In the Beginning it was all dogs and poop

I started writing this blog at the end of 2005, mainly in a pathetic but creative self-serving attempt to save myself from spending boatloads of money on therapy and to give myself a place to vomit all those thoughts swirling around in my head onto paper.  Fast forward to 2013.  I'm still self-serving and I'm still enamoured with babbling but my brain is a much quieter place to be--which is sad, in some ways, as I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss the constant chatter.  I think it might still be there but I can't remember because peri-menopause has left my brain fuzzy-fied.

Because it's been so long since I first started writing and because "Poop for Peace Day" is just around the corner, I thought it be a fabulous idea to feature a few of the first and/or some of my most favorite blog entries, inserting them between new posts.  Before publishing the favorites, I am certainly going to re-work them, as if I wanted you to go back and just read the original, I would give you the link and call it a day.  I figure a few new blogs with a "best and earliest of the Addiverse" blog might be a handsome idea. The following blog is a re-work of my first official blog entry, from the end of December 2005.  I think it explains nothing about the Addiverse except that I love my dogs more than I like most people and that I am obsessed by poop (of which I have never understood)...which in itself explains a lot......

Now, about that dog diarrhea.... allow me to introduce to you Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia, a 17 lb Shih Tzu/Maltese fancy mutt mix, affectionately named after Lucy Lawless and Gabrielle, Bard of Poteidaia (POE-ta-DEE-ah). The Bark is definitely NOT a foo foo dog. She's more like what Ellen DeGeneres would be if she were a dog.  Why Lucy is so big, we have no idea but the mama-non-breeder-breeder swears she really is shih tzu and malteze.  We remain skeptical.

Lucy is a certified "shot-out-of-a- dog-at-some-lady's-house" kind of dog. I got to meet Lucy when she was only four weeks old.  A co-worker brought in a box of puppies and who can resist a box of puppies? I took one look at that box and knew I was gonna have one of those puppies.  I didn't know how to tell the wife, after all, it took me 16 long years to get a dog and now I had the audacity to ask for number two.  I looked in the box and pointed to a puppy, announcing "THAT is the dog I want." I wrote a deposit check right then and there.  Lucy (I had already named her) was lively and obnoxious and hilarious and bouncing all over the cardboard box. I took photos of her and chased the wife around the house with them. I begged for dog number two. All that whining and begging got me what I asked for and we became a two-dog family.

Before I go further, I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you that Lucy has an older sister named Freckles Warrior Princess, the brainiac dog smart enough to avoid raccoon poop and antics that Lucy and I find ourselves drawn to.  Freckles is calm and refined and rule-abiding, much like the wife.  She used to be a certified "Canine Good Citizen, a registered therapy dog. I say used to be because when we got Lucy two years into FWP's tenure on the planet, Freckles became evil and morphed into a "Canine Bad Citizen" Dog.  So much for getting a second dog to keep the first dog company.  Freckles is a --gasp--pet store dog. We claim ignorance, as we didn't learn about the whole puppy mill thing until AFTER we purchased her.  We were mortified that we had contributed to this horror.  (We have since proclaimed our dismay over puppy mills and pet stores and the likes.) The wife picked her out, as she seemed to be the calmest one of the bunch. We later learned that she had such a bad case of Ghiradia that she could barely function. (That's a different poop story for a different day. Her poop was so infected that it just about wiggled when it came out.) It was a tough start to life--I almost killed her by accident the first night with this horrific flea collar, then I almost squished her under the garage door, then she had the ghiradia-soft-serve-poop that lasted for months. Despite her tough start to life, Freckles turned into a very gifted, ridiculously smart dog who crushed the competition in obedience class.  I am proud to say the trainer called her "the hardest working Shih Tzu in America." 

This dog was worth waiting 16 years for!

In an effort to properly introduce you to Ms. LBOP, I start with her efforts to get into some disgustingly rich, thick, piled-high raccoon poop after running away on my watch. I know better not to let her go outside without her leash, but I have to (repeatedly) learn the hard way and thus I skipped the leash with the hopes she'd stick around. I'm not sure if it's because I'm lazy, distracted, delirious, hopeful or confident, I decided this is a fabulous idea. 

It is not.  Lucy, being Lucy, runs straight across the street--never a good thing, not even looking both ways before crossing the street--and romps right to this giant pile of the most vile-smelling poop on the face of the earth. I put our other dog (Freckles Warrior Princess--a shih tzu/lhasa mix with a bad attitude and under bite) in the car and go to get Lucy. I use the car because I know if I chase after Lucy, she will just keep running away.  With the car, I know she will get in, as what dog doesn't want to go for a ride in the car? I can smell her from the street. She's smiling and rolling and eating this mess, getting all covered with the present from the neighborhood critter, smacking her lips in delight. I drive the car three houses up, hop out and leave the passenger door open, hoping she will see it and run toward me....  

Of course, she doesn't.  Why leave tasty poop behind for a car ride? 

I get out of the car and try to sneak up on her.  Dear god, my eyes were watering when I picked her up--this was no regular poop. She's covered in sticky, disgusting, gag-producing goo and I'm trying to carry her at arm's length and Freckles is watching from the car wondering what the hell is going on.  I have to put her in the car as I can't carry her back to the house.  I know putting the car is going to be a VERY bad idea but I don't know what else to do.  I plop her in and burn a u-turn without looking.  

Gagging the whole way, I get her into the house for an emergency bath.  She seems to be loving every minute of the tasty poop and I can't get her to stop licking it off her fur! Unfortunately, the wife is home and she is NOT amused by anything that is transpiring before her eyes.  I lose big points for Lucy being off leash when I know she is just going to run away. I lose more points because Lucy had run away and had rolled in poop. I am in the negative points because Lucy--and the house and car--now smell like something died three months ago.  I might as well move out of the country because I too smell like something died three months ago. 

Did I mention that the wife is a very fastidious-obsessive-compulsive-clean-rule-following woman who is decidedly not a dog person? She is NOT entertained by me--or anything--at this moment.

Lucy and I live through the bath and through the wife's understandable fury.  As you can imagine, all that poop eating led to Lucy getting sick the next day. I'm talking exploding diarrhea. Not just a little case of shooting poop--we're talking flying everywhere. For days. After day three, the wife was no longer speaking to me or Lucy.  (Freckles, having more brain capacity than me and Lucy combined, was smart enough to lie low and wait out the storm from somewhere under a bed.) I slept on the floor with Lucy, as every time she woke up and stood up to go outside, poop would machine-gun right out of her poor little butt. Woof! So, when she'd wake up, I'd grab her and run out the front door. I had to take two days off work to stay home with her....after all, it was my fault she was shooting shit.

I finally had to take Lucy to the vet 'cuz the diarrhea wasn't getting any better and I was tired of not sleeping and because the wife was getting more irritated by the milli-second. (Who can blame her? Cleaning up diarrhea every two hours isn't very fun and the new carpeting really didn't need such initiation.) I try to scoop up some poop for the vet to look at, but it's REALLY hard to pick up dog diarrhea. I got some doggie-poop-soup into the baggie and off Lucy and I went. The vet and the assistant get this HORRIFIED look on their faces when they hear the words "raccoon feces," as this is a very bad thing for dogs to eat. I guess there's some bad juju with raccoon poop. They gave her an exam, asked if the yucky raccoon poop had worms in it (um, I can't say I took time to look), continued to look serious and stern,gave her a shot to get the shit to stop, then sent us home with directions to feed LBOP some rice with hamburger.  They demand we avoid raccoon poop with all our might.  (If you want to understand their concern, google information on raccoon poop.  It's not a good thing to eat.)

Suffice it to say, Lucy is not good at following rules. I'm not good at following rules. We've been able to avoid raccoon poop but all those rules keep getting in the way.

Ten and a half years later, Lucy and I are still working on that.  The wife says we've improved but I think we've got a ways to go......

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The Addiverse wishes a speedy recovery, three hawk and Argo! Go get 'em grrrrrls!

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Sun Singing and Officiating

Well, the Sun Singer's Celebration of Life has come and gone and all I can say is.....

"Wow."

Talk about an amazing tribute, a true testament to the man and his family.  The place was packed--and, that's saying a lot, considering the event was held at an exhibition hall, not a funeral home. People stood in line for an hour, just to have a thirty second chance to wish condolences to the family. Since the line was so long, many people had to wait until after the service to finish standing in line. The sheer volume of people was overwhelming.

Was this a man of power & prestige? Of  government or public office? Of fame and fortune?

No.  

This was a humble, generous, gentle, hard-working quiet man who worked in a blue-collar type position who was truly loved & respected by many.  That respect and love filled the room til it almost burst. You could feel it.  It oozed from the people their to pay their respects, it flowed from the people willing to stand up and share their stories, it filled the air like a warm, summer's evening breeze.  (That sounds so cliche, but it's true.  The place was warmed with palpable love.)

A day later, I am still shaking my head in wonder.

Since the Addiverse is all about me, I shall now shift the Sun Singer's celebration to me.  After all, I was the Reverend presiding over the service.

Seriously.  The wife and I walk in to the venue, weasel our way in front of everyone so we can sign the guest book and go help and that's when I see it.....

The placard says "Officiating: Reverend [Addi Warrior Princess]." 
(No, it didn't really say AWP--it said my real name.  We have no time for real names in the Addiverse.)

AND, all the little memorial cards they hand out as you enter the area have my name in them, with the word "Reverend" in front of my name.  All the wife and I could do is look at each other.  I couldn't believe it.  She couldn't believe it.  And, I must say, most of our friends couldn't believe it. Since these were people there that I knew from the late 1980's-the 1990s (and hadn't seen since then), they were pretty shocked by this new development.

No offense, but seeing my name with the word Reverend in front of it is REALLY funny!  I am sure the Sun Singer got a big, big kick out of that.

One guy remained incredulous.  We had worked together in the late 1980's (along with the Sun Singer) and so he had a very different view of me that would not very understandably include the descriptor "reverend." I explained numerous times that it was just a title gleaned from an on-line source, secured so I could marry or civil-union-ize those who couldn't find a church in which to do it such things, but he didn't get it.  He thought I was actually a full-time, seminary-going minister, even after I assured him repeatedly that I was not.

"What denomination did you get ordained?" he asked.

"None, really.  It's not like that."

"What seminary did you go to?"

"I didn't.  It's an on-line thing. You sign up and wa-la--you're a minister. " I thought this would finally clear things up.

"On line seminary school?"  He looked more confused than when we started.  "You mean, like classes and seminars on line?"

"No.  I didn't have to go to school.  I just had to fill out the application."  I tried to explain that this is a free lance gig, secured so I could help people get married or have celebrations such as this.

"But, you're a minister?"

"Well, technically," I answered.

I am sorry to say that I never did ease his confusion.  It dawned on me later that he was a very devout, born-again Christian with a very traditional, fundamental stance.  No wonder he was confused.

I actually had to do a few official-type things, working with the thankfully-funny funeral director.  At one point, she turns to me and says, "You're going to have to make an announcement and tell the people to speed it up. They are going to have to say less."

I must have looked like a deer in the head lights.  She pointed to the microphone and indicated that I was going to have to tell people that they should keep their condolences short and sweet so everyone would get a chance to get through the line.  She suggested I assure those that didn't get through the line that they would have the opportunity to do so after the service.

"I have to say that?"

"Yes," she assured me.

"Can't I just go through the line and tell people?"

"No, you need to do it from the microphone so everyone can hear you."

I gulped.  I looked toward the door and saw that the line went out the exit.  She was right.  These people would never make it to the front of the line, to the family, before the actual service was scheduled to start.
Nobody told me the officiant would get sucky duties like this.

"I have to write this down," I tell her.  "What exactly do you want me to say?"

And, so I wrote it down and approached the mike and said what I had to say.  Incredulously to me, everyone seemed to take it just fine; in fact, some people got out of line and sat down, obviously okay in waiting until after the service.  I had several people tell me what a wonderful announcement that was and that it was appreciated.  Others thanked me for relieving their fear that they wouldn't get a chance to give their condolences and so they were happy to learn they would still have the chance.

Score one for the funeral director.

There were some unexpected bonuses from the gig.  I had several people ask about getting married or civilized, others asking if I had business cards (I do not), one guy "reserve" me for his wedding ("probably in ten or fifteen years").  Even the funeral director asked for a business card, indicating they are always looking for people to officiate funerals.

Guess I should get some business cards.

The wife, always the more stoic and practical one, one-upped the business cards: "You need to set up a fee for service scale." She turned to some friends and told them I don't charge for my services.  "You need to charge for your services."

I suppose she is right.  If this is going to turn into a real side gig, I'm gonna hafta have a plan.  I had not intended this to ever happen, but here I am with people looking for a different way to do things, and I seem to be that different way.

The Universe works in very mysterious ways.

If you want me to officiate your ceremony or celebration, you better call soon.  My calendar is getting mighty full.  Call now and you can still get in the "free" category.  Just don't tell the wife.

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Godspeed, Sun Singer.  With much love to your wife and daughter.
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Oreos in My Cereal

Courtesy warning: if you have experienced a recent loss or anticipate you are going to have a significant loss in your life, or if you in the middle of a end-of-winter-depressive bout, you might want to skip this blog.  I try never to send potential readers scurrying anywhere but to my blog, but in this case I do believe it is appropriate to give you fair warning.

Yesterday morning, a terrible thing happened: a dear friend's husband unexpectedly passed away.  The details of his death aren't particularly necessary for the story, so I'll leave it at he died at home without warning or reason.  Just like that, he was sucked off the planet by whatever force of nature you choose to believe in.

Gone.  Just a shell of where a man used to be.

I am going to call him "The Sun singer" for blogging purposes. Those who knew him understand why.

He was a good man, a loving father, a wonderful dad, a health-conscious athlete with a passion for outdoor activities.  He was "good people," as they say, the kind of guy that would get out of his truck in four lanes of traffic and hold everything up so a family of ducks could cross the four-lane road.  Humble, and hard-working, it's kinda hard to think of anything negative to say about him or his way of being.  We have some pretty funny stories about times we spent with The Sun Singer and his family, some of which I am sure have found their way into a blog or two of old.

If you've never been "there" when someone dies unexpectedly, let me assure you it is a whirlwind of ridiculousness.  There is no time to breath or grasp what is going on or even have a coherent thought--you are just pushed along for the ride.  It's all business, whether you are ready or not.  Do not look for compassion--look for all the answers you are demanded to provide.  Our friend was bombarded with questions--everything from organ "harvesting" to if she wanted to have the services at the church so the church ladies could serve cake.  The funeral home is number one in line in the priority list as they can't "release the body" until they have somewhere to take "it."

Release the body.  Can you imagine? Your husband has dropped dead in your home, he is pronounced dead upon arrival and before you can even gasp, they start talking about funeral homes and "releasing the body."  Although there are no words we can say to The Sun Singer's wife and daughter which convey our recognition of the loss they are experiencing, we know better than to talk about releasing the body and if church ladies should serve cake.

Our system sucks.

Last night, less than 12 hours after The Sun Singer's passing, a gaggle of us gathered in their home, hoping to bring one shred of comfort to The Sun Singer's wife and child, to show support and love, to share jello salads from unknown neighbors.  Between the tears, we had some pretty good laughs and a whole bunch of naughty food, brought to the home by good baking-abled-Samaritans.  From cookies to dips, it was a veritable feast designed to drown sadness & demonstrate support in a tangible manner.

Lest we all roll into a little fetal ball of depression, I want to share two things to brighten things up a wee bit:  (1) I have been asked to lead the "Celebration of Life," which is an incredible honor & the least I can do.  If that doesn't make you at least giggle, you obviously don't know me.  This ordained minister thing is turning into a real gig.  I prefer weddings, but ya gotta take the good with the bad.  I figure it will be just fine as my "job" is to be more of a Master of Ceremonies (the Sun Singer's wife description of what she is looking for from me) than some holy-fied internet minister. This will indeed be a celebration, come hell or high water, I assure you.  (2) We will be eating ice cream and M&Ms at the celebration, as those were his two special treats.  For someone who had over-the-top healthy eating habits, it is fun to learn he had these two vices.  Nothing says celebration like ice cream and M&Ms.

As for the wife and me, we've been flummoxed by this whole ordeal, for many reasons.  First, it just doesn't make sense--it doesn't register. Second, this guy was the picture of health--a young man filled with organic foods and healthy habits. I cannot convey to you how healthy this guy was.  On the way home from visiting the Sun Singer's wife and daughter, the wife said, "See? That's why we should eat what we want and do what we want to do.  You eat all this healthy food and you work out and then get hit by a bus or drop dead. What good did it do you?" Third, we want to help but we don't want to overstep boundaries or impose on need for personal space.  None of us are well versed in this. The invention of texting makes this much easier, as it isn't as intrusive to text as to call.  (Actually, we text to see if we can call.  What a weird world in which we live.)

The Sun Singer and his wife weren't prepared for this (not like anyone ever is)--reminding the wife and me of how important it is to sit down and write all our thoughts down.  We "know" or we think we know but if it's not written down, how do we really know? And, if we know now, will we still know what we know and be able convey what we know at a time such as this?  I think not.  Guess what we'll be doing this this weekend?

I really did have Oreos in my cereal at breakfast this morning.  I poured the cereal into the bowl, crushed up a bunch of Oreos and sprinkled them over the cereal and the drown the concoction in milk.  (Almond milk.  Sigh.  Had we whole milk, I would have used it.) It was orgasmic. I then had ice cream for lunch. I did this because life is short, because I can and in honor of the Sun Singer.  His favorite flavor was vanilla--how was I to say "no" to a bowl of vanilla ice cream?  I couldn't and I didn't.

I plan on having Oreos in my cereal again tomorrow. I can worry about eating something green and leafy later in the day, after the wife and I write down our wishes.  Trust me, I'll have ice cream with dinner, too.  After all, life is short.  Besides, ice cream celebrates the Sun Singer.   I will hold up my spoon and celebrate all the laughs and fun and memories.

The Sun Singer would like that.
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Speaking of Love times F*i*v*e

I try not to babble of love or anything serious like that--I much rather laugh my way through the day than get all sappy or serious or mushy.  I try to preserve at least one shred of dignity and privacy for the wife.  That said, I have come to the conclusion that I must blog about this, privacy be damned.

The wife is--admittedly--addicted to reality TV in general and to OWN channel in particular. (We all have our vices.) The other night, she was watching a show on OWN about the f*i*v*e languages of EL.Oh.Vee.EEE.  (I'm sticking to code for the time being. Sorry about spelling and phonics, but it's the only way to keep the readership honest. I'll call it 5-LoL for blogging purposes.)  It was something about how we as humans have different ways of communicating within a relationship, with most of us having one primary way to "show me the love." I didn't pay much attention to the show as it seemed kinda hokey to me and it smacked of heterosexual-you-can-change-religious flavor.  It was nice enough but I stuck to important things like playing words games on the Internet.

After the show was over, the wife hopped on to her iPad (well, not LITERALLY onto her iPad--that would be damaging) and sought the website about the 5-LoL.  I still wasn't paying much attention but couldn't help but get involved once she started taking the thirty question test--a profile, actually--to determine her "language."  I looked over her shoulder and gave some unsolicited advice--many comments came flying from this peanut gallery.  I thought the choices were kind of dumb--it was like being forced to pick one poison over another.  I hate to admit it, but I became intrigued by this nonsense.  Once she was done, I asked if I could take the test.

She handed me the iPad and let me take a shot.

Imagine our surprise when we both came up with the same language. As we basically have nothing in common except our love of food and travel (okay, that's a bit on the dramatic side, but those who know us realize that we are mighty opposite, living proof that opposites can and do attract), it was refreshing to determine we are speaking the same language.

The thing is....

....our language is in the physical touch category.

I would venture to say that few of our friends would guess this and I KNOW no relation of ours would even believe it.  

I'm giving up a lot of sacred personal space away by saying even a peep more about this.

(Side note: you really should look this stuff up, lest you think envision us frollicking naked on the front lawn, groping each other in a mad fashion. The physical touch isn't half as exciting as this blog would have you think.)

We don't hold hands in public. We don't hug or pat or squeeze. You won't see us walking arm-in-arm at the mall. I barely make eye contact unless it's to roll my eyeballs. Heck, we don't even sit on the same couch in most public settings.   There is not one shred of public display of affection......

We are the anti-PDA.

And yet, here we are supposedly speaking the language of per*son*al*t.o.u.c.h

I blame society.  (Someone's gotta take the blame.) Remember, it was the previous millennium when we started our lives. Trained well by society, such a language was not an option.  We succumbed to brainwashing for the comfort of others.  I like to think if we were starting off as youngsters in today's world, things would be very different.  But, we are thirty years too old to find out.

Don't feel bad about this.  Instead, give us an authentic Mexican dinner smothered in home-made guacamole and with a little flan or three milk cake for dessert and we will be speaking our speak in a most satisfied, unobtrusive manner.  You pick up the check and we'll be smitten for days.

So, if you go out to dinner with us, know that we speak the language of touch but we're not going to speak to you. We are going to remain very, very quiet.  We will speak to ourselves as we wipe the crumbs off our face.

We speak our language in whispers to each other.

Well, whispers....and food. Did I mention we sure like to talk the language of food? Food is safe.  Food is passionate.  Food won't get you pregnant.

Food is a language we share, loud and clear. Everyone knows we have a passion for food.  Oh, to go out to eat and put our lips on savory morsels!  We shall show our love through our love of food.  Going out to dinner with us is like going on a date.  Oh, be still my taste buds!

Perhaps you should equate us eating a bowl of chips with guacamole to hand holding....a shared piece of tiramisu to a hug.....breakfast for dinner to an arm-in-arm walk.....a dinner at a local chain to a wet kiss.

Makes you wonder to what dinner at an all-you-can-eat Thai buffet would equate, doesn't it?

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:-)

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.