!

She stops, looks at me and says, "Do we know each other?"

I look at her, confused--stare for a second, then laugh. "Oh dear god--we worked together at the (insert town here) Park District!"

She laughs harder. "I KNEW I recognized your voice!"

My voice is rather recognizable, I must say. Loud. Nasal. Chicago.

My confidence level shot through the roof. This lady was a great employee, an amazing athlete, smart as a whip. I was in good hands.

I had a little sad feeling in the pit of my stomach, as I knew my beloved lady chiropractor was about to be replaced.

Sure enough, BAM! My Beloved Lady Chiropractor Who?
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I feel like I'm cheating on MBLC. I'm sorry, lady. You shouldn't have moved so far away. It's over.
*************************************************************
I am happy to report that I feel one bazillion percent better since having a few adjustments. My hips can't lie--it might have been the decision to take naproxen, to sit on a donut pad, to give it time (after all, bones heal with time), to put out all those happy, healing thoughts....but I think the adjustments quickened the process and made all the difference. (It might have been the church prayer chain, too. They put me on the list. Who am I to argue?) This morning, I am sitting on a chair without a donut, without a naproxen, without pain.  It is the first time since the fall on Christmas morning that I can sit down and not wince, bitch or moan. I'm not exactly jogging material yet but I can now walk without looking like I've got a corn cob stuck up my ass.

I'm shaking my tail feather for a new and improved lady chiropractor. She needs a name....I think I'll call her MRLC...my replacement lady chiropractor.

Let the healing continue. I'm almost ready to dance on tables.

Almost.
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You Don't Know Jack

It's always a long work week when you return from vacation. This time was no exception. The only difference is that I've learned to hang on to little bits and pieces of all the fun we had....I use vacation photos as my desktop background at work. Hardly a new idea but always good to remember.

Here's a little "don't-let-the-door-hit-you-in-the-ass as-you-leave" diddy. Now that my insurance coverage has changed, I am making some big decisions in my life. For instance, My Beloved Lady Chiropractor may no longer be on the radar. This is too horrible to contemplate, so I am awaiting their call to see how much it will cost to visit MBLC. Perhaps she'll give me a stalker discount. One easy decision was to stop seeing my "I talk, you don't-get-to-talk even-tho-it's-your-money" psychiatrist. (Don't worry. I'm not really crazy. Well, just a little. Okay, so I'm still a stalker but there is no pill to cure that. Besides, everyone should have a psychiatrist. That way if you do get crazy, you'll know because someone will be able to confirm this.)

So, I call Dr. JackAss' office and explain my change of insurance. I inquire about the cost for self-pay clients. I only go a few times a year, so I figure it won't be too bad. I've known the guy since 1999, so I figure that will help. The receptionist says, "It is $225 for 30 minutes and this must be paid before the session takes place." I suppose it is a good thing to ask for payment up front when working with crazy people. As I really am in no mood to pay some guy all that money to listen to him talk, I cancel my next appointment and tell the lady I will not be returning.

I get home today and there is a letter in the mail from his doctor-ness himself, complete with his real signature (which is really something, if you think about it--I would think he would pay some minion to do menial tasks like this). The wife has seen the letter and can attest to the fact that I am not exaggerating what the short letter had to "say." Basically, the note said: too bad, so sad. I am closing your case. Please keep taking your meds."

Of course, he didn't exactly spell out how the hell I am supposed to get the prescription for the meds.....

.....Which leads to the meds:

I want to profess my love for Costco.

I am so in love with them that I thought they deserved bold, italic and large font.

I am here to tell you that it is absolutely true that you can use the Costco pharmacy (at a store, on line, mail order) whether or not you are a member. (Thank you, Cool Mama!) I am not a member of Costco because we have no Costco store anywhere even remotely to where we live. Member or not, here is some awesome news: My one pill costs $300-500 per month, depending on where you look...the generic about $150-225. Trust me, I've searched the globe in regards to med prices. Costco's price for the generic of the pill was $17.00. At first, I thought there must be a mistake, but further examination proved otherwise. No one else came close to the Costco prices. I was very skeptical but thought I'd try it. I still had a written prescription for Dr. JackAss, so I sent it in. One week later, I was holding a bottle of the exact same pills I have been taking, with an invoice for $17.00. I don't know who is in charge of Costco and I don't know how they can sell my med so cheap but I am so happy about this that I would gladly do a happy dance down the aisles of the nearest Costco store.

Now, about getting that next written prescription....

......I haven't crossed that hurdle yet but I'm feeling mighty fine about it. If I can get my med for $17 while other places are charging almost $500 for it, I know good times are ahead. I can do just about anything! Well, good times are ahead as long as I can continue to see My Beloved Lady Chiropractor.....

....and, I have complete faith that my stalking days of her will indeed be able to continue. Who needs a Jack Ass when you can have a beloved Lady Chiropractor?????? :-)

Time in New England

Our vacation adventures with Dos Marias started at a frenetic pace and haven't stopped since. I was a little leery about how the trip was going to go when it started with the O'Hare security confiscating the wife's hair care products. Oops. I forgot to tell her that they would be going through her carry-on bag and that there was a limit of liquids she could bring on the plane. If you know the wife and her need for hair care products and if you know the wife's taste in hair care products (read: expensive), you know this was not a happy moment. I had no idea she had that much crap--er, I mean bottles filled with liquid--in her carry-on. Suffice it to say that it was with great disdain that she said adios to her Aveda and other hair-survival products. In addition to the expensive, real-sized bottles, she also has a billion little bottles of samples from all the places we've been in the bag--the security lady educated the wife on the limits for liquids but didn't take them away, as I think she knew the wife was already suicidal and thus had a shred of pity about the little bottles.

Note to self: remember to tell wife about rules of flying. At least she knew to take off her shoes.



The flight was fabulous and before we knew it, we were on the ground, in the arms of Dos Marias. Cue the "Time in New England" music. Dos Marias live in a beautiful house on many acres of land somewhere in very north-central Connecticut. It is an absolutely gorgeous place with spectacular view. (Have I mentioned that we are ever-so-grateful to these two fine friends? There are no finer people on the planet than Dos Marias.) Lots of green, lush, softly-rolling hills (mountains?), small-town, colonial feel. Delicious!

The wife had never been to New York City, so it was fun to take the train to Grand Central Station and tourist around Time Square. We did a little of everything, from strolling Central Park to riding the subway, from visiting the Empire State Building to enjoying the Metropolitan Art Museum. We even squeezed a taxi ride in there, which made the trip complete. What is a visit to NYC without a taxi ride? Although it rained the entire first day in NYC, it did not dampen our experience or our spirits. After all, a little healing rain must fall into one's life. We just popped out the three umbrellas Dos Marias had wisely packed (um, three umbrellas, four people....the wife was "odd man out" as she had a windbreaker with her...and a hat....she had to fend for herself). I ate some fafalel or however you spell/say it and the wife had a traditional NYC hot dog (which did not agree with her and returned quite quickly). We stayed a "W," probably our most favorite hotel chain on the planet. Dos Marias ROCK! For some reason, my inner compass has been on the fritz and thus I had us going in circles or the opposite direction for part of the day, map be damned.

To end our NYC adventure, we stopped in New Haven, CT for a vegetarian dream dinner. Dos Marias did their research and found this amazing restaurant that was completely vegetarian. I was in hog heaven, no pun intended. I wanted to weep when looking at the menu. I started my meal with a vegan chocolate cupcake and it only got better from there...in fact, it was so delicious that I didn't want to leave and I thought about buying a few extra meals to bring home with us. There is nothing like this restaurant where we live. Nothing. (Heck, I'm not sure there are even vegetarians where we live.) Everything was vegetarian (or vegan) and home-made. The choices were incredible. The prices were reasonable. Ten stars. I give it ten stars out of ten.

Today's adventures will include shopping (no buying of liquids in bottles for the wife), hiking, eating and hooking-up-a-router-wireless-connection (into every vacation a little "work" must fall). Tomorrow is the wedding, so we are very excited. I can't wait to stroll the grounds of Amherst College once again.

Since I've finally figured out how to upload photos from my cell phone to Book de la Face and since Dos Marias have graciously allowed me ample time on their computer, I haven't had many moments of withdrawal. Don't think I haven't had moments of worry regarding Madge, my Book de la Face dog. (Who will feed her?) As for work....

....work? What's that? No thoughts of that until this moment of realizing I had not thought of work. What a wonderful vacation this really is.....

Here Come the Brides

Before we begin, here is a commercial message:

Dearest Three Hawk,
You don't need no stinkin' uterus.
Love, the Addiverse


They’ve always said you shouldn’t tell anyone when you are going on vacation, but I am going to tell you we are just about to go on vacation. I can tell you with confidence, as we have two dog sitters staying on the premises, the dogs will be on the premises and the neighbors will be watching the dog watchers. Safety all around us.

We are preparing for our trip out east, to visit Dos Marias (formerly of San Diego) and to attend Suzuki DeFranco’s wedding. We love traveling with Dos Marias as they are the perfect hostesses and incredible tour guides. We visited them three times (or, was it four?) in San Diego and once in Puerto Rico….I can’t believe they actually, purposefully invited us to visit their new abode in Connecticut. Travel plans include a visit to New York City including Time Square, Central Park & Grand Central Station. The wife is in for a treat as she has never been there. Suzuki’s wedding is in Massachusetts but those states are so small out there that it’s only an hour from where we are staying in Connecticut. The wedding will be at Amherst College, Suzuki’s alma mater. We’ve visited the school before but not when Suzuki was there (how weird is that?). As blog readers might remember, I am very happy we are flying on a big plan, none of those ridiculous puddle-jumpers they tried to get me on. I need at least 100 seats and a beverage cart.

This is how I get ready for a vacation: Stare at closet. Go update Facebook status. Stuff clothes in school-sized back pack. Shove chocolate in back pack. Stuff flight itinerary and travel information in backpack. Write a blog. Scribble out directions for the dog sitters. Go to the bank and get some money. Paint toe nails. Eat lunch. Finish blog. I’m a simple girl.

The wife’s preparation is much more complicated and includes making lists of lists of the lists she has made. Study weather channel. Identify perfect wardrobe. Bathe the dogs, wash the dishes, change the sheets, mow the lawn, pay the bills, wash all the dog bedding, wash every morsel of clothing in the house, pack the bag, re-pack the bag, get a bigger bag, re-re-pack the bag, write dissertation for dog sitters, clean the house, make a new list, water the plants, find world peace, get money, reconsider what has been packed and re-re-re-pack, wash the car, go to the store, etc. The list is too long to truly write in one blog. I need a nap just thinking about it.

We will spend several days with Dos Marias, do our touristy things, then move on to the wedding events. I am very excited because this will be the first same-sex wedding we have ever been to. Of course, now I have just “outed” Ms. Suzuki De Franco but I’m sure she’s all good with that; after all, this is a “real” wedding with real heterosexual guests and real invitations and real flower girl (or, perhaps a flower boy). Both are brides, so don’t be asking me any silly questions about “who is the guy in the relationship?” Grandparents, parents, step parents, siblings, step siblings, partners of said siblings. Long lost friends and family…all part of the shindig.

Just think, our friend Phlange-a-slam (Suzuki's mama) is "Mother of A bride." Can't exactly call her mother OF the bride.

It’s wild that big ol’ gays can legally get married in Massachusetts. We, being from the flatlands where such evens are not legal, are quite curious about this. We are also quite curious about how the “I’ve-never-seen-two-girls-kiss-before-crowd” will react to all this. After all, it freaked us out the first time we saw such behavior and we are gay, for pete’s sake.

My biggest concern for the entire vacation is what to wear. It’s hard to stuff enough clothes in a school-sized back pack to cover the spectrum of weather that might occur. It might be 50 degrees; it might be 100 degrees. Hell, I’ll just buy what I need. (I plan to wear my high school alumni sweatshirt as part of the trip so I can post photos of myself on FB as a reminder of the upcoming event.) I'm not worried bout the wedding, as I would guess anything goes. I do have a fabulous pair of white capris that will be quite the hit, I am sure. We are not checking bags, so we really are stuffing things in. If my back pack bursts, I'll be sure to take a photo.

I hope they aren't gonna make me take my shoes off at O'Hare; however, in the name of safety, I will do as I am told and be very happy to do so. If they ask me to open my back pack, tho....it won't be pretty. There is NO way I can get that stuff back in there.....

Leaving on a Jet...Propeller?....Plane

Well, it's that time of year in the Addiverse when planning a summer vacation sounds like a grand idea. Since Dos Marias have now moved to Connecticut and since Suzuki DeFranco Little Ori are getting married in Massachusetts this summer, it seems like a no-brainer that we'd head east for our vacation. I checked with Dos Marias--they're in. I requested the time off at work--that was approved. I triple checked the wedding date--got it. I went on line and took a peek at airline availability for Hartford via American....

....uh oh. Little Plane!

Let me define little plane: 50 seats. That's small enough to get my attention. After all, I'm a 757 kind of girl.

Boys and girls, I am not one to choose a small plane when there are giant planes to be had. The photo here kinda-sorta shows what plane I'm talking about. I am pretty sure the one we'd take would have jet engines, not propellers, but I'm not exactly sure yet.

The Last time (and only time that I recall) I flew on a small plane is when we were Dos Marias in Puerto Rico. We flew from the main island to Vieques on the teeniest, weeniest little plane...the four of us and the pilot (who was like 12 years old and had his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel). Why, look--I have a photo of that infamous plane.

...Nothing like flying on a plane where they weigh everyone and weigh their luggage and where take off is delayed because there is a dog on the runway.

The flight to/from Vieques went swimmingly, but it was only a few minutes long.....flying to Hartford would be like two hours long. I'm not sure if I have the constitution to fly two hours on a 50 seater plane. When I asked Dos Marias about this, they suggested that it would be "fun" albeit loud. Hmm. Not reassuring. At least there wouldn't be any dogs on the runway in Hartford.

I thought it might just be American's issue with the small plane, but oh no--several internet searches have shown me that small planes--okay, technically they are jets--fly from O'Hare to Hartford. Dang!

I sense an adventure in the making.

I did figure out that if I want a big plane (i.e. 757), we could fly to Miami and then transfer to Hartford. Go figure. Seems like a long way out of the way to get a big plane, eh?

I'll keep you up to date on our vacation-planning. After the Mexi-louis vacation last year, I figure the travel gods will look kindly upon us and let everything go "right" with this summer trip. Until then, I'm gonna keep looking for a big plane without flying across country out of the way to get where we are going.

P.S. We're Recruiting!

(Here's a P.S. blog entry I never thought I'd be writing....)

Historically, it has often been suggested that gay people spent inordinate amounts of time recruiting straight people to join the sinful homosexual lifestyle. After all, this is how we get our toaster ovens. (Forget it if you don't get that joke--just go with it and know you won't be getting a toaster oven. One more for me, I guess.)

I personally have never recruited any of my straight friends to join the fun....

....well, not that I remember.

I don't have a toaster oven, so I think my claim is safe. Besides, I don't have time to waste on recruiting anyone. Lucy Lawless is in a new show and I have to spend my free time getting ready for this event. Someone else can do the recruiting and win the toaster ovens.

I digress.

I've decided it is my Christian, saintly, holy obligation to recruit straight people for my church of choice. Yes, yes, you read that right: I am recruiting old fashioned-yet-liberally-minded heterosexuals to attend the Addichurch.

Please note: this my OWN personal campaign and in no way implies that the church of choice is a gay church or that only gay people go there or that only gay people are welcomed or that I don't want any new gaybies to come join the fun or that anyone else in the congregation remotely feels the same way that I do about this "issue." The Addichurch features a delightful, eclectic mix of fine, upstanding citizens....it's just that the "odds" appear to be getting a bit stacked against the heteros and it's making me nervous. I am all about equity & balance.

So, if any of you straight peep looking for a new church or fresh approach to your belief system, consider my recruiting efforts.
***You get a gift bag on the first day you attend;
***it's a wonderful group of people;
***it's casual enough that I wear my jeans to church and not worry one iota about it;
***no one will try to "save" you (you are fine just the way you are);
***no one will condemn you or throw bibles at you;
***there are a lot of really nice gay people there, so you'll be able to say "some of my best friends are gay."

If you want a gift bag (and not a toaster oven), join us at the church--bring I.D. proving your straightness--wedding photos, marriage certificate, divorce papers, testimony from current partner, prom photos, etc....

....oh wait a minute--I have wedding photos, marriage certificate, divorce papers and prom photos. Dang......

Vacation a-where to go-go, Part 37

How can you have a bad day when you start your blog off with thoughts of Donny and Marie? You can't! I'll get to why I've posted the Dynamic Duo on the top of the blog, but you'll have to sing, "I'm a little bit country, I'm a little bit rock and roll" before I tell you anything.

Besides putting out positive vibes that the wife's back gets better (healing light healing light healing light), how do you think I've spent the last 48 hours of my life? Let me give you a guess--last time it landed us in Mexi-Louis.

Now that my three program inspections at the place of which I do not speak (one on the State level, two on the Federal level, all three stressful in their own delicious, special ways) have come and gone, my boss (of which I do not have but if I did would give direction at the place of which I do not speak) has indicated it is time for me to take some deserved time off.

I concur.

The good thing is that the wife's Christmas Vacation (of which is like seven months long for college professors) coincides with my newly-suggested vacation plan. The not so good thing is that the wife is very, very limited in what she will be able to do during her between-semester time off, as she can basically walk a half mile and sit for maybe 20 minutes at a time. Soooooo....

....I've spent the last 48 hours looking for a simple, fun, short-in-duration, easy-on-the-wallet, not-too-long-in-a-seat, some-new-adventure for us to do, at a place the wife has never been. A Warm weather site is non-negotiable--although there are many wonderful destinations in our great country, I want warm. I don't want snow, I don't want freezing cold. I can do cold at home. Door county, New England, the great Northwest all sound fabulous....in summer.

My first thought was to try Riviera Maya again, but we're still pretty gun shy after the ol Swine-flu-drug-cartel-Apple-canceled trip this past spring. Besides, the prices are not cheap--they are more than they were back in May. What's up with that? I am blurry-eyed from looking at all the Mexico-related options we have and I am here to tell you that we are most likely not going to Mexico, no offense to the Mayans.

My next thought was "DISNEY!" but that doesn't fit the affordable category and I'm not sure the wife would enjoy time at the Magic Kingdom. Disney's basically all about me. I may be self centered but I'm not incorrigible, so Disney's out.

My Next thought was, "what about an island found in the Bahamas or Key West-ish?" Those options got complicated and for some reason they didn't seem to captivate the wife's attention. She wants to spend a week on an island, not a day or two. Scratch the beach off the list.

I thought about Branson for about 1.5 seconds. 'Nuf said about that; ain't gonna happen.

My next thought was, "Vegas, baby!" The wife's never been there, it's cheap, it's easy, there is tons to do. We could easily do a four day stint in Sin City and only have to drop about $400 each...total--hotel, air, food, tips for show girls. She's never seen the Grand Canyon, Hoover Dam, the Strip at night or a quality drag queen shows, nor has she ever eaten at an infamous Vegas buffet at 2 A.M. How could I not spend hour upon hour searching for the best Vegas deal?

The great news is that we have lots of options if we go to Vegas: we can fly out of the local airport (of which I am still skeptical but checking out--I hear their planes are dirty and smelly and that they tend to run like seven hours behind when at airports like Vegas); we can get awesome, affordable packages, we can walk around a lot (which is helpful to the wife); we can do something where it is warm but not steaming hot; we can eat at buffets (of which we both love to do). It's not exactly the Caribbean but it's all good with me.

And, if we go to Vegas, we can go to the Donny and Marie show, of which I know the wife would absolutely, positively love!

(Okay, so I'd like it, too. Just don't tell anyone.)

Donny & Marie ticket prices look quite reasonable (that's because I'm used to Madonna-concert ticket prices) and I'm pretty sure we could scrounge up some good ones. What a great way to spend a few days-- buffets, sin, sunshine and Donny & Marie.

The problem? I'm not sure the wife can manage the trip. If it's four hours on a plane and she can't sit for more than 20 minutes at a time, that's gonna be a problem. That's not counting the time on a bus to get to O'Hare or the time waiting at the gate. If her pain doesn't change by then, there is no way I can in good conscious put her on a bus for a billion hours so she can see the Grand Canyon.....

Of course, she could be miraculously recovered by then and none of these considerations will matter. That is the thinking I have chosen to think, but I have to make sure she is thinking the same thing. If she's improved, she'll be able to flit on the strip, hang over the edge of the Grand Canyon and jump on stage to dance with Donny....

Decisions, decisions.

Today, I will spend time outside (because this is the best Indian Summer day I can ever remember--it IS November, isn't it?), I will talk to the wife (who is unfortunately in pain as I type--not from my writing but rather from her sciatica) and we will consider our vacation break options. We could certainly do a regionally-located bed and breakfast; we could stay home; or, we could party with Donny and Marie.

Beloved blog reader, I say to you: "Aspiring travel agents and opinionated travel-loving friends, let the suggesting begin!" Don't wait too long, as I'm time-limited on securing tickets. Do I hear a "Paper Roses" or "Puppy Love" in the house? Do I stay home and harvest my crops on Book de la Face, saving my vacation time for next summer? Operators are standing by......
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Oh my achin'........

Hear that sound?

No? Me neither.

That's the sound of the wife sleeping.

She hasn't slept in almost two days, so it is a wonderful sound, that silence. Music to my ears. Just small, cute snoring. I'm so relieved I could just cry.

This morning was the last straw for me. The wife had not slept all night. When I went in the room, I found her sobbing, shaking, hunched over, still unable to move, still unable to function. Her pain level was at a "9" and had been there for over 24 hours. She was not getting better. I could not let this go on.

As it is always helpful, I began our day screaming and yelling at her. I begged the wife to go to the doctor. Begged! Threatened! Shamed! I paced, fretting aloud the whole time. I had to go to work, but I couldn't leave her like this. I paced some more. In the meantime, she decides she has to send an email to her school so she can cancel class. The next thing I know, she is on the ground, on all fours, sobbing while trying to type an email.

It was unbearable. Her hysterectomy ain't got nothing on this pain.

She promised me she'd set up a doctor's appointment. I went to work after ensuring she had ice packs on her leg and her cell phone next to the bed. I knew she wouldn't sleep but hoped that the pain would subside just long enough for her to at least relax. I also knew I had to get work done before the big inspection. She texted me, assuring she had a 1:45 pm doctor appointment and a 4 pm chiropractor appointment.

We never made it to those appointments.

When I came home to pick her up for the doctor, she was still crying, still sobbing, still unable to move. I chastised myself for letting this go on for so long. We both thought it would subside but we were wrong. I muttered aloud that I would never let this happen again.

When I saw her try and get in the car, I thought my heart would literally break.

I had no idea how we were going to get from the car to the doctor's office. I had no idea of anything. I just drove. Unfortunately, the bumps in the road were sheer agony for the wife. She screamed and tried to move around. That's when I decided we weren't going to the doctor--we were going to the emergency room.

Words of wisdom: do NOT go to the emergency room during swine flu hysteria. It's busy, it's full of sick people, it's slow because they have to super-sterilize the rooms, it's just not fun. You'd think the wife would've gotten in faster, seeing as she was crying in the waiting room and was bent over a chair....but, no. She got to be miserable for almost an hour. We watched masked-flu-filled people wander in and out while the wife got to be in agony. Here's a lady who obviously can't sit down, stand, walk. If it had been heart attacks and appendicitis knocking her down the list, that would be one thing. But, to be put on hold for a bunch of flu-filled folks, I was not amused. To distract her, I was a big help: I spent my time telling her every 10 seconds not to touch anything. "Don't touch your face!" was my mantra. (Side note: earlier in the day, the doctor's office tried to talk her out of coming, as they suggested anyone "not sick" with the flu not come to the office. Great. Here I am taking her to an ER full of swine-filled-contestants....)

Suffice it to say, the doctor diagnosed an unidentified bulging disk and a full scale episode of sciatica from hell. Two luscious shots--one for each butt cheek--and two prescriptions later, the wife was able to gingerly put her clothes back on. Although she was still in pain (at a "6"), she was able to tolerate the pain. I got her home and she moaned as she got into bed.

That's when the glorious sleep came her way.

I never thought I'd be so happy to see someone sleeping. I'm trying hard to stay quiet--I've turned off the cell phones, I'm typing as quietly as I can. In the meantime, I hear that cute little snoring sound and all is good.

As the injections aren't going to cure anything, we are still open to any and all suggestions. Physical Therapy, energy work, acupuncture, heavy drinking, stretching, medication, shopping, exorcisms....you name it, we'll try it. Just don't mention a chiropractor. I do believe my beloved lady chiropractor is history in the wife's world....and, I don't blame her. With a bulging disk, one wants to run quickly away from anyone or thing that is making the bulging disk pissed.

(This means I get MBLC all to myself again....but, as the wife has reminded me, this is not about me. Just a thought I had.....hmmm.)

I'm not afraid to ask: I'd love for you to send Good thoughts, warm wishes, healing vibes, words of wisdom to the wife. She can use all the help she can get. Just don't call on the phone right now. Anyone who wakes her up will be faced with the wrath of Addi Warrior Princess.....

....and, since I'm sleep deprived and haven't had any chocolate yet today, you SO do NOT want to mess with that.
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Sigh.......atica

Is anyone else confused? Adam Lambert's photo shoot features him licking tongues with a woman; NWA airline pilots forget to land at their destination airport (I would have loved to hear what the hell they were talking about that was so intriguing that they forgot they were flying the plane), people pretend to fly their children in Jiffy Pop balloons.....what IS going on around here??

Here's a photo of Fatty Patty (aka Pan Face, aka Freckles Warrior Princess) trying to steal Brown Dog's food. This has nothing to do with Adam Lambert, pilots or hoaxes, but it's a great photo, so how could I resist? As you can see, the food is not easily stolen, which is good news for Brown dog. It sucks to be short. Thanks to the Cheeseball neighbor & Queen of Connections for texting us this photo while we were at the LLL last weekend. It gave us a good laugh. (BTW, we sense an accomplice in this action.....are those little fingers I see holding up Freckles by the belly???)

Cheeseball Neighbor & QoC were letting the dogs out while we were busy feeding our faces & watching Einsteina get her tattoo during the LLL event. They are supposed to let the dogs out three times a day and throw food at them once a day, but being the dog people that they are (and, being the good, decent human beings that they are), they spent more time with our dogs than they did with their own dog. We cannot thank them enough. Lucy loves this "spoiled dog" arrangement because it gives her unlimited access to Brown Dog's squeaky toys. Freckles would be happier with the arrangement if she could only reach the food in the elevated bowls.....

I got a new hair do today. Although I love it, I'm thinking it's probably a good thing that I was interviewed on TV yesterday, not today. I'm not sure the masses are ready for my fake cherry red, glow in the dark hair. I'm not sure my boss will be ready for this hairdo, either, but I think it rocks. I took this photo of myself so you can see the color. Of course, in person color is always brighter and more fun than some lame camera phone shot. It's pretty funny trying to take a photo in a mirror. I thought it was funnier making sure the camera phone was prominently featured in the illustration. Red hair dye doesn't usually stick around very long, this may be a very temporary look. I haven't had any fun hair for awhile, so it was about time.

In an effort to prolong my red color, I'm not supposed to wash my hair tomorrow and am supposed to wash it only every other day. People will die if I do that, as I have a really smelly head. If you think I'm kidding, call the wife.

My.head.smells.

It's embarrassing. As long as I wash my hair every day, I'm good to go. I can't even imagine not washing it. So, if you see me in a few weeks and my hair dye is still looking bright red, don't get too near to me, as I can almost guarantee I smell like stinky hair.

Sigh. The wife remains in absolute misery. She missed work for the first time EVER at this job and for her to miss work is really saying something. Her hysterectomy was nothing compared to this. She can't sleep, move, sit, stand, crawl, roll or basically breathe without being in sheer terror. She can't get comfortable and the pain is so intense at times that it literally makes her nauseous, cry and shake. I feel so helpless. The pain looks absolutely horrific.

What's the matter, you ask? Her Sciatica is in full bloom, I answer.

I came home from a short trip to the suburbs last night to find the wife in bed, sobbing. The pain was so intense that she just couldn't take it anymore. I slept on the couch so she'd have plenty of room to flop around and groan. I was a nervous wreck, worrying that I wouldn't be able to hear her if she yelled for help. Suffice it to say, neither of us got much sleep. (Well, Lucy got sleep. She was sawing logs for hours. Damn dog.)

I went to work as scheduled, leaving the wife to fend for herself. Naughty Addi WP. Sigh. I highly doubt she had a very good day. Being the good spouse that I am, I spent hours cooking her some comfort food (okay, I went through the drive through at KFC), fluffed her pillows, pressed her pressure points and promised to do things like take the garbage out. It doesn't help her feel any better but at least I'm trying.

Freckles spends her time looking really, really worried. She stares at the bed with a very serious dog look on her face. At this moment, she is in bed with the wife. Yes, that is completely against all our dog rules, but it appeared to be the only way Freckles was going to live through this. She is literally guarding the wife right now. Don't be messing with her, she says.

It appears my beloved lady chiropractor has been of little help to the wife. (This makes me sad. I like to think MBLC can cure everything, anything, everyone.) Actually, nothing has been of help to the wife. Right before I wrote this blog entry, we were on the phone with a friend who talked us through using pressure points to decrease the pain and to get the energy going. Unfortunately, I'm thinking it hasn't helped as the wife continues to writhe in pain.

If you have words of wisdom that will help the wife decrease her pain, we are all ears. We don't have a hot tub, so don't suggest that. Beyond that, I think she's willing to try anything. It can't involve riding in a car, driving a car, standing up straight, carrying anything or wearing real clothes. I can go get whatever supplies are needed, so make a list of things I need to buy and contact me. If any of you are Reiki Masters, I'm sure the wife would be open to the Universe sending healing vibes her way.

Addiverse readers, don't let me down. If MBLC can't help her, I'm hoping you can. Send your ideas....and, make sure to stand down wind from my head.
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I scream, you scream...we all scream for.... ice cream? ice cream trucks? My beloved lady chiropractor adjusting the wife? Japanese beetles devouring the rose bushes? Favre in Viking Purple? All of the above? This is the blog I had intended to post before Mr. Favre-o-roid shot back onto the scene. For inquiring minds, the wife is NOT over this nor is she okay with this. She is a woman scorned. Hell hath no fury like a scorned Packer Fan. I'm just sayin'. Anyways, back to I scream, you scream. I would take time to talk about the wife going to see My Beloved Lady Chiropractor as part of this blog entry, but I think that I'd like to dedicate an entire blog entry to that, so you'll have to wait to learn more. (I am disappointed to say that the wife is not one bit smitten or impressed with MBLC. Sigh. So sad.) Last weekend, I was standing by the wife's beautiful rose bushes, in full bloom, fragrance filling the air. I bent over to get a good sniff....when....that's when I saw them. Beetles. The Japanese Beetles. FRIGGIN' JAPANESE BEETLES FROM HELL! Somewhere, deep in the recesses of my mind, I'm sure I popped a vein. They're back and now they have moved on to ruining the roses. A closer look showed that the bushes were COVERED with the things. It was disgusting--literally ten of them piled on top of each other on some buds. I was incensed. How dare they mess with the wife's gorgeous roses? I was filled with venom and hatred. The sky became black and stormy with how much venom I was spewing forth.... I started FLICKING them off with my fingers, shooting them as hard as I could into the siding on the house. While this left bug juice on my nails at times, I didn't care. I just like hearing them SMACK into the siding and then bounce to the ground. It was quite satisfying. I was on the verge of hysterics, I will admit. I was swearing and muttering, quite upset about the whole return of the bug, hating everything about them...... That's when I heard it. The soft, happy music wafting in the summer night's air. I stopped flicking long enough to listen more closely. I knew that sound. It brought back instant memories of my childhood. Instant. When I say it stopped me in my tracks, I am not exaggerating. It was getting closer.....it was.... ...an ice cream truck! I thought maybe I was more hysterical than I realized, but a few additional seconds of listening assured me that I was not having auditory hallucinations--there was an ice cream truck approaching our street. I totally forget about the beetles and went running--yes, running, bare feet and all--toward the front yard. As I saw the truck slowly turn on to our street, I waved down the driver. I was giddy with delight! I think I may have jumped up and down once or twice. I wildly pointed my finger in the air, as if to yell, "HANG ON A SECOND!" and frantically tried to open the garage door. I had to get my wallet out of the car and didn't want this guy to drive on by. I was so excited, I couldn't get the door open. I waved at him again, basically BEGGING him not to drive further. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE wait for me! I wasn't hungry. I didn't have an actual taste for ice cream. I had a taste for my history, my childhood, my innocence and youth. How can you hear that sound and not want to go running toward it? How can you hear that sound and not instantly become happy? I got my money and crossed the street, still bare-footed, still sporting bug juice-stained nails. "I'll have a drum stick and one of those," pointing to one of those ice cream bars on a stick with the fake chocolate center and the crunchy things on the outside. (Figured I best buy something for the wife.) I was so happy, I almost bought ice cream for the dogs. At first, I was worried the guy might think I was nuts; but, after a milli-second, I realized that there were probably plenty of people my age chasing after his truck. I chirped about how I didn't think ice cream trucks existed any more and professed my excitement for him being there. Beetles? What beetles? I was filled with love and laughter and joy; I didn't have room in my being for hatred or thoughts of beetles. I had ice cream from an ice cream truck! As I noticed his music was no longer playing, I said, "Hey, you stopped singing!" He wasn't a very fun ice cream truck driver. He scowled at me, trying to figure out what I meant. "The music," I said. "You're not playing your music." Mr. IC Driver assured me there is some city ordinance forbidding his truck from singing while pulled over (to hawk ice cream to 40 and 50 year olds, he should have added). As I didn't think ice cream trucks even existed any more, I was surprised that anyone would have thought to make ordinances about such vehicles. "That'll be five dollars," he growled. Well, ice cream certainly costs a bit more than when I was a child, but it was totally, totally worth it. I could have gone to the store and purchased entire boxes of ice cream for what I was paying, but that's not the point..... The point is that THIS ice cream came to ME from an ICE CREAM TRUCK. I took the ice cream in the house and presented it to the wife and we ate our ice cream in blissful, beetle-free silence. I have been smiling ever since. I haven't seen--or heard--him since then, but I know he'll be back. Is life good or what? ********************************************************************* I hope the ice cream truck drives by again soon. The wife could use a little ice cream right about now. That, and an enima or a shot of whiskey or a shotgun or something like that. Just don't wear purple when you are around her. And, for god's sake, don't say the five-lettered "F" word. *********************************************************************

The Favre-a-roid Returnth...in Purple, no less

We interrupt our previously planned blog due to breaking news on the football front....

Uh-oh.

Hear that noise?

That was the wife's had EXPLODING.

See that football screaming across the backyard?

That's the wife punting her Brett Favre-autographed football out of site.

If I didn't know better, I'd bet her uterus just grew back.

Get out of the way, boys and girls---the Favre-o-roid has returned and this time, he's in purple.

It's not a pretty site on the home front; in fact, I think I shall stay far away from the wife as this fiasco unfolds.

Suffice it to say that I find Brett Favre to be a pathetic, arrogant, selfish, primadonna jerk. Get some counseling and go home, BF (and we're not talking about best friend here). Talk about an aggressively blatant act. Therapy. A lot of it.

I'm not sure the wife is going to be okay.

My blog about ice cream trucks, japanese beetles and my beloved lady chiropractor have to wait. The Favre-o-roid returnth....and, it's not a good thing.

That's Doctor Prom Date to you

Before I speak of my high school prom date, I thought I'd share a horrible phone photo of Lucy. How often can you get a photo of your dog sticking its tongue out at you? If the photo doesn't make you laugh (or, at least wonder what the hell is wrong with Lucy...or, with me), you need to take a nap and eat more chocolate.

Before I speak of my prom date, I confess that I have reached an all-time low in the "I'm so sporty" department: I hurt my knee while putting a Jillian Michael's DVD into the DVD player this evening. One minute, I was having thoughts of doing something stupid like doing a 20 minute cardio workout; the next, I was bent over in pain, wondering what the hell just happened. I think it was a sign from God: "STEP. AWAY. FROM. THAT. WORKOUT. TAPE!" I know better than to do a Jillian tape--history shows such behavior increased my butt size, trashed my knee and toyed with my brain. I admit my motivation wasn't that I thought I'd get a better work out than going for a walk....no, I was being lazy. Twenty minutes of Jillian is a lot faster than three miles of walking around the neighborhood. Bad idea, as evidenced by my aching knee. I don't know what happened, but I felt it and there is no denying I am in need of my beloved lady chiropractor. Something in my knee is out of whack and this upsets me.

Before I speak of my prom date, I also wanted to share this photo of Freckles Warrior Princess, as taken by Cheeseball Neighbor and ChiSky Grrrrl. This is Freckles enjoying a Cubs chair, quite to the dismay of the Milwaukee-Brewer-loving wife. Freckles is Cubby-Blue fan from whelp. When the grrrrrlz visit Brown Dog and the neighbors, they are treated to a royal Cubs fest. Yum! They report that Freckles didn't get out of this chair for two full hours. Unfortunately, Freckles is back to being a smelly, itchy, bloody, yeasty, eye-boogered canine, miserable with dog allergies. (She was allergy-free when seated in this chair, so no worries about that.) It's the rust in the grass-- that red fungus that shows up every August. It makes her miserable. It's not like she can avoid grass. We limit her grass time but we have to walk a little every day or she'll give new meaning to her nickname "Fatty Patty." Benadryl barely touches it. A visit to the cat doctor can't be far away.....

Finally! About that prom date. I am in the midst of searching for long lost classmates (for our upcoming high school reunion) and realized that I had not found my prom date. I'm not sure he wants to be found (especially by me), but I thought at least a Google search would be in order. So, I sat at my desk at the place of which I do not speak, trying to remember how to spell his last name....is there or isn't there a "z" in it? Is it a "K" or a "C?" So many lost brain cells, so little time....

Before I get to what I found, I'd like to share a little background about Dr. Prom Date.

There were 600 students in our graduating class. Dr. Prom Date was Number One. Valedictorian. A gentleman scholar who was in the band, I might add. If you are gonna get a prom date, why not go for the top dog? He was one smart cookie--put me to shame. Now, I was a not-so-shabby Number Four, a sporty nerd, also in the band--but, I had nothing on him. Nothing.

Suffice it to say it is about ten zillion miles between number one and number four.

How we came to be prom dates is beyond me, but I'm glad we went to the big show together because he really was a nice guy and I really had a good time, even though he had to be home by 1 A.M. Doctor Prom Date was the perfect guy, from bouquet to white tux to the day-after Great America trip. It was nerd heaven!

So, once I remember how to spell his last name, I find Dr. Prom Date on Google. I thought he might have found his calling as a priest or medical doctor, but he's found his way into the sciences and engineering--which doesn't surprise me, even though it would have been great fodder if he had indeed become a priest. Scrolling through the google results, I'm sure it's him after seeing his credentials...yup, correct college....yup, correct master's level program....yup, that's his home town. I start reading about what he's been up to and my eyes start to glaze over. The words don't even sound like English. I write blogs with poor grammar and tacky photos of my dogs; he publishes things about corrosion inhibition apparatus blah blah thermocouples in situ heating dirt blah blah blah.

I have no idea what any of this means except that he paid attention in Physics class and I didn't. (Don't even get me started about Physics class.)

Number one....to number four: the friggin' Grand Canyon, in this case. Now, I'm not saying I'm some dummy; I'm just saying that's quite a leap from where I'm standing. Good for you, Doctor Prom Date! I am psyched to say I was your date...and, have pictures to prove it.

I have many questions for him, the first of which will be, "what the hell is a implantable goniometer and does your mother know about this?" I will then ask him about his life, if he now wears jeans and what his adventures have included over the past thirty years. I'll ask the obligitory questions about family and such....after that, I'll convince him to attend our class reunion. Maybe he can wear a white tux for the event....I'll wear a dress if he wears a tux.......

....as long as he leaves his implantable goniometer at home.
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Lock Me Out & Stuff Me In

Every single word of what I am about to write is true. I believe today's blog entry is bound to become an instant classic and I only hope I can paint a picture worthy of a laugh with a snort.

Make sure to look closely at this window illustration. Take a good, hard look. Notice how small that opening looks. Uh-huh. Feel free to refer back to this photo while reading the tale. Feel free to recall my recent rantings about weight gain and changed body shape, while you are at it.

I was at work this morning (yes, I am going to speak about what I do not speak, as this technically has nothing to do with the actual work I do). I had gone in to clean one of the programming areas--I have to go in on a Saturday and clean while the staff is not present--with them there, I can't throw away one thing. (Whenever I try and throw something away, they say things like, "No! Don't throw away that moldy, coffee-stained half piece of paper--we can use it next week.") I went to the office right after walking with MJagger; suffice it to say, I was unshowered, unkempt, smelly, sweaty and wearing what I had slept in. I figured it would be fine to be so gross while cleaning for four hours.

Still looking at that window opening in the photo? Good.

I'm off to a great start--this is no time to lallygag. I'm cleaning away, stuffing loads of crap into garbage bags, throwing things out like there is no tomorrow, when I realize my pile of garbage has lots of gross, used things that people in the building might like to have. (We rent office space in an apartment building for low-income tenants.) I make a little "FREE, PLEASE TAKE!" sign, grab some scotch tape and go outside our office area to tape the sign to the wall. I stick the sign on the wall and hear....

Click.

Oh shit.

The office door has closed and I am unfortunately standing outside of the locked office door. Usually, I wear my keys on my belt loop so I don't lose them, but I'm in my gross work out clothes that don't have a belt loop. Although I know I am not wearing my keys, I reach for where my keys would usually be, anyways....but, all I feel is my pants--no keys hanging there. Shit shit shit.

Okay, so locking oneself out of a building is not that big of a thing. I've locked myself out of various places many a-time. I shake my head and chastise myself a little bit. Just as I'm getting over my self-directed anger, I realize:

I don't have my cell phone.
I don't have a list of co-worker phone numbers.
I don't have my car keys.
I don't have my wallet or purse.
I'm seven miles from home.
I don't even have any gum.

It's just me and my smelly arm pits.

Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit. This is SO going to cut into my cleaning time. Just about the time I realize that this isn't going to be a really big deal--I can walk home or to MJagger's house to use her phone--I notice that I have left some of the windows open. I can't leave them open over night--this isn't the best of neighborhoods--so, I am indeed going to have to solve this problem I have created for myself.

My options, being quite limited, lead me to search for Harry Scary. Harry's this guy who lives in the apartment building and is always milling about. When I get to work, no matter what time of day, he's always out there picking up garbage or smoking someone's cigarette butt or talking to some homeless person who happens to be walking by. Harry Scary is indeed hairy and he is indeed scary. No one is going to mess with Harry Scary. Although he is greasy and smelly and dirty and hairy, he is actually very nice to have around--he may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but he always looks after me when I go to and from the building, always taking the time to make sure I am safe.

He reminds me of Hagrid in Harry Potter, but oilier and dirtier.

Now, Harry Scary doesn't have any keys but I know he might be able to get me to a phone book and phone so I can find someone who does have keys. I am just about to start my search for him (heck, I don't know his last name and I don't know what floor he lives on), when I run right into him. I explain to him I have locked myself and am hoping he can find a phone book I can use. (Side note: I can't remember the last time I used an actual phone book--I just go on line.) This was not a simple ordeal, but I'll spare the details. Once armed with the white pages, I ask if I can borrow his cell phone....which unfortunately he hands to me. Um, it is grease-coated, dirty and slippery. I didn't even want to touch it, let alone put it to my head and use it. I look at his black finger nails and his mess of a phone....ah, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I take the phone and dial the one co-worker phone number I can find in the book.

No answer.

You didn't think anyone was going to answer, did you?

I then ask if I can make another call. Harry Scary obliges, even tho he has a "Trac" phone and pays per minute. Greasy and scary or not, he is chivalrous. I call the wife, hoping she can bring me car keys and that she can find my list of employees on the kitchen table. You can imagine how excited she is about this. As she is not at home, she offers to help once she returns home and gets the car keys. I remind her I don't have a cell phone so calling or texting me will be of no use.

Harry and I go outside so he can smoke and so I can stand there and stare at the open windows, because that's really going to help me--not. I'm babbling about how I can't leave them open overnight and that I will have to find someone with keys and how stupid I feel and how this is what I get for coming to work on a Saturday, and.....

........Harry takes a big drag on his cigarette, points at one of the open windows and says, "I bet you could fit through there."

I politely tell Harry he's crazy and that there is no way I am going to fit through one of those little windows, especially with the crank thingies in the way. He bend over (full moon!) and ponders the options we have. Harry announces that if he can get those hinges un-attached and if I can push in the screen, I will be able to get into my office through the window.

Despite how crazy this seems to me, I agree to at least try and help Harry Scary unhinge the hinge-crank things. He uses those black, scary fingers and pushes on the various points, muttering (but not swearing--I'm the one who is swearing) about how to get the metal bars out of the way. Incredibly to me, Harry Scary is indeed able to unhinge the thing and the window is now free to open parallel to the ground.

I then go forth and break the screen. I had intended to just push it out but the frame cracked and the whole thing crumbled. I was all good with that. Hell, I can replace the screen.

Before I go further, let me clarify: the picture to the left doesn't exactly illustrate what the window looked like when the hinge crank things were loosened--even without the metal hinge crank things, there is space over the window and under the window--the actual window pane ends up being in the middle. This means I have to pick over or under and I know I am not going to fit. There is literally no way. I'm not sure even Freckles could fit through that opening. Also, the window is at ground level--meaning, that not only would I have to squeeze myself like a sausage through a tiny opening, I'd have to do it from the cement.

Harry insists I can make it. He decides I should go under the window pane, not over, as he believes this will be easier. He repeatedly assures me it will work and I will fit. In sheer desperation and because I truly have nothing to lose and because I want to prove him wrong, I bend over to see what kind of clearance I will (or won't) have.

No. Way. No. Way. NO. WAY!

I look at Harry Scary and he points at the window. "Just stick your head in here." For some unknown reason, I do this.

Harry adds, "if you can get your head and your shoulders in the window, you can make it." This sounds strangely like something the obstetrician says as a baby is trying to exit the birth canal--"just get those shoulders out and it's smooth sailing from there." I shake my head, bend over and envision myself getting stuck. I yell out, "Harry! WHAT IF I GET STUCK!" We are on a very busy street--what if someone calls the cops because it looks like I am trying to break in? (Well, I AM trying to break in.) I assure him my ass will not make clearance even if my head and shoulders make it in.

I bend over, contort myself and stick my head through the window. I twist in an effort to get one shoulder through the opening and hear Harry Scary repeating himself, "just get those shoulders through and you're in."

I get one shoulder in, I get the other shoulder......almost in...almost in....my butt is stuck, my stomach is smashing against the window frame, I can't breathe and I can't go forward and I can't go backward, and I'm flailing, yelling at Harry Scary that I am stuck and that......

Harry picks up my feet and SHOVES me through the window. Literally. Just picks up those legs and SHOVES me in to my office. Picture a sausage being STUFFED to the brim. That's me--call me the sausage. Forget my stomach bruising, forget my juicy booty, forget my no-longer-skin-covered knees (which, by the way, no no longer feel like they are attached to my legs)--he shoves me in with brute force.

I land ungracefully on my office floor, face first.

Harry, who is now outside, calls out, "You still in there?"

WHERE THE HELL DOES HE THINK I AM? He just shoved me through the window! It's not a portal into another dimension!

I feel all my parts to ensure nothing is really damaged. I am thankful my pants are still on. I call out to him, "I'm right here!" He's going on and on about something but I can't hear him. For pete's sake, I was just birthed through a window canal!

Although covered with window grease, dirt and god knows what else, I am no longer locked out.

Suffice it to say, I grabbed my keys, called the wife, told her to stay home, put a screen from another window into my now-missing-a-screen window, thanked Harry profusely and put my keys on my belt loop.

Wait a minute, belt loop?

Sure enough, the work out pants that I was wearing did indeed have belt loops. All this time, I could have been wearing those stupid keys like I always do.....the Universe is a cruel, cruel place.

(No, I didn't finish cleaning; no, I didn't put anything out for tenants to take for free; no, I didn't go anywhere without wearing the keys.)

I'm at home now, knees aching (how will I explain this injury to my beloved lady chiropractor?), my stomach bruised, my pride slightly damaged. But, at least Harry Scary didn't have to call the fire department to get me un-wedged from the window....and, the wife had one piece of that Lemon Cake left, so I am good to go.

.....I think I'll get an extra set of keys made and give them to the wife......
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Prime Time

This bird has a problem. It lives under our deck and does not fly. Every once in awhile its mom flies in, shoves a worm down its throat and leaves it to fend for itself. I don't think it has long for this world. It hurts my heart. Nature is so cruel. (It is NOT cruel not to kill Japanese Beetles in any capacity.)

The poor wife--she remains distracted by the whole MJ thing. I may have to pry her away from the T.V. soon or she will turn into a one-gloved, white-socked blob of pop music.

While driving from Wally World to work this morning, my head was swirling with work issues, social engagements scheduled over the next four days, blogging, beetles, being in my prime, how I'm thinking the Republicans in Illinois might actually have it right about working a budget (the horror, the horror!), etc. Sure, last night I was a coach potato with nothing firing in the brain; this morning, I am a-fire with ideas.

My Beloved Lady Chiropractor has been on my mind, not only because my knees are aching today (don't ask) but also because MJagger asked if I wanted to go to her gym yesterday--the same gym My Beloved Lady Chiropractor goes to. As I know it's MBLC's day off (I am a true stalker) and as I hadn't shaved my legs or brought any work out clothes worthy of being out in public, I declined. I really wanted to go but it wasn't worth the cost of being seen looking like a homeless person posing as a health club member. MJagger and I continue to prep for our upcoming 5K walk, only two weeks away. I may be in my prime, but I am not in prime shape. Man, life sure is different at 47--when I was 27 and running 13 miles at a time, it took me 1.5 hours to recover. Now, it takes me two days to recover from a 14 minute mile. I am SO not aging gracefully. Perhaps I should ask MBLC to be standing at the finish line to help us with first aid as needed. Is there a doctor in the house?

Hey--did you hear me on the radio Tuesday around 5:30 PM? That was me, sounding like a moron on a pop-music radio (of which I will deny listening to), winning a trivia quiz prize. Don't get excited--I won a four-pack of tickets to attend a local festival--but, I'm a winner, so that's what matters. I was talking on the phone while driving, which really isn't a good idea. Worse, I couldn't remember what radio station I had called, so when the DJ asked me, "What radio station just made you a winner?" I had a brain fart and couldn't say a word. Great. I'm sure he's glad a 47 year old lady talking on a cell phone who can't remember more than her name just won his prize on live radio.

The question was lame and I had heard the same question the day before on the morning show, so it was a no-brainer....well, besides which radio station I was listening to at the time....

Thinking about cell phones while driving got me thinking about my walk last night, where I was walking and texting. This is a very bad idea--not only because you walk slower, but because you miss seeing important things like curbs, cracks in sidewalks, parked cars. The wife informed me that one of the most common visits to the ER these days is due to people walking and texting at the same time. I love to multi-task but seems this may not be the avenue to do such activity. I narrowly missed an unscheduled visit with a side view mirror due to my inability to enjoy one thing at a time. (If it matters, I was texting my nieces, who are now in Alabama--in a Target parking lot. Haven't heard from Daytona D for a dot, so who knows what they were doing at Target.)

I'm busy labeling all my blog entries, so it will be easier to find things you might be looking for (I know you have nothing better to do than go back and read my old entries), so I can remember what the hell I've written about and so I can remember all those nick names I've slapped on family, friends, service providers, political figures, sources of irritation. Organization. It's all about organization and consolidation. (And, labeling--I'm all about labeling people--ha ha!) Well, it's a really slow, boring, painful process. Had I kept up as I went along, I wouldn't be in this pickle. In true grandiose fashion, I tell myself this organization will come in handy when I write my book....

As you may be able to tell, I am feeling nostalgic this morning, of which I do not have time to do. I was thinking about how we've been in our house for 14 years and how we lived in the same apartment for 10 years before that. What this has to do with anything is beyond me, but it's what is in my brain, along with those four billion other things in there. Maybe buying buying baby wipes at Wally World (not for babies) triggered some long lost thoughts. Maybe the excitement of going to a Brewer's Game this weekend has warped my brain (focus on Cubby Blue!); perhaps the need of coffee left things fuzzy enough that there was room for thoughts about inconsequential dribble. Maybe it's the realization that we are going out to dinner tonight with a person from a job from my distant past. Actually, I think all that time on the couch last night, staring at Book de la Face, put me on memory lane.

Ah, the joys of being a prime in her prime. Unlike those-non-babies who need the baby wipes, I still have a memory lane to walk down...and, for that I shall be grateful today.
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Morally Reprehensible Ol' Me This photo of Freckles wearing potholders has nothing to do with anything except my love for pot holders and that it makes me feel better. I enjoy a good laugh early on a Friday morning. I'm off to Springfield today for a meeting--three hour drive, three hour meeting, three hour drive. It's so beautiful outside (dare we think Spring has sprung?) that I don't mind it at all. 

Update on the Blue Screen of Death: It has officially been slain. I wish I had our money back from the computer place as they did a whole lotta nothing for $200. I fixed it myself. It appears to have been three issues, all of which I figured out with my art major degree and the help of Computer Cook's ideas. (Note to Joanie: yes, a new laptop would have been the wiser choice.) 

And now, I shall speak of how reprehensible I truly am. Fair warning: if you are a Bible-loving person, what I am about to write might be traumatic. Breathe. Breathe. Tell yourself this is not about you (because it's not) and that it was part of my therapeutic process. Know that I love you and that I hope you keep praying for my soul. 

Anyway, yesterday was a tough day. I can't tell you much about it because I do not speak of my job (so I can keep my job), but suffice it to say that if I could and did speak about my job I would tell you about how the "Bible-and-religious-book-giving-co-worker" alerted the upper management about the morally reprehensible (read: G.A.Y.) boss she had (read: she quit). This was quite a shock to me, learning of this from the top dog in the agency and learning it was from this woman who had been quite nice to my face. Thanks for the great exit interview, Bible Grrrrl. Trust me: I do not speak of my personal life at work. I do not have pictures of anything except the dogs at my work. I did not take my wife to the Holiday Party. I do not share my blog entries with them. None of them are my Book de la Face friends. My car doesn't even have rainbow stickers on it. I am basically a non-entity at work (the job of which I do not speak but may start speaking about openly if this nonsense doesn't stop happening). And yet, I am seen--judged--to be morally corrupt. Again. Blapshemy! Horror! 

Well, I was one pissed off, disgusted person after learning of this. I have done nothing except not change--the Bible and religious gifts didn't fix my "lifestyle choice" (yeah, I'm choosing that, asswipes!) and thus I did not change the way the Savior (or, more likely, this woman) would have liked. I've had enough of this nonsense. I did nothing wrong. I think I scared the top dog because I did not keep my disgust off my face. I'm sure I had the Addi Screen of Death written all over my face. 

  I was one scowling mad woman. (Those of you who know my history understand why this pissed me off more than it might others. I don't have time to write about all that nonsense now, so trust me when I say this current episode is exponentially "worse" to me than others due to stupidity in my employment past.) I drove home, went up to the bedroom, grabbed the Bible and all those religious books that this lady had given me (being the nice, open-to-other's-ideas person that I am, the books I had readily accepted from her with a smile and thank you), marched downstairs with that Bible and those religious books in my hand.... ....opened the garbage can and threw them all away. In. The. Garbage. Slam! Slam went the garbage can. Still scowling, I stood there looking at the thing, pondering if I felt any better. 

In true wife fashion, the wife took one look at me, glanced at the garbage can, walked over to the garbage can, opened the garbage can and fished out the books.....and said..... 

At LEAST you can RECYCLE them." She then literally walked the books out to the Recycle Bin.

What a woman! On a side note, Top Dog found this to be an opportunity for Cultural Diversity Training at the job of which I do not speak. I laughed at that but thanked him for the support. I wished him good luck with that, as I am literally surrounded by the most conservative-religious people I have ever met and they are not open to any such dribble about "lifestyle choices" being part of Cultural Diversity. (Any of you who think I am exaggerating about the level of conservativeness or of the religiousity can come see for yourself. I have lots of trinkets to show and one short visit with the staff will send even the most loving Christians out the door.) If I spoke of my job, I would tell you thatalmost every single one of my employees (save one--funny choice of words) have been "saved" and are not open to "things" like me. 

I have no intention of being the poster child for gay bosses. Been there, done that, ain't doing it again. I am out of patience to do it again. Jesus wouldn't have needed a gay boss poster child. He would have said, "Dude! Let's go get lunch and leave this madness behind. You're doing a great job--thanks for the service you provide the community. By the way, how's the wife?" So, instead of being disgusted, I will focus on this beautiful day and enjoy the drive to and from Springfield. I will celebrate the slaying of the BSOD and I will look forward to next week's visit to My Beloved Lady Chiropractor. I will be thankful I have free therapy via this blog. I will be even more thankful that I have such a kick-ass wife. I will have a "Queen of Dairy Extreme Chocolate Snow Storm" on the way home. I will celebrate that ol' J.C. likes me just the way I am. I will try and get a better attitude by Monday. I feel better already. ....If any of you need a slightly used Bible, there's one in the recycling bin--but, hurry! 

The garbage men will be here by 8 AM...... ********************************************

Secret of Life

After much deliberating and fighting, I've accepted the secret to life:

Bigger pants!

I blew out the crotch on a pair of pants the other day. That's never a good sign. Reality and a hole in your pants demand either weight loss or bigger sized pants.

As you Addiverse readers know, I have been beside myself about this whole thing. But, since wearing the bigger sized pants, I have noticed that the world has kept revolving, that I don't have that "squeezed sausage feeling," and....

....people think I've lost weight!

The trick to buy bigger pants is to buy them just a little too big. That way, they are a bit baggy, and after people have seen me in the tighter pants for many months, the baggy ones do indeed create an optical illusion of weight loss. Bonus!

Another way to camouflage the mid-life spread is to utilize the back-in-style leave-your-shirt-untucked look. I used to fight leaving my shirt untucked but now it's a godsend.....and, in style (or so my 50+/older friends tell me).

A final way I've acclimated to my new found pant size is to wave the white flag while shoving a Dove Dark Chocolate in my mouth. On second thought, maybe shoveling two Dove Dark Chocolates in at a time. Who has time to argue when enjoying the nectar of the gods?

I thought about doing a Jillian tape the other day but then remembered the pain she has caused me in the past. I quickly ran for a dark chocolate and promptly forgot about her. Speaking of Jillian, I saw my Beloved Lady Chiropractor last Friday and have been blissful ever since. Man, I love that lady. Crack, crack, crack. But, my pocketbook does not love her so my love fest is quite limited in nature. Besides, it's not like she can help me fit in to my old pants (which are safely tucked away, not given or thrown away like last time--I've learned, boys & girls), unless it's because I can't afford food because I'm throwing my grocery money at her.

Finally, if you need a flashback to April 1, 2008 or April 1, 2006, please indulge yourself by clicking on the links below. If not, Happy April Fool's Day from one of the world's biggest fools....and, I'm okay with that!

http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2008/04/love-in-elevator-this-blog-post-is.html

http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2006/04/two-fools-for-april-fools-day-here-are.html