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?

Travel Ticket

Traveling with anyone is always an educational experience--you get to see the "true" person and learn all sorts of things you didn't know about a person you thought you knew quite well.  Traveling with co-workers is even trickier--after all, do you really want your peer to know you can't poop while on the road?

Case in point: I just returned home from a lengthy out-of-state training with two co-workers.  I am sure they learned more about me than they ever wanted to know. If I had to guess, I think the top three things they learned about me would be: (1) I have a lot of food rules; (2) I am a pessimistic realist when it comes to the transportation portion of travel; and (3) I do not poop while traveling the globe.

I hope they will still be talking to me come Monday morning.

Those who are close friends know I don't like to eat late; in fact, I would rather eat a candy bar and go to bed rather than go to dinner after 7 PM.  Food just doesn't sit well with me after 7 PM.  It rots in there and I have trouble even laying down with all that food in there.  It doesn't cause pain or heartburn--it just doesn't sit "right." This need to eat dinner ridiculously early causes issue for the other 95% of the world who can eat dinner any time and would much prefer to eat dinner sometime after the blue-hair specials have expired.  The first night, my peers went to dinner and I went to my hotel room to snarf down a protein bar.  I'm pretty sure I had been asleep for an hour by the time they were eating dinner.  They thankfully humored my weird dinner food rule the next three nights--they should get an award for that.  It's hard to be on a trip with others and not eat late.  It's just the world of eating-while-traveling-with-others.  Being a vegetarian in a strange town with others who are not vegetarians can also lead to issue, even when your traveling companions are doing as much as they possibly can to accommodate you.  One day, I had cole slaw, a brownie and some sure-to-have-been-fried-in-beef-fat hush puppies for lunch.  Being a vegetarian really isn't about food rules, but it does create a headache for those who are trying to be nice and accommodate my non-meat ways.  (Question: are scallops and clams living creatures? I didn't eat any because I think they are living "things," and I'm the kind of vegetarian that don't eat seafood, anyways; but, questions by my traveling companion did lead to discussion and wonder. Huh.)

I do not like to travel as I "know" too much.  I have turned into quite the pessimistic realist when it comes to modes of transportation, especially the kind that involves an airport. It is not the actual mode of transportation--I really like flying.  Flying is fine, fun, fast. It's all that comes before and after the actual flight.  Compared to friends, I've flown a lot of places, considering I don't fly as part of my profession.  (God love Bitty Bichon's mama, who flies all the time--and, I'm talking ALL the time for her job. I don't know how she does it. I don't know how my father did it.  I sure wouldn't want to do it.) The wife and I have been on many "need-to-fly-to-get-there" vacations and my father worked for the airlines; hence, I probably got to fly more than most of my peers.

Air travel has warped and jaded me. I know what things "mean," especially when at O'Hare.  For instance, I know if you land at O'Hare on an "on time" inbound flight, you will not get a gate--you will sit on a tarmac and wait for a gate to open.  It's not good or bad--it's a fact.  (It becomes a bad thing if you have to pee.  Then it's painfully bad.) I know that even a slight drizzle can screw up arrivals and departures at O'Hare like there is no tomorrow...and, if O'Hare is screwed up, so are many of the other airports (due to connections and such via our beloved Orchard Field). I know how long it takes to turn around a "late to the gate" plane. I know connecting flights take nerves of steel, no matter how much of a layover you schedule. I know that airlines skew the data so they have a great on-time arrival. I know the landing patterns and holding patterns at O'Hare. I can tell you if we are circling to kill time or if we are circling to get into the landing pattern. I know that people try to bring car-sized carry ons to the plane and it so you might as well plan on not putting anything in the overhead compartment.  I know the size of airplanes and why it is important to know the size of your plane when making reservations. I am well versed about what times and days are the best to--and not to--schedule air travel....

(Side tidbit:  I know if you get a rental car and it is all perfumed-up, it means that people have been smoking in the no-smoking car and that they are masking the smoke until the next day....then, it's too late--you are stuck with the stinky, smoky car.)

It is impossible to miss how jaded I am about traveling.  I'm not sure if it's the scowl or the bitchiness or the stalking walk that gives me away.

This trip featured an attempt to fly out of O'Hare with a pending ice storm.  I glared out that window, demanding that ice storm wait until we got out of town.  Imagine how happy I was when I noticed it was starting to drizzle just a wee bit.  Others didn't see it, but I did.  Imagine how happy I was when I noticed it was starting to sleet just enough to see but not see if you weren't looking. I know this is a bad thing--the delays had to be minutes away.  If we missed this plane, we'd most likely miss our connecting flight, which just leads to more headaches....I hate connecting flights and try to avoid them like the plague. (Side note: the airlines have made it really tough to get anywhere without connecting during trips.  I spit on them for this.)

I don't think I've ever been happier to be on a plane during the start of an ice storm--operative word "start" of an ice storm.  They de-iced that baby and had us on the runway in record time.  We made it right before the onslaught of delayed departures.  I know that had we been delayed even a few more minutes, we would have been stuck at O'Hare for at least an hour and that everyone at the gate would be really, really crabby (including one jaded, bitter party of one--moi).

Before I get to the story of traveling back to home, I must mention point number three: I do not poop while traveling.  It's like my sphincter says CLOSED FOR BUSINESS.  Now, I could take medication to correct this issue while on a trip, but unless it's gonna be a week away from home, I just break out the stretch pants and hope for the best.  I know this is mostly about eating differently (read: eating unhealthy foods and changing eating times) and not drinking enough water.  Oh, I might squirt out a marble here and there but it's nothing like the real thing.  Just this issue makes me glad I do not travel for business.  It is impossible for me not to say something about this to my traveling companions.  I'm pretty sure my co-workers didn't want to know about my non-pooping status, but there are some things that I feel must be shared.

Back to traveling home.  I know if you airplane is not sitting at the gate when you arrive at said gate, you are going to be late.  Now, this might seem like a no-brainer, but unseasoned travelers might think that as long as the plane pulls up by boarding time, all will be well.  This couldn't be farther from the truth.  No matter what, they have to "turn" that plane around--if nothing else, gas it up and do a quick sweep of the cabin.  So, when it was 30 minutes before our departure time, I knew that our baby plane was running late and thus our trip would be delayed.  (This is when connecting flights/layovers become a real pain in the ass.)  We had 1.5 hours between trips.  In the real world, this would sound like a lot of time.  In the world of flight, it might mean a sprint through terminals or worse.  When our baby plane landed at our actual boarding time, I calculated the trip and for some reason knew that we were going to be fine.  I knew we'd have to book through the connecting airport and that we would get there when the connecting flight would be boarding but knew it'd be okay.  As long as we got in the air within thirty minutes and weren't trying to catch a connecting flight via O'Hare or Atlanta, we'd make it.

I guess my travel knowledge comes in handy at times.  I became calmer as others became nervous wrecks.

Suffice it to say we really did have to haul ass through the Charlotte airport (which is much bigger than one would imagine).  Of course, our arrival gate was as far as possible from our departure gate, so not only did we have to haul ass, we had to haul ass for quite a long duration.  I'm in pretty good shape and was sweating from the work-out by the time we got there.  Our connecting flight was indeed boarding as we puffed up to the gate.  We had to check our carry-ons because there was no room left in the overheads.  They shut the gate door right behind us as we wheezed down the aisle.  Even during all of this, I knew we were going to be fine.  Go figure.

I'm sure there are other little nuggets of information my co-workers gleaned about me during the trip.  They now know that if there is a Dunkin Donuts within ten miles of where we are scheduled to go, we will be going to that DD.  They know it is absolutely painful for me to only bring one pair of shoes.  They know I do a thorough bed bug search when arriving at my hotel room (what I would do if I found a bed bug, I do not know) and that I am a morning person, definitely not a night person. They know I am not a fan of baby planes and that if the baby plane has propellers, I am probably going to throw a fit before getting on. They know that I can be a real pain in the ass....

...but, they probably already knew that.

Travel with me, if you must--be beware of the pessimistic realist who will be traveling with you.  I'll do my best to behave but there is only so much I can do to hide my scowl and not talk about my poop.

Tough Tufted Tat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, the poor wife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Judgement Giraddi

The word "giraddi," in case you are wondering, is pronounced as if you were saying the word "giraffe." JURE-addi. I suppose some of you might say JEER-addi.  Either way will work. I won't judge you.

Okay, so I will probably judge you but I'll be gentle about it.

Eldest niece taught the wife and me about the "judgement giraffe."  It's a hand gesture that looks like this:

The gesture is appropriately utilized when someone is being judgemental.  It is a gesture that the wife can wave in my face when I am being a condescending, judgemental you-know-what.  Friends can slowly raise the judgement giraffe during dinner outings, signaling the speaker to think before speaking further. The gesture comes in plenty handy during work meetings & counseling sessions. (As noted, I am brutal as a counselor.  I have no time for empathy.  Hop on the judgement giraffe and move on.) I personally find the giraffe to be a handy way to remind myself that I am being judgmental.  Example: (1) I am being a judgmental, arrogant asshole.  Hard to believe, I know.  (2) I suddenly have a shred of insight into my behavior/thinking/babbling. (3) I slowly raise my hand and bring out the judgement giraffe.  If it's just a little infraction, a half-giraffe salute suffices.  If it's a full-blow judgement, a full giraffe is required. If I'm being really judgemental, I use both hands--two judgement giraffes.  If I'm being a total (insert your favorite most vile word here), I stick the judgement giraffes in my eyes, as if the giraffes are poking my eyes out.  If I'm completely and totally out of control, there is only one thing to do: stick the judgement giraffes in my butt. BAM! Judgement giraffe saves the day.

If you think I'm kidding about sticking two judgement giraffes in my butt, you obviously do not personally know me.

I hate to admit it....the judgement giraffe visits the addiverse so often that I've decided to rename myself "giraddi."  Well, not permanently but as needed.  I think the name should accompany the gesture when it is in relation to me.  The wife, my boss, friends, relatives, subordinates could gently mutter "giraddi" under their breath and give a half-giraffe salute.  That'd probably get my attention and shut my pie hole long enough to reconsider the words flowing out of it.  If I'm out of control, people could scream"GIRADDI!" while waving two judgement giraffes over their heads....but, that might be a bit much and might lead to people judging them.

Everyone should try using the judgement giraffe, whether it be toward themselves or towards others.  Actually, it might be therapeutic to surreptitiously make a giraffe at someone who is being obviously judgemental and you don't know them well enough to give them the full-giraffe salute.

Since it is probably judgemental to judge is someone is being judgemental, you have to give yourself a half-giraffe when giving a stranger a full-giraffe.

Personally, I think we should save the judgement giraffe for use on ourselves, but who am I to judge?

So, if you see me talking in a meeting or eating dinner with friends or grumbling about yet another Book de la Face post about controlling guns and you see me flash a judgement giraffe, know that I realize I am being a giraddi and will soon shut up or turn off the computer or apologize or at least consider what I am saying.  

Feel free to flash a giraddi at me.  I will appreciate it and might even put a giraffe in my butt in gratitude for your intervention.  In return and as I sign of my gratitude, I promise I will NOT try and stick a judgement giraffe into YOUR butt.
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Royal Flushing, Indeed

Note to self: the title of the blog entry actually matters.  One of my blog titles led to over 4000 hits, all of which were accidents. (Google-ing is an amazing thing.) I never thought about that particular blog title being that of a movie--I just thought it was clever.  I suppose I should be happy to have 4000 hits but it kinda freaked me out, considering I only have like five actual readers and the blog had nothing to do with the movie of which they were seeking.  I wimped out and changed the title.  

Poor Freckles is doing the "traveling puke tour" this morning....that's when the dog walks while puking.  Why do they do that? I've never purposefully puked while walking or vice versa.  Worse, the first puke is always in a corner.  Usually, it's Lucy doing the traveling puke tour but today it was Freck's turn. Since Freckles is a "silent puker," I never hear the first episode until the pile is in the corner.  (That's the other thing--why do our two dogs go to corners to puke? Can't they just puke in the middle of the floor like drunken friends?) Once the first puke is complete, it's off to walk and puke.  Just about the time I get to the original pile, another pile surfaces.  I yelled to the wife for help but she didn't hear me.  Or, maybe she did and pretended not to.  Hard to say.  Can  you blame her?

The new toilet is delightful.  Since I promised you a review, here are my observations:

The higher stool is interesting.  I can see how it would be handy for those who have trouble getting up from the seated position, those recovering from some sort of surgery, tall people.  I'm still chewing on this.  I can put my feet on the ground but it's more like my toes are on the ground, not my flat foot.  I'm 5'5" and have not-too-short legs, so I'm an average kind of reviewer.  I have no idea how the wife uses the toilet--my guess is she looks like Edith Ann in that big rocking chair--there is no way her feet can touch the ground if she is properly seated on the toilet.  I would try to get a photo but that would be the last blog and last photo I'd ever publish.

The no-slam lid is amazing.  Okay, so it's amazing because I didn't even know such a thing existed. Both the toilet seat and the toilet lid are no-slam.  Whoever thought of this is a genius.  I shut the lid after using the toilet just because I like watching it.  I'm guessing this would be super-cool in a house with men who forget to put the seat down.  The female would enjoy watching the toilet seat slowly lower to its place of rest.  It would also be handy for those who use the bathroom in the night and don't want to wake their sleeping significant other.  There's nothing like the slam of a toilet lid to rouse you from a warm, fuzzy dream.  (Um, last night I dreamed the wife washed all our pet mice--a blue-bucket full of white mice--in the washer and they all died--I asked her why on earth she had done that and she answered that they were dirty and needed a bath; hence, she thought washing them in the washing machine would be faster.  One lived through the wash cycle but quickly died when placed in the blue bucket of dead mice. What the hell does that dream mean?)

The flush capacity is wonderful.  No problems with large yule tide logs.  I am pretty amazed by this as there is very little water in the actual bowl and the tank is smaller than the bucket used for the dead mice.  I haven't come near to having a clog and I'm a pretty powerful woman.  I may have to invite some super poopers over so we can give this throne a ride for its money.

The skidmark situation is less that anticipated.....reviews on line said this model had good results with not leaving skid marks.  I am here to tell you I have seen skid marks, which makes me sad.  I had hoped for a skid-mark-free existence.

It's not half as loud as reviews led us to believe it would be.  Reviews made us think it was going to sound like a 747 taking off.  It sounds like a normal toilet to me. The only difference we've noticed in regards to the sound is how quickly the tank fills.  Our last 18 year old toilet took like an hour and a half to fill--this one is done in like ten seconds.  I anticipate savings on our water bill.

The shape doesn't matter.  I think it's an oval, not round, but I'd have to go look.  I know one of our other toilets is round and one is oval.  My butt can't tell the difference between any of them.

We can see the wall.  Our other toilet's tank was huge.  It was almost impossible to paint behind it when we painted the bathroom. This one's tank is little and leaves much room for painting, which is good because we are getting the bathroom painted. (The color is still up for debate, so if you'd like to vote, say something.  The wife is going with more boring neutrals.  What's wrong with a bright red bathroom?)

"It looks stylish.  Contemporary." That's what the wife says.  I have no idea what that means and she's a mouse killer but we'll go with it.  We are looking good.

Finally, we both like it enough that we wish we had this model in our other two bathrooms.  That won't be happening.  I have other things I need to do with my money.  One must have priorities. I purchased a new point and click camera which cost the same as a new toilet and I'm all good with that.  I'm tired of every single photo I take being blurry so I went with a new camera instead of a new toilet for the second bathroom.  This new camera has an amazing shutter speed.  Not one photo has been blurry at all.....

....and, I'm gonna need that shutter speed when I take the wife's photo while she is seated on the toilet.  That's going to be a point, click and run photo.......

Royal Flush

Today is a very special day in the Addiverse: we are getting a new toilet!  As a purveyor of poop and a lover of all things that flush, I can't tell you how exciting this is.

We've been re-doing the re-do of the bathroom, thanks to the installers of the moronic type installed our tile flooring several years ago.  Don't even get me started about this.  I suppose I should celebrate their incompetence, seeing as I'm getting a new toilet now that we are re-doing the re-do.

(Side note: "Getting a new toilet" sounds like they are giving us one.  This is not what I mean.  We purchased the new beauty.  I refuse to give one ounce of credit to those morons.  Bitter, party of one!)

Our current toilets are original to the house.  Since we've been here 18 years, those are 18 year old toilets.  I never thought about how toilets might change in 18 years...well, not until the wife started doing research.  Oh my, we have been ruining the planet with all that water we've been flushing away.  Today's toilets have all sorts of features--less water, more power, higher seat, different shapes, two flush types per one toilet, gravity flush vs. power flush--it's been quite the educational experience. You can spend a lot of money on a toilet, which I suppose is an okay thing, considering we all have to use a toilet at least once a day. (I assume all of us in the United States use a toilet more than once a day, but we'll go with that.)

The wife did all sorts of research about toilets.  The only time my interest really perked up was when she started reading reviews that talked about "skid marks."  Flushing power and skid marks.  Who knew? This made me triply excited about the new toilet.  I can't wait to give that baby a try.  Of course, I have to wait for it to be installed today AND I have to wait until my next poop, which could be anywhere from the next five minutes to the next five days.  I will be taking photos of the toilet and it's flushing potential, so fear not--you will not miss one minute of my potty humor.  I got a new camera yesterday (I dropped my previous one so many times that the batteries kept falling out, it only took blurry photos and the casing was cracked), so I know photos won't be a problem.  (I chose the new camera by shutter speed.  That has to be something like flushing power.)

I'm a little worried about the wife in relation to the new throne as she is short and the toilet is tall.  I imagine her feet will be dangling when in use. This is not conducive to good pooping.  She's gonna need a step stool.  (Ha! I crack myself up--a step stool!  Just a little potty humor there.)

Since new toilets are rather pricey, I plan on talking about our new toilet a lot.  It's in the bathroom most people don't see (the "master bedroom bathroom"), so I may have to take people in there on a tour to make sure everyone gets to enjoy our new purchase.  Besides, it is important in our home that you use THIS new toilet, not the other bathroom's old toilet, as that is our "non-pooping bathroom." If you want to poop at our house and plan on doing more than just dropping a few little kids at the pool, you'll need to use the new toilet.

The new floor, which led to the new toilet, which led to the new light fixture, which led to the new hardware, truly is a "while we're at it" kind of project.  While we are at it, the wife is getting the bathroom painted (along with the master bedroom, by some guy who actually knows how to pain, unlike me) and, while we're at it, new towels in the new color scheme are ready to go. Last night, I had a sudden flash of wonder about the mirror, because that would be the perfect culmination of the while we're at it process, but quickly bashed my head into a wall so I would stop making this "while we're at it" project getting any bigger.

So, here's to good flushing power, a comfortable, high seat with the soft-close cushioned lid, less water waste and the end of the skid mark.  

Photos.  We need photos.  Let the pooping begin!
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Vicki's Secret Angel

The majority of you may not know that I have NEVER, EVER stepped foot into those pink-flavored Vicki's Secret stores.  NEVER.  I figure I've made it 50 years without going into one, what's the point of starting now?  I've walked by them at the mall but I have never crossed the threshold into the land of panties and under wires.  The whole thing makes me nervous.  I'm not kidding. Obviously, one can live quite thoroughly and happily without ever stepping into a Vicki's pink pantie party, so this has not been a problem...

....then, I drew the wife's sister's name for the family Christmas exchange. My excitement of getting her name was quickly tempered when I saw the top of her list: she was asking for a sweatshirt specifically from that Vicki's Secret place.   Just reading that made me sweat.  I was going to have to expand my horizons.  This meant I would have to take drastic measures.  I was going to have to employ a professional.

I called on MJagger.

MJagger is the queen of the Pink Vicki.  She drips in that stuff.  I knew she would help me not only succeed in my mission to secure the perfect gift but she'd also respect the terror I would feel upon my virginal trip to her Mecca.

Me: So, will you go to the mall and help me get this gift?

MJagger: What does she want?

Me: A pink sweatshirt.

MJagger: A PINK sweatshirt or a pink sweatshirt?

Me: Huh?

MJagger: does she want the brand Pink or an actual pink sweatshirt?

Me: Blank stare.  Um, I dunno.  This is what is says--medium pink sweatshirt from Vicki's Secret.

MJagger: Well, you need to know which it is she wants.

Me: I guess we should go with a pink Pink sweatshirt.  That covers all bases.

We went to the mall during our lunch our.  MJagger drove as I was rather terrified and on the verge of hyperventilation. Once parked, MJagger pointed me in the right direction.  With a decisive stride and purse in hand, she took me to her home.  I dragged behind, keeping my eyes on the ground and my hands shoved in my pockets.  I took a gulp of air and....

.....I entered the store of which I had yet to ever enter.

Dear god, it was an explosion of pink.  I followed MJagger, eyes not looking anywhere but at the back of her coat.  She stopped abruptly, held up a pink Pink sweatshirt and asked me what I thought.  It looked normal enough, it was pink, it was medium.  Sold.  I asked no questions.  I did not ask to see other sweatshirts.  I just wanted out of that store.  I said it was perfect and asked where we paid.

It was at that point MJagger took a good look at me.  "You really haven't ever been in one of these stores, have you?" I shook my head "no," assuring her this was my virginal experience.  Even though she knew this, seeing my reaction confirmed that I hadn't been kidding.  I didn't even know where the registers were located.

I think I made her day.

Going to the registers was like bellying up to the bowels of lingerie hell.  I looked up to see where I would need to pay. The four salespeople working the counter were all wearing tape measures (STAY.AWAY.FROM.ME WITH THOSE THINGS!), were beautiful and had big.....blue eyes.  Behind them were giant photos of models demonstrating the magical powers of the Vicki Secret specialties. I turned to look at MJagger and noticed I was surrounded by photo after photo of scantily-clad models.  I couldn't see the front of the store.  MJagger pushed me toward the counter so I could pay.

Well, I was befuckled beyond measure.  I just wanted to pay and get out.  The lady asked me if I wanted a gift bag and gift receipt.  I kept my eyes on the counter and nodded yes.  She asked me if I had found what I was looking for.  I again nodded yes but remained speechless.  She then asked if I had an Angel card.  I looked up, quizzically and then turned to MJagger.  I asked, "you have an Angel card, don't you?" She had a REALLY confused look on her face.  She slowly nodded yes. I said, "Well, let me use it." I stuck out my hand and waited.  She slowly opened her purse, all the time with this weird look on her face. I knew she looked confused but I figured she was just so surprised that I actually would be considerate enough to "let" her get points for my purchase....

See, I thought an Angel card was like one of those reward cards.  You know, those credit-card looking cards that they are always asking if we have when we approach the check out.  I have them for pet stores, drug stores, bagel shops, sandwich shops.  I thought I was getting her bonus points toward getting some free underwear.  She handed me the pink rewards card and I handed it to the cashier.  I pulled out my charge card as the lady handed the Angel card back to me....

....Imagine my surprise to learn that an Angel card is a CREDIT CARD, NOT a rewards card.  I just demanded my friend to let me use her credit card.

I.was.mortified.

It was too late.  The transition was complete.  I stood there feeling like the biggest ass on the planet. Why MJagger said nothing, I do not know. I wish she would have barked out, "hey asswipe, use your own charge card."  I blame the lace and under wire madness.....

I didn't catch on to what happened until the pink bag with the pink tissue paper with the pink handle with the pink Pink sweatshirt was being handed to me.

I took my pink bag with the pink tissue with the pink handle with the pink Pink sweatshirt and skulked out the door.  I wasn't sure what the hell I could possibly say that would explain demanding of her Angel card or how she had just paid for my Christmas gift purchase.  I am sure I muttered out a few words but they probably weren't in the English language and they certainly didn't convey my thought process.

I'm not sure MJagger will go shopping with me again for a long, long time.

Well, not at least until her charge card bill has been paid.

Festive Buns

We're still here!  I spit on the Mayans and their stupid round calendar.  I guess it's time to start Christmas shopping.  I'd like to say I put it off due to the Mayan rumors or the winter storm, but I'd be lying.  I cannot lie to you, my beloved readers.  I'm just behind schedule.  How did this happen?

The 2012 Not-so-Great winter storm Draco has come and gone, leaving us with a meager three inches of snow.  Judging from the pre-storm media panic, you would have thought we were in the path of certain doom; in fact, my cell phone let out an earth-shattering warning blare at 3:48 AM (yes, you read that right--3:48 AM) to warn me that a blizzard warning had been posted for NOON.  It scared the bejesus out of us.  We'd never received a weather warning from our phones before.  I still am flummoxed as neither of us have changed our phone settings. I'm telling you, that warning was LOUD and had a tone I had never emit from my iPhone....

....the wife sprung out of bed to see what was the matter, because out on our phones rang out such clatter.

The wife: "WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?"

Me (falling out of bed, reaching desperately for my glasses and cell phone): "Dear god, I don't know! I think it's my phone! Your phone is doing it, too!"

Will someone please alert the powers-that-be that I would appreciate a warning like that if a tornado or violent storm is heading my way in a few minutes, but I really don't want a blizzard warning in the middle of the night for something eight hours from starting.  Just sayin.'

It's three days until Christmas.  That means I do indeed have to get a move on with my shopping. I did most of my holiday shopping on line (dear goodness, I adore the Internet), but there are things that (1) I've forgotten and now it's too late to order on line; (2) I changed my mind about and now have to get something else; (3) I couldn't buy ahead of time--think perishable; or, (4) I've just been filled with even more Christmas cheer and I feel a need to spend money that I didn't spend before the predicted end of time. I've also got some gifts to return--can you believe I have returns to make before the holiday actually happens? Poor MJagger.  She's top of the must-return-her-gift list.

Now that there is snow on the ground and carols on the radio and lines at the store, I am once again reminded of Christmases past.  I know I've blogged about many of them, recalling favorite memories, favorite foods and favorite gifts. I'm not sure if I have ever blogged about favorite holiday fights, but I think I'll skip those since I'm in such a festive mood.  After all these years of couple-dom, the holidays are actually rather boring in a very welcomed manner.  Christmas planning in the early days used to feature yelling and glaring, blaming and crying, silent treatments and hurt feelings.  Now, as evidenced in the previous blog entry, it's all candy canes and gay apparel, only a silent argument now and again, only about money.  Thank you, Baby Jesus, for bringing use peace and cheer for the holidays!

Back in the early 1990's, the wife and I decided to skip our usual bout of holiday angst by skipping town.  We were sick of not being together for the holiday, so we scheduled a trip to a tropical island where we would finally have our first Christmas Eve and Day together. By flying out in the wee hours of Christmas morning, we'd be able to avoid the "who is going where on Christmas Eve" screaming match--we had to stay at a hotel near O'Hare on Christmas Eve in order to get to the airport on time for our flight.  I will never forget that night because (1) both of us were feeling rather miserable that we weren't with our families; and, (2) the hotel had no heat.  How the hell a hotel in the Midwest in winter doesn't have heat, I don't know, but we had none.  They were nice enough about it but that get us any heat--"I'm sorry, but none of the rooms have heat." Since we'd only be there for a total of seven or so hours, we decided to stick it out. We were cold in a non-descrip, non-decorated, sad and lonely hotel room. It was a lonnnnng, very cold, strangely sad, mostly sleepless night, not exactly the way we had planned on starting our tropical trek.

Thankfully, we were cured of our holiday blues as soon as we exited the plan on said tropical island. It was a marvelous but confusing. After all, two Midwestern girls don't exactly know what to do with 90 degree temps on Christmas Day.

For the record, I must mention that we were slapped back into reality when we got back to O'Hare the day after New Year's.  The day before we returned, it had snowed six or eight inches.  Unfortunately for us, we were wearing shorts and gym shoes as we trudged through the remote parking lot.  It's usually quite a feat to find your car at O'Hare after being gone a week--it's a much more harrowing event when you and your luggage are calf-deep in snow and all the cars are covered with a deep blanket of snow. Everything looks the same.  We were literally knocking snow off of license plates in an effort to find the car.

Note to self: Do not wear tropical island clothing when returning to the Midwest in the winter.

This year will not feature a tropical island but it will feature heat.  Lots of warm, happy, glowing, furnace-blasting heat. We are so fortunate in so many ways.  We have family and a home and jobs and our health and heat.  Too many others have only some or even none of these.

Many of "my" clients do not have family or jobs or health.  They are accustomed to getting up on Christmas Day knowing that it is just another day.  Santa won't be visiting. They will get up, take their meds, eat a bowl of cereal and probably go back to bed.  They won't think to look under the site Christmas tree because they know there will be nothing to see....

.....Well, not this year!!!  Thanks to a few special friends, "my" clients are going to have a much, much, much better Christmas than usual.  Santa will be visiting them. They will get gifts.  They will be mighty surprised.  I'm telling you what--my hands are sore from all the wrapping I did.  Fun gifts, useful gifts, ridiculously generous gifts.  I received yet another call yesterday, this time from a friend wanting to give money or gift cards to the guys without family.....

...She cried, I cried, it's like a god-darn hormonal love fest around here.  I can't wait for Christmas Day morning!!!  I wish I could share photos but confidentiality demands I behave.  Pooh.

Speaking of pooh (you didn't think I could end this blog on such a serious, heart-warming note, did you?), Mr. Hankey the Christmas Pooh has made his way back to my office.  It's a big part of the holidays at work.  Well, okay--it's a big part of MY holidays at work.  My co-worker made me a Mr. Hankey in 1999 and he's accompanied me to every holiday since. I was a bit worried I had lost Mr. Hankey but I thankfully found him hidden in a locked filing cabinet in my office (while organizing my tampons, I kid you not).  Mr. Hankey is a huge hit with the guys and they ask for him every year.  I am the queen of poop, as you know--the holidays are no exception. I'm sure Mr. Hankey will be present when the guys find that Santa Claus has come to town.  I'm going to put him in the tree, right over those presents, kinda like he's the Star of Bethlehem, calling them to the tree.

I end with a few of the lyrics from Mr. Hankey the Christmas Poo.  Don't worry--I will let you know how it goes with the guys when they see and open their presents from Santa.  Until then, may you have an amazing Christmas and may your poop be corny or nutty or firm or....well, you know.  Merry Christmas!

"We've all heard of Rudolph and his shiny nose, and we all know a Frosty who's made out of snow...
But, all those stories seem kind of.....gay....'cuz we all know who brightens up our holiday....
Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo! Small and brown, he comes from you
Sit on the toilet, here he comes, Squeeze him 'tween your festive buns!
A present from down below, spreading joy with a howdy ho, he's seen the love inside you
'cuz he's a piece of poo!"

If that doesn't warm your cockles, I don't know what will.
*********************************************************************

Wrap This

It is said the number one thing couples argue about is money. (I know they also argue about the TV remote, channel surfing vs. not channel surfing, the temperature in the home and sex, but I'm not hear to talk about any of that--well, not this blog, anyways.)  The wife and I are no exception; in fact, it is probably the only thing we really argue about.  (Disclaimer: Yes, we are affectionately known as "The Bickersons," but that's because we bicker constantly and it's usually in good fun--an out-loud processing of our couple-dom thinking, differing communication styles and minor disagreements.)  Christmas and birthdays bring out the best of arguments.  With the holiday season upon us, our differing views on money are in red-hot mode.

Suffice it to say we disagree mainly on how much money to spend on gifts (total cost per person) and who actually should be getting gifts. Please do not misconstrue what I write...the wife is not Scrooge-like; it's that she is thoughtful, practical, fiscally-prudent and from a whole different world than the one in which I was raised.  Is has nothing to do with generosity--the wife is a very generous person.  She's just a wise owl who'd like to have a nest egg, whereas I just hope I have a nest in which to squat some day. Whereas I think you have to spend $50 per family person these days, she would say $30 was plenty and maybe even too much.  (This is retail value, by the way--if she can get it at a discount store for $10 and it's $30 value, it counts as $30. To me, it means I have $20 dollars to spend.)  You can see how this can lead to more than a bicker now and then.

Don't even get us started on co-workers.  I am a boss to 12 people this year (down from a high of 27--shoo!).  I want to give each of them something because I value their work and effort. I also find it the right thing to do in the Christmas spirit. The wife says I should give little or even nothing, again not because she is full of the Grinch but because she is wise with her money and knows the spending needs to stop somewhere.

There is no fiscal cliff in our house besides the one I am going to be thrown off if I spend too much money.

I've been fretting how much to spend for my minions and prefer to give gift cards; after all, I don't want to give someone making minimum wage a box of cheap, waxy chocolate they don't want, stuffed in an over-sized holiday mug they'll never use.  Giving a gift card, though, means you have to really think about it....it is what it is. That box of chocolate in a mug might cost $5.00 but no one really knows how much it is.  A gift card has the number right on it.  Because of our banter and because I'm still fretting, nary a work gift has been purchased.

As for when to "cut" people off of the gift list, I'm going to have to consult with a professional--my mother.  I never really thought about it until we started arguing about when you stop buying relatives (mainly the "kids" such as nieces and nephews) presents.  I thought it was NEVER.  You never stop.  She says the cut off is age 18.  I was mortified by this.  This is a new argument, as "my" three nieces are now 19, 18 and 16. We didn't have to think about this before and I had no idea she had an approach like this. She had no idea I didn't think you stop giving presents after age 18. I have NO plans of EVER stopping the gift train. The gift train, in her mind, has pulled into the station and come to a stop. I can tell you that this is going to be a bone of contention.  Again, she's just being practical and money wise and is probably right.  I probably should listen to her but I just can't....

The wife: When did your aunts and uncles stop giving you presents?

Me: Huh.  I dunno. (I really don't.  I never thought about it.)

The wife: See? They stopped giving you presents.

Me: But, two of these three are our god children!  You can't stop giving to your god children! And you can't just give to two of the three!

The wife: when did your god parents stop giving to you?

Me: (glaring, because this is an unfair argument. I throw the yellow FOUL flag. She accepts the infraction and focuses on herself.)

The wife: My god parents stopped when I turned 18.  So did my aunts and uncles.

Me: Well, I'm not stopping.

The wife: (Silence.)

Me: (Silence.)


The wife: (Silence.)

Me: (Silence.)

The wife: (Silence.)

Me: (Silence.)

Did I mention that our arguments tend to be REALLY quiet in nature?

And so, I bought the presents for my side of the family and she bought the presents for her side of the family and guess what? The total was the same.

So, to me the point is mute. To her, I spent way too much money because my family is so much smaller. In the end, we'll both be happy and our nieces and nephews will be happy and my co-workers will be somewhat happy (no matter what I give them, several will find it not enough--ingrates) and we'll all have a great Christmas.

...well, as long as she stays away from my checkbook and I stay away from hers, it truly will be a very Merry Christmas.....

Kneedy Degenerate

Wow---less than three weeks until Christmas.  I best get my sorry ass off the couch and over to the computer to get some shopping done.

I thought you might want to stay up to date with my knee.  If not, just pretend.  I spent a lot of money to find out what is going on with my knee, so humor me.

Dr. Kneedy came into the room with a half smile on his face, shook my hand, sat down and said the dreaded words: "Well, I have some good news and some bad news."

Right then and there I knew 100% that I didn't need surgery.  I KNEW that was going to be his good news.

"The good news is that you don't need surgery."

SEE? I TOLD YOU!

I played my best poker face and coolly inquired, "and, the bad news?"

Suffice it to say he gave me all sorts of medical gobbly gook that indicated my issues are degenerative in nature.  I knew I was a degenerate--now, I had proof. I wish I were Ellen Degenerate instead of Kneedy Degenerate.  (Just a little humor there, emphasis on little. I'm trying to keep this light hearted.) My meniscus isn't torn but it degenerating. He showed me the MRI and pointed out the various concerns.  Yup, there's my non-torn meniscus, smiling back at me.  Yup, I see that white stuff.  Yup, I see the areas of deterioration you are pointing to.  All that nonsense and you don't do surgery for that. You have what you have. I have degeneration in a variety of locations, including the tibiofibular joint, which explains why I have pain there.  Who knew there was even a joint there? Every time he explained something and pointed to it on my knee, I said, "uh huh" because he was pointing to right where I've been having various pains.  Damn. An educational moment came when he spoke about Hoffa's fat.  What the hell is Hoffa's fat? Does everyone have Hoffa's fat? Is it Jimmy Hoffa's fat? Is that where Jimmy Hoffa is? Well, whatever it is, I have fluid in mine. I don't know if that is good or bad or means that Jimmy is in a pool or what.

Good news, bad news.  Who would think the need to have surgery would be better news?

As I don't feel I'm to the point of needing injections, I'm nowhere near needing knee replacement and I decided not to go to physical therapy, he gave me a list of exercises to do and then sent a PT in to show me how to do them.  Simple enough to understand.  Now, I just have to do them.  He also told me to try glucosamine and chondroitin.  He made no guarantees but thought it was worth a shot.

I'm not sure where this leaves my jogging.  Part of me says to go ahead and pursue my goal and then hang up the shoes.  Part of me says I'm an idiot if I don't stop before I do more damage.

Of course, there is the part of me that says go with the flow and let the Universe take care of me and my knees.  I plan on walking as usual.  I have no plan to start swimming.  I suppose I could ride a bike. I wonder if Zumba is hard on the knees?

I have been researching metaphysical and spiritual information on what knee problems "mean."  Inflexibility or unwillingness to bend are at the top of the list.  I find this hard to believe.  Even the wife says I am one of the most flexible people she knows.  Maybe I'm inflexible in my thinking about being flexible. Others mention stubbornness.  Ooooh, I am stubborn.  (You can be flexible and stubborn at the same time, IMHO.) Another site suggested a "knee jerk" reaction.  Or, perhaps it is a kidney issue, per another site. Unfortunately, knees can also represent pride.  Ouch.  I might need a slap in the head about that one.  My research has led me to using Louis Hay's affirmation of: "I am flexible and flowing.  Forgiveness. Understanding. Compassion.  I bend and flow with ease and all is well." I'm all good with that.

And so, I remind young ladies once again to take care of your knees.  Do your warm ups, strengthen your quads, be kind and gentle. Don't abuse them.  Love them.  Nurture them. Need them.  And, I remind my sisters in the knee pain that we are flexible and flowing and that all is well, no matter what Dr. Kneedy says.