Taxed by Taxes

I blogged about doing taxes as a civil union-ized couple last year and think the post completely sums up this year's tax preparation endeavors. Sometimes, I get it right the first time and don't have to re-write what was already right in the first place, even a year later.  I invite you to review the most excellent entry from March 2012, with link noted below.

Taxes for the civilized remain challenging--after all, you have to fill out a federal "as-if-married-ghost form" before you can do your Illinois "Civilized-as-if-married" State taxes.  That means I did my federal taxes as single; I did the wife's federal taxes as single; I did a "ghost" federal form as if we're married; and, I did the Illinois state form as if we are married based on our fake federal form.  I think it's more about being pissed off than actual angst.  I keep hearing politicians say that civil unions are the same as being married and I want to say, "no, they are not--do YOU do your taxes like this?"

This year, tax time brought only a few moments of yelling, name calling and confusion. We only talked about getting divorced once, which is a HUGE improvement over last year's effort.

So, grab your calculator, bring along your matrimonial bliss and enjoy a blast from the past. It's worth it.

http://addiwp.blogspot.com/2012/03/to-understand-irony-of-most-recent.html

Snap, Crackle, Paw-p

Before I talk about Lucy going to the dog chiropractor, I thought I'd share too much information: Today, out of sheer desperation, I made a purchase on a particular website of which you bid.  I did a search, comparison-shopped, considered the shipping costs, scoured the descriptions.  While I didn't want it to come down to this, it became necessary because....

....I am down to my last twelve ultra-purple-box ob tampons.  One dozen.  Twelve lonely applicator-free bundles of love.  Twelve.

(Here is an old photo of me getting tampons in the mail, Lucy intrigued by the whole thing.  You can't have a gad day when tampons come in the mail.)

I thought I could make it until the end of my egg shooting career before running out of these out-of-production tampons of gold, but I was wrong--I'm still shooting those eggs like clockwork.

I'm not sure if that makes me gifted or cursed.  

The prices were quite ranged--the lowest price per box I saw was $9.99 (plus shipping); the highest price per box was $109.00 (free shipping).  Now, I love those tampons but I'm not paying $109 for them. If my math is right, that's $2.75 per tampon.  Most prices were in the $19.99 range, which is "down" from the average price of $41.00 a year ago.

I know, I know--it's ridiculous how much I know about these tampons.

I personally sold a box of them for $41.00 (I provided free shipping) two years ago.  Boy, do I wish I had those back now.

A Book de la Face peep alerted me that these beloved o.b.s were also available via Amazon.  Dang, I have no idea why I didn't think of that, as I'm always looking for something on there--in fact, I was looking at turntables this morning (don't ask, don't try to understand--all I'll say is I have 500 albums of which I can't listen to and it's starting to piss me off) and re-ordered some dog treats.  The prices were comparable on both sites, but somehow buying items on Amazon seems a bit less edgy than a bidding site.  (Thanks for nothing to FB friends who pointed out the "gently used" description on many items for sale on said bidding site.  I am so going to be mad if these tampons are gently used.)

As for Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia (the dog whose arm/shoulder have been twitching non-stop; see previous blog), I took her for two rounds of chiropractic care this week.  That, in itself, is probably not as unusual as you might think--after all, people spend obscene amounts of money on their pets.  Unfortunately, I have to drive her out of town (45 minutes one way) to get to the dog chiropractor.  (If any of you have a hankerin' to become a chiropractor, I suggest that you get certified in animal chiropractics. You'll make money hand over fist.)  Lucy loves going places, as long as people are involved.  When she got to the chiropractor, it took everything in me to keep her settled down, as she could see all the people but couldn't "get" to them.  She made these ridiculous noises, as if to say "p-p-p-p-uuuuulllllll-eeeeeezzzzze come here at pet meeeeeeeee." It is rather embarrassing and very loud.  Her tail never stops wagging.  "P-p-p-p-p-ullllleeeeezzzzze! I'm over heer-r-r-r-r-r-r-eeeee!" A ten minute wait seems more like three hours.

Enter the dog chiropractor.  Someone's tail stopped wagging.

BTW, if you've never seen a dog--or a horse--get a chiropractic exam or adjustment, you haven't lived.  Treat yourself: U-TWObe it.  (I refuse to plug web sites whenever possible. Hence, the weird spellings or vague references.)  

Lucy froze like a statue, as if she knew this meant serious business and if she didn't stop her nonsense, her owner's money would be for naught.  The chiropractor did her thing and then added a very non-committal "well, I'm not sure what to think."  Great.

She told me to keep Lucy as quiet as possible and see if things improved.  I envisioned myself trying to keep her from jumping on/off the couch, on/off people, on/off the stairs.  Oh boy.  If that didn't work, I'd have to try and restrain her in some form or fashion.  Even better.  She told me to come back at the end of the week.

On the way home, Lucy settled in and fell asleep.  She has NEVER in her ten years slept while riding in the car.  The wife can confirm this--NEVER.  I took this as a very good sign.  I figured it meant she finally had some relief and was exhausted from all that twitching.

When we got home, she was still twitching.  I felt a bit defeated but figured it would take time for the twitch to cease.  I gave her a massage and hoped for the best. I tried to keep her from jumping on/off anything, which meant I was one busy grrrrl--that dog is on the move, twitching or not.

The next morning, I took a gander and couldn't visibly see the twitch.  I put my hand on her arm and noticed that while she was twitching, it was much less frequent and much less in "strength." Dare I believe this chiropractic thing might be working?

I took her back yesterday, nary a twitch to be found.....in that arm.  Interestingly, her opposite arm had a slight twitch.  Go figure.  This was very intriguing to me.  The dog chiropractor did her thing, Lucy froze into position.  After an exam and adjustment, the dog chiro said, "let her be a dog.  Let's see how she does.  You don't have to come back unless something else comes up."

St. Francis and dog chiropractor, I bow to you: Lucy isn't twitching any more.

Now, it may just be that time was what was needed and the dog chiropractor had nothing to do with the ceasing of the twitches.  It may be something weird that ran its course and is now better. It may be that she had an injury that is now on the mend.  It may be that she has some neurological or other disorder than has come-and-go twitching.  It may be that she will start twitching again.  I don't know.  All I know is for this moment she is not twitching and I swear she looks relieved (as much as a dog can look relieved).

As for Freckles (I have to give her some time in the spot light, too--lest she be crabbier than she already is), I love that she sleeps with her blind eye open.  It's kinda creepy but amusing, none the less.  Here she is, tongue out, blind eye open, sound asleep.  Kinda looks possessed.

Today, we will go for a family car ride so we can enjoy my new tires, contemplate my purchase of tampons and buy a celebratory hamburger via the drive through.  It is time to celebrate the non-twitchy-ness of the moment. Life is short. Dog lives are shorter.  Golden arches for the dogs seems the perfect celebration.  The wife can get her "are-you-sure-there's-not cocaine-in-this-addictive-diet-Coke" and I'll get an ice cream cone.  Lucy will be wide awake and Freckles will be sound asleep once the burger is gone.

Maybe we'll get two burgers.  After all, we're celebrating.

Of Tires and Dogs

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

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

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

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

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

This was one pretty flat-looking tire.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Papal Paws

At the beginning of the week, I announced I was going to run for Pope.  The minute I hear the job was open, I was all over it.  I  reached out to my minions on Book de la Face, asking for their vote. I assured them of my Catholic heritage, my knowledge of the Catholic church, my up-to-date status with the sacraments, asked the baby Jesus (all 8 pounds, 6 ounces of him) for his blessing.  Hell, I am even still married in the Catholic church's eyes.  I like wearing hats, I'm already an ordained minister, I'd look fabulous riding in that sweet Pope-mobile.....

It was going great.....until that dang Ellen got in on the act:  







Hey, b*tch--it was MY idea FIRST!

She's not even Catholic.  This is so not fair.  Bitter, party of one.








Knowing that I could never beat Ellen at anything, I turned my eyes to other potential activities.  It was then I learned that Mother Monster had sustained a devastating hip injury...requiring her to cancel the remaining stops on her "Born this Way" tour.  It didn't even take me the time it takes to put one paw up to decide this was my calling......

I was born to fulfill Gaga's obligation of completing the tour.  

I know her moves.  I know the lyrics.  I have PAWS UP license plates.  I have tattoos.  I'm Catholic. I was born that way.  I'm a shoo in!

Although I'm not willing to eat a meat dress, I am willing to wear one.

Now, some of you probably think I'm kidding. I'm not.  Why would I kid about such a serious topic? Meat dresses are serious business.  We can't let the Born This Way Ball come to a meat-grinding halt.  After all, there a bazillion little monsters out there waiting for Mother Monster to come home.

I have decided that my advanced age (well, in comparison to the actual age of Lady Gaga) demands that I be Grandmother Monster, not Mother Monster. I wish I could say otherwise, but the truth hurts.  I could have spawned Lady Gaga, which makes me her mother, which makes me your grandmother. That makes all the fans at the concerts my little grand baby monsters.  For this leg of the tour, fans will now be required to scream, "Paws up, Grandma monster!"

Not exactly the same ring to it but you get the idea.

I do have one request, though: I cannot wear those shoes.  I cannot even stand up, let alone walk or dance, in the shoes of which Mother Monster is often seen.  I can't do it.  I can don the meat dress but I can't walk the walk in those things.  Didn't her mother tell her that wearing such shoes would lead to leg injuries?  Look at her now--sidelined by a bad-surgery-needing-gam.  Someone should have warned her that those shoes are lethal.

I'm changing it to the "Born This Way to Wear Gym Shoes" tour.  Paws up, laces tied, meat tenderized. I'm putting on my Poker Face and hitting the road.

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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