Day after Thanks

Now that everyone is stuffed to the gills (a saying that is rather weird unless one considers that we as humans reportedly had gills in the olden, olden days), we can sit down, loosen our pants and think about whatever it is one thinks about when stuffed to the gills.

I am glad to report that the wife's family once again PASSED on the tradition of sobbing while trying to spit out for what one is grateful. This is two years in a row, so I'm hoping the time of this tradition has passed. There's nothing wrong with stating words of gratitude while sitting in a circle for two or three hours, but they take it to a whole 'nother level which keeps Kleenex in business. This year, the wife's dad cried at every given moment, as he is grateful beyond compare for quicker-than-anticipated recovery from a recent accident. I don't even know how the guy ate dinner, 'cuz every time I looked at him, he was crying. I think he made up for everyone, so they really didn't need to have the circle of thanks.

The wife is out Black Friday shopping. I would rather poke my eyes out with the bones of the turkey drumsticks than join her. The dogs and I are enjoying the comforts of our home. She sent me a text of a proud purchase. It's a sport to her. I am much more the computer-shopper type. Give me a charge card and a computer and I'm good to go.

I'm rather worried about Lucy, as she hasn't eaten in 24 hours. Of course, I'm always worried about Lucy, so this isn't a very unusual thing. The other day, she and I had a talk. I asked her to hang in there until after Christmas, if she could possibly do so. Of course, god knows Freckles has been at three "this is her last Christmas" dinners, so I shan't worry too much. This is Lucy's "first-last Christmas" dinner, per my declaration, so Lucy will probably have several more last Christmases, too.

I make fun of this because to actually not make fun of it would let my heart be crushed. I don't have time for such nonsense.

Lucy and I are taking a trip to the vet on Monday...she has to go because she can't get groomed anywhere unless she is up-to-date on her stuff. I'm not thrilled about having her get shots when this is her first-last Christmas but she needs to be groomed, so charge card, here we come. One must look spiffy for the holidays, especially for the first-last Christmas.

I had a good laugh at work last week when I was talking to a co-worker about Lucy's tumors and how  it had grown and how I was worried. She interjected, asking, "Isn't this the dog that's been dying for the past three years?" I couldn't help but to burst out laughing. I explained that no, that's the OTHER dog that's very much alive and on her way to her third-last Christmas. This is Lucy's first-last Christmas. I'm telling ya, we laughed for quite a long time.

Changing subjects...I went to the dermatologist the other day because I had this really itchy, never-healing thing on my chest near the collar bone. It's been driving me nuts for months. The thing has been here for years--I think it was a skin-colored mole but it might have been a scarred pimple or an age spot or some alien life form. Whatever it is/was, it itched and itched and itched, even waking me up at night. Several times, I had to put a band aid on it, lest I scratch it in my sleep or let my shirt make it even itchier. I finally decided enough was enough and scheduled an appointment.

I have no idea what it was because my appointment was short and the doctor never said anything about the actual mole/spot/alien life form. I didn't even have to take off my shirt.

Dr. Skin (bursts into room, obviously irritated and definitely quite done with this what must have been a very long day): "What is it you want me to look at?"

Me (Pull down the collar of my t-shirt): "This thing. It itches like crazy and doesn't heal."

Dr. Skin (scowls at my t-shirt, which happens to be an Oakland Raiders shirt): "Oakland? Why are you wearing an Oakland Raider shirt? I lived in Oakland. I didn't like it. Those fans are crazy."

Me (still holding down collar of shirt, silent, hoping she'll look at my spot instead of my shirt...I'd like to make small talk but decide I'd rather get this thing taken care of....Oakland shirt be damned)

Dr. Skin: "Don't wear band-aids. You're allergic to band-aids. No more band-aids." She took a no-more-than-two-second gander at the spot, held up a can of something (where the hell did she get that?) and then sprayed the piss out of the spot. She sprayed like there was no tomorrow. She sprayed until she was done spraying.

She stood up, handing me a piece of paper (where did she get THAT?--this lady is full of surprises), opened the door--can in hand--and barked out, "come back in eight weeks. No more band-aids."

With that, she was gone. I sat there for a second or two and then squeaked out a "thank you." I was left in the room with my sprayed mystery spot, obviously with no band aid covering it. Guess it wasn't something serious.

I now have this gross-looking thing on my chest, trying to heal with not a band aid in sight. I am quite thankful it was determined to be nothing more than something to freeze off in a huff. I'm thankful that I know I am allergic to band aids.....um, I've worn band aids all my life without issue, so this is a bit confusing to me, but I'm going with it. I glad the itchy spot probably wasn't an alien life form (I think she would have said something about that if it were).

Today, the Day after Thanks, I give thanks for many things, of which I shan't list here. Instead, I'll go finish the Christmas cards, eat cereal with chocolate chips tossed in for breakfast and go buy Lucy a hamburger from the place of arches Gold and see if she'll eat that. I will think happy things of all of you and I will continue to make fun of the Farewell Tour. I'll get ready for Sunday Service (that dang Baby Jesus thinks it's an important time of the year) and I'll probably do some work. I won't wear a band aid. I'll prepare for tomorrow's day of thanks with my family of origin (read: buy some potato chips and chocolate) and I'll do some laundry. And, I will be very thankful for all of these things, just as I am grateful each and every day. I will enjoy every minute of the first-last Christmas. I will shop on line while Doctor Who plays in the background. I have nothing of which to complain...

....except for the itching. Oh, the itching of a healing sore! I fear there may be some whining about that.

I'll scratch and I'll whine and I'll give thanks for you. Kiss kiss!
***************************************************************

Baby Jesus Church Drop

This church thing is sooooo putting a damper on my social life. I never wanted to be involved in a church thing but the baby Jesus must have thought it funny and so he dumped a church in my lap:

Baby Jesus: Hey you! You look like you'd like a church.

Me: Huh? Me?

Baby Jesus: Yeah, you! You're standing around doing nothing. I think you need a church.

Me:  Hey, wait a minute--are you the baby Jesus?

Baby Jesus: I am the Baby Jesus. Who did you expect?  I'm giving you a church.

Me: Well, I'm kinda busy. I have a full time job, two older-than-you dogs, a wife and...well, you know what I have. You're the baby Jesus. I really don't have time or interest in having a church.

Baby Jesus: I see you watching all of those Doctor Who episodes. Don't tell me you don't have time to run a church.'

Me: That's...um...stress reduction. Yes, stress reduction.

Baby Jesus: You don't have that much stress.

Me: I'll have stress if you give me a church. I'm not meant for a church. I'm not churchy.

Baby Jesus: You don't have to be churchy to have a church.

Me: I would think it'd help.

Baby Jesus: I think it helps NOT to be churchy if you're given a church.

Me: But, I don't know how to run a church. I don't WANT to know how to run a church.

Baby Jesus: I need a pinch hitter. You can pinch hit.

Me: Oh, I so don't want a church. No, no, no. No church.

Baby Jesus: Who's in charge around here?

Me: The wife. Definitely the wife.

Baby Jesus: I meant me.

Me: Oh, sorry. No offense.  [Think to self: he's wrong. The wife is definitely in charge.]

Baby Jesus: I heard that.

Me: [silence.]

Baby Jesus: The church doesn't have a spiritual leader right now. All you have to do is run the service and so forth.

Me: It's that "so forth" that worries me. What if I've got things other than "so forths" to do?

Baby Jesus: Like?

Me: Well, football! And, work. And staring lovingly at the wife.

Baby Jesus: You have plenty of time to do that. That's why they invented DVR, 24 hour sports channels and the Internet.

Me: Help me with my football picks?

Baby Jesus: I'm going to pretend you didn't just ask me that.

Me: It's not like running a church is a three hour a week commitment.

Baby Jesus: You don't see me sleeping on the job, do you?

Me: That's different. You're the Baby Jesus. You signed up for that gig.

Baby Jesus: Well, technically, I didn't.

Me: Mmmm. Point taken. But, the spiritual leader is a paid position, a job, a thing. Lots of responsibility that I don't want.I already have a full time job.

Baby Jesus: It's a temporary gig.

Me: A temporary for how long gig?

Baby Jesus: Until it's not a temporary gig.

Me: I don't see any money in this. That's a lot of time to do for no money.

Baby Jesus: Do it for me, then.

Me: That's so not fair.

Baby Jesus: That's how I roll.

Me: Well, I'm not falling for the whole guilt thing. I don't want a church.

Baby Jesus: [puts fingers in ears] I can't hear you. Did you say something?

Me: So, I have a church.

Baby Jesus: You have a church.

Me: I don't know how to run a church.

Baby Jesus: Oh, ye of little faith.

Me: See? I shouldn't have a church.

Baby Jesus: Just run the church. You'll have lots of help.

Me: Yes, I'll have tons of help but it's still a church, it's still unpaid and it's still more than three hours a week. It's already filling all my free time.

Baby Jesus: Think of it as tithing.

Me: Hmmmm. That's a thought.

Baby Jesus: That's why they pay me the big bucks.

Me: This church thing get me any more points in the long run?

Baby Jesus: Depends on what the long run is.

Me: You know--that place of which you reportedly dwell.

Baby Jesus: Doctor Who says there is no afterlife. It's all stories and folklore.

Me: True. So, I'm back to tithing.

Baby Jesus: I'd stick with that.

Me: [big ass sigh] So, I have a church.

Baby Jesus: You have a church,. Congratulations!

Me: YOU tell the wife. I'M not telling the wife.

Baby Jesus: Heck, no. That's your job. My job is to dump the church on you and run. I'm not telling her nuthin'.

Me: Great. Thanks for nothing.

Baby Jesus: You'll thank me later.

And so, I have a church in my lap. I really don't like it but it is what it is. I hate when that happens. I'll be a non-churchy church person.

This is SO going to ruin my reputation.
***********************************************************************

Parking my Gay Car

This morning, I find myself reading the news via the Internet. This is quite unusual as I don't read/watch/digest the news in the morning  as (1) the wife always seems to be up-to-date; and, (2) the news just gives me a headache. I grumble about the wife turning on the news in the morning. I don't want to start my day tainted by all the negativity swimming out there. I want to start my day fresh, positive, calm, relieved.....

.....I don't want my day being bombarded with the world's woes. I'm not saying the world woes don't exist if I'm not watching the news nor am I sticking my head in the sand via aversion of the morning news. I'm just saying I want peace, love and happiness with that first cup of coffee.

This morning is a wee bit different due to Illinois' race for the governor. I had to know who was voted the winning candidate. [Disclaimer: I don't know enough about government to speak one word more than my opinion, so please don't be insulted by the smallness of my view. I've been busy watching Doctor Who, not studying world politics.]

This is not a good way to start the day. I'm starting to think about actual things. I do not want to think about or--heaven forbid--blog about politics before breakfast. Where, oh where, is my oblivion and inner peace?

"STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER!," my brain screams.

"I can't!" replies my heart. "I'm having a bout of passion."

"DON'T WRITE ABOUT POLITICAL ANYTHING!" my brain begs.

"This gay heart can't help it! Gimme more coffee and where IS that Dove Dark chocolate???" my heart murmurs.

(Ha. That's funny. A heart murmur. Oh, never mind.)

"THIS IS A MUNDANE BLOG ABOUT NOTHING REDEEMING! ONE DOES NOT TALK ABOUT POLITICS IN SUCH A BLOG!" my brain chastises.

"You obviously don't care about your marriage," my heart whispers.

"But, I do!" cries my brain. "I really, really do!"

"You talk about of both your hemispheres," laments my heart.

My brain technical wins, as I continue writing...but, my heart makes sure it stays focused in emotional passion-tainted babbling.

I'm of the school that one man can't completely uproot the political system of our great state (a good and bad thing, considering the corruptness that permeates the state's government--I leave that to political pundits). I believe that our new governor will be fine because no governor in this state has control of the state without control of the Madigan Machine. That said...I do believe that one candidate can make life a living hell for those of us who just got married.

....Got gay married...whatever that means. 

Stand back, brain, 'cuz here comes the emotional tirade:

Dear New Governor,

Congratulations on your victory. I know you won't get to enjoy your victory until all the ballots are counted and recounted but it's looking like a win for you. I don't care that you are a Republican. I don't care that you are not a Democrat. I'm not big on those labels, just like I don't like slapping labels in other parts of my life. It's fine that you just happen to be labeled Republican. As is true with all political parties, money CAN buy you everything. I can't condone you for that.

I'm not sure why you want to be governor because that sucks almost as much as being the president. Too much stress and not enough power. Just sayin.'

Now that you'll be sitting in the big Lincoln chair come January, I want to point out--just in case you missed it while out on the candidate trail--that our marriage license says MARRIAGE LICENSE. It does not say GAY MARRIAGE LICENSE.

We are married.
We are not gay married.
We are married and can get divorced, just like you.

I hope you will look at our marriage license, because I look at it. I think it rocks.
I look at it because I can't believe it.
I NEVER thought I'd see a marriage license like this in my lifetime.
Never.
But, I hold it in my hands and I look at it and I smile.
Here--take a look at it.....

Oh, it says "Marriage License." Not "Gay Marriage License."
Huh. I like that.
I like that a lot.

I didn't mind the civil union thing. It was okay. I know you were okay with that, too. But, being married rocks a whole lot more.

So, saying that you aren't going to go "after" gay marriage and that you have gay friends (oh, goody for you!), but adding that this issue should go to referendum makes me very testy. First of all, it makes you a coward. If you don't want gay marriage in our state, then go after gay marriage. Don't pawn it off and throw your hands up in the air and blame "the people." Stand up and say what you mean and then mean what you say.

Second of all, it's not an appropriate use of a referendum. Please let someone help you understand that. I know you are new to this position but you've been around the block in the political machine a time or two. Don't you dare play dumb. I have more faith in you than that.

Third, we're married. We are not gay married. As Liz Feldman says, "I parked my car. I didn't gay park it."

My brain, Mr. New Governor, assures me all will be well and that you won't push for a referendum. My brain tells me you will focus on things like the budget. My heart, however, is quite concerned about you. Please don't be a coward. Please be respectful. Please listen to Oprah.....

Everyone gets a marriage!

Goody for you that you have gay friends. What a revolutionary you are! I have straight friends. What a revolutionary I am!

I'd write more but I have to go eat my gay breakfast, take a gay shower and drive my gay car to work.

Hope you have a most gay day. Love, the Addiverse
***************************************************************
No politicians were hurt during the writing of this blog. Paid for by the Addiverse for Gay Car Parking.
****************************************************************

There's no blog like no blog

Last Saturday, I wrote a blog in its entirety. I was excited because that would have been two blogs in one week, something that hasn't happened in months and months.

Then, I read it and thought, "Geez, people will need an anti-depressant or a stiff drink after reading all this stuff. So, I didn't post it.

You can thank me later.

I have gone back and forth about the blog which remains not a blog. It's still not here so it's still not a blog. .

Suffice it to say, as with most of you, there are many things demanding our attention. I find myself writing for the Caring Bridge, to keep friends updated about our friend's cancer. I'm pretending to know how to "run" a church (and, trust me, I have no idea how to do this), as Master Pastor Reiki is unable to do so at this time. I'm speaking at church on Sunday and I have yet to prepare--I'm not sure what is going to fall out of my mouth. I think I blew up the agency's work email this afternoon.

I'm kinda proud of that last one. I didn't even know that was possible. Note to self: do not blow up work email on a Friday afternoon.

Sad to say, I haven't had much time or oomph to watch Dr. Who, look for a new tattoo on Pinterest or even pluck my eyebrows. God knows they are getting ready to take over the world. I haven't even had time to worry about the "E" word (ebola). I know that many, if not most, of you understand this, as you live it. (Not the eyebrows part. Just the time and oomph part.) To get out of my oomph-funk, I've decided I need to do something that gets me out of the house for a "good" reason, a fun reason, a creative reason....

....I've decided that I'm going to take Freckles and Lucy on a "Farewell Tour." Heck, if it's good enough for Cher and the Rolling Stones, it's good enough for our dogs. This is not maudlin in any capacity. A farewell tour isn't always farewell--think of all those performers who retire and then come back to have a final farewell tour. No matter the outcome, it will be fun. The tour will feature stops at all their favorite places and will include visits to their favorite people. I sense many a portrait to be had. I also think many an ice cream cone will be consumed (for both me AND Lucy). There will be rides in the shopping cart at local pet stores, more car trips than you can shake a paw at, a few repeat performances of entertaining antics. I may be able to get enough good photos that I'll make a calendar. Christmas presents! I better get a move on.

If you'd like to see the dogs in specific settings or situations, send me a message. The more creative, the better. There are only a few parameters to which I must conform.

It's settled. I'm not posting the blog that is not a blog. We have a farewell tour to kick-off, email to fix, a calendar to make and a sermon to write.

Take that, non-blog blog. Your darkness cannot stop me now.

Wayne's W*rld

I usually think of these really creative titles for blog entries but then don't use them because they are often based on a movie or a song or a book or something....which confuses people when they google what they are looking for and find me, instead.  It might be genius on my part to use such titles, as it does indeed bring thousands of "hits." Call me chicken. I'm glad when I have 50 hits and somehow don't feel it right to dupe people into finding me. I'll work on getting over that.

I don't usually use "real" names when blogging as I like to protect the guilty. Besides, I like to make up all sorts of supposedly-witty nicknames. In the case of this blog, I am using the main man's real first name. It is a homage to him; thus, I feel it only appropriate to use his name.

Have you ever made donations of clothing or household items or anything other than money to a specific organization and then wondered what happened to the stuff or where did it go or who is now using it? I get all sorts of generous stuff donated for distribution at where I work, but the problem is that no one ever gets to see where it goes, as confidentiality abounds. I can't take photos of the people as it would be a violation of all sorts of regulations and ethical obligations. I send thank you notes, but that doesn't "capture" what truly happens.

There is magic when donations arrive. 

At my place of employment, I've seen people who haven't had a new blanket in years (if ever) stare at me in disbelief when I hand them a donation of a new bedding set. It is very confusing and overwhelming. Sometimes, there is what I call "cover anger," which is a coping skill learned over the years. It's almost as this is too good to be true and you're just gonna take it back, so now you've pissed me off." It takes time to accept things without strings attached--it's hard to grasp that only love and generosity are attached.

I've seen people hold a pile of new, donated wash clothes like they were holding something breakable, unable to comprehend that this pile is theirs to keep from someone of which they do not know. I've seen clients clutch to hand-made holiday cards like they were gold--because, to those without families, they ARE gold.

Mental illness is confusing enough--donations from strangers can be more confusing. After all, who's gonna give you something without strings attached when your own family has written you off?

This blog, I am here to tell you what happened in the case of the most recent donation of clothing from a very dear friend. Wayne, her husband, passed away very unexpectedly, much-too-soon, not very long ago. Our friend has slowly gone through Wayne's belongings--a task of which I wish on no one. A pile here, a drawer there, a part of the closet. I cannot imagine this feat. Along the way, she has made donations of his clothes to "my" clients.

Until this point, I had dispersed the items she donated here and there, seeking people in need and of the right size. While it's always rewarding to do this, I didn't realize how much a punch it didn't pack....

.....this time, I decided to disperse all her newest "Wayne donations" in one fell swoop. Wayne's wife had donated an amazing assortment of new and barely-used winter clothing. I decided that by taking photos of the winter coats, ski/snow pants, sweaters, pants, socks and even shoes, I could mass-email the agency and get the word out. Of the four pair of shoes, two of them had not been worn or perhaps had been worn once. I made sure to take a photo of the unused shoe treads.

Coats are a hot commodity--barely used name brand coats are not even part of our client consciousness. I gasped as I took the photos--these high-end winter coats didn't even looked used. I knew these would make a huge difference in someone's winter.

I sent out an email to the entire agency, complete with descriptions and photos. I explained that the items were by my office and that it was first come, first dibs. I added that anything not claimed by the end of the day would be donated to the weekend's clothing drive. (I've learned that time limits go a long way.)

Within minutes of hitting the "send" button, people were at my door. Everywhere I looked, magic was swooping down upon me.

I saw one of the younger staff--a guy who happens to spend much time working outdoors--standing off to the side, casually looking at the pile. He didn't know I was watching, but I was. I saw his eyes zero in on a significantly-used pair of those outdoor brown one-piece things that guys wear when it's ridiculously cold outside. They were stained and beat up but still in one piece, had no holes and were most definitely still able to function in the capacity of which they were designed: to stay warm while working outdoors. (It is important to note that some of our line staff face many issues, including poverty; after all, no one is going to get rich working for us.) He slowly walked toward me and asked if staff could look at the donations. I assured him that was fine. He asked about the coveralls, noting he didn't have anything like this to wear when shoveling and plowing in the wee hours of the morning. I encouraged him to try the coverall on and explained that the woman who had donated this item would be glad to know someone who worked outside would get good use of the coveralls. I added how I didn't think any clients would be interested in them.

I thought he was going to cry. He was so grateful that I could actually feel it coming out of his pores. He held the coveralls up and asked if I thought they would fit. I said they looked perfect. Wayne, score one for you. This winter, you will be riding shotgun, keeping a fine young man warm during his efforts to keep our driveways and parking lots cleared of snow.

Clients were trying on things left and right. It was like a fashion show! Sweaters, coats, pants all in a flurry of motion. There was laughing and bartering and planning and even sad sighing (from those of whom could not squeeze into the chosen donated item).Within in the first hour, almost every article of clothing had found new owners.

By the end of the day, it was like I was walking in Wayne's World...everywhere I looked, little "pieces" of Wayne could be seen. One client walked by in his newly-claimed black cowboy boots. I overheard another client talking about his new socks, noting that he had no socks so he was pretty glad to get all these socks. One of Wayne's sweaters could be seen in the distance, proudly being worn by a young man who was now sweating profusely--it was too warm to wear a sweater, but he was not going to wait to wear his new clothing! I was touched at how much I got to "see" and "feel" Wayne on this day.

I noticed that a pair of new black dress shoes had been left behind--everything else was gone. I think they may have been overlooked, as they had been pushed under a chair. I didn't think much about them and left them so an owner could find them. I celebrated how our agency was Wayne's W*rld today.

That afternoon, I was off site, talking to a staff who was getting married the next day. The guy is pretty tight with money--he has a big family and lots of bills, despite being frugal and conscientious about his money. He mentioned that he had to go out and get a pair of black shoes for the wedding. I knew this guy didn't have money to spend on himself for shoes. The guy never buys new clothes, instead making sure the new stuff is there for his kids. He wore scruffy sweatshirts and shorts--all year long. I looked down at his feet and asked what size shoe he wears. When he said the size, I started laughing. I told him to call our office and see if there were still a pair of black shoes underneath the chair where I had last seen them.

Of course, the shoes were still there. Brand new black dress shoes, there for the taking. Of course, they fit perfectly. Was there  doubt? Wayne was just waiting for the right guy to come along.

I am pleased to announce that Wayne made it to the wedding. The shoes were exactly what the groom had envisioned. They looked great! Not only was Wayne's W*rld enveloping me at work--here he was at a wedding! An outdoor wedding, no less--something Wayne would have enjoyed.

I can't wait for the weather to get a bit colder so I can "see" Wayne everywhere.

Please know that when you make a donation, magic does really happen. Picture me and "my" clients in Wayne's W*rld. It's a great place to be.

***********************************
With profound Gratitude to Wayne's wife
***********************************

Riding the Canine Rollercoaster

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So much for picking the cheap route.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of Marbles and Ta-tas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the Fifty

The wife's fiftieth birthday has swooped down upon us. I can't say she is very thrilled with this; in fact, she is downright not pleased about this event. She's been muttering things like, "I'm past middle age now" and "in twenty years, I'll be 70. We won't even live here by then." Geez, talk about a Debbie Downer. I find 50 to be the new 40. Who has time to calculate ages when there is fun to be had right here, right now?

Thankfully, Master Pastor Reiki (MPR) and Blue Eyes (BE) had the right idea to help the wife start her fifth decade a bit more palatable manner. They gave her the most distracting surprise of her life.

MPR and Blue Eyes asked us months ago (actually, on my birthday in June) to "save" the weekend before the wife's birthday. They said they had a gift for the two of us but we wouldn't get it until the Fall. We did as told and left the details to them. We didn't know what we were doing, if we were going somewhere, what to expect, as very few details--okay, none--were shared. While I didn't think about this twice, the poor wife fretted about it. How was she to prepare if she didn't know what we were doing or where we were going? She had all sorts of questions and worries and distractions going on in that brain of hers. They reassured her that it was nothing big, just "putzy" stuff around town. We'd start with breakfast and go from there. They almost seemed disappointed in whatever was planned, as if they had originally planned something "big" and now it had been watered down. We started to feel bad and assured them that we didn't have to do anything special. It would be fine to putz around town. They reiterated numerous times that the events were "putzy" in nature. They were agreeable to figuring out a way for the wife to watch the Packer Game, as this seemed to be the wife's biggest concern. When asked, they said they didn't think we'd need a dog sitter.

Sunday morning, MPR and BE show up at our door, 15 minutes early, as always--they are always early. The are wearing casual clothing (good), windbreakers zipped up, blue jeans and gym shoes rounding out the outfits.

MPR: walks in, a very serious look on her face. BE is somewhere behind her.

Me: Confused, thinking, "oh no, something's come up, something's wrong."

MPR: grabs my hand. "Now, come here. We have something to tell you."

Me: Uh-oh. My brows furl. 

The wife and eye glance at each other. She is thinking something is wrong, too.

The four of us are standing in some weird circle, holding hands.

MPR/BE: unzip jackets.

MPR/BE (together): "WE'RE GOING TO THE PACKERS GAME!"

MPR/BE: Screaming and jumping up and down. They are wearing their Packer Gear under their coats.

Me: Deer in headlights. Huh? 

MPR/BE: waving four Packer tickets in our faces, spinning in circles, still screaming.

Me: Still frozen.

The Wife: "SHUT UP!" 

MPR and BE: STILL jumping up and down, screaming in delight.

Me/The wife: Our brains have stopped working. We are stunned into stupor by the events unfolding before us. 

BE: "You need to pack some clothes and get ready to go to the game. We've got snacks and sodas and waters in the car. We'll go to breakfast, and then we'll go shopping and then we'll get some ice cream and then we'll go to the game!"

More hopping up and down.

Me/The wife: Begin running around like idiots. 

For the record, it's tough to pack for a Packers Game without warning. You have to take into consideration the actual weather, the game time weather, in the sun or in the shade weather. It takes the wife a week to plan an outfit for a Packer Game, so asking her to do it within minutes was a pretty big stretch.

MPR: Grab whatever you want and we'll put it in the car.

BE: You can decide when we get there! Just bring a lot of clothes.

Since I've never been to a "warm" Packer game, I envisioned being cold--I made a pile which included my flannel jeans, long underwear and boots. I grabbed my winter fleece and put that on the pile, too. When I looked at the wife, she was fretting over which of four Packer coats to wear. Neither of us could put a coherent sentence together. For some reason, we were yelling at each other during much of the time, but it wasn't in sentences.  (Yelling is always oh-so-helpful, don't you think?)

The Wife: (points at my feet as I'm standing in front of the closet) You have your shoes on! Why do you have your shoes on in the house?

Me: Who cares? Why are you worried about my shoes? Just figure out what to wear!

I put on my orange sweatshirt. I pick it because (1) it is hunter orange; and, (2) it is the warmest sweatshirt I own.

The Wife:  YOU CAN'T WEAR THAT!

Me: It's hunter orange! There are tons of hunters at the game.

The Wife: Why don't you wear this green-and-gold sweatshirt?

Me: Because it's not warm.

The Wife: You can't wear that!

Me: Well, I'm gonna!

I think about changing sweatshirts but I hate being cold, so orange wins out. I decide to wear my green-and-gold gym shoes, kind of an effort to negate my orange sweatshirt.

The pile of clothing is ridiculous. I don't even bring this many clothes when I go somewhere for a week. MPR and BE encourage us to not worry about it, just put it in the car. All my clothes, the wife's clothes and the four coats (five, if you count my winter fleece) are piled into the vehicle.

As we are getting ready--trying to figure out who can let the dogs out and what else we need to bring--it occurs to me that there is no way possible to squeeze in all the thing they have listed. I check the map app for directions and time of route. It will take us between 3.5 and four hours to get there.

Me: We don't have time to do all those things. I don't even know if we have time for breakfast!

I point out that it will take four hours and that the wife will want to be there by 2:30 at the absolute latest. We'd have to leave town by 10:30 to do that and it's already 9:30 AM. I do some final calculations in my head and announce we can do breakfast as long as we're on the road by 10:30 AM. I point out that the restaurant is right by the tollway, so that will save us about ten minutes--which, at this point, is a very needed thing. It's a really busy restaurant, so I am a bit skeptical. I pray to the Gods of the Grid Iron that the restaurant won't be so busy that it makes us late for the determined schedule.

I shouldn't have worried. Once they learned we were on our way to the Packers Game (BE tells everyone everything), the restaurant people ensured we were seated quickly, served super-fast and that the bill was on the table before we were even done with half our breakfast. We were on the road with time to spare.

The rest of the day, as you can imagine, was sheer delight. The ride was uneventful, the sancks were ridiculous (who includes "Pixies" as a snack for the car?), the weather was perfect (around 60 degrees, a bit cooler in the shade), a free parking spot was secured, brats were consumed and the Packers were victorious. We even got out of town without getting lost (a feat in itself). As is always the case, time zipped by way too quickly.


It's tough (if not impossible) to truly convey  the depth of gratitude we feel for this most wonderful surprise; thus, I wrote this blog. I figure publicly stating my thanks has to be a good start. Everyone should experience a surprise like this at least once in a lifetime.

The wife, who HATES surprises, didn't seem to mind this one too much! I think she might be over her hatred for surprises.I hope this amazing event will help convince her that fifty isn't so bad. I find 50 to be fabulous. This year, I'm as fabulous a certain long-haired defense man--my age is his number and I'm all good with that. Come to think of it, the wife's age is another defense guy's number...how can this not be a great year?

Feel free to refer to us as Hawk and Matthews this year. I'm the one with the long flowing locks.
**************************************************************************
Thank you, MPR and BE!

Ode to MJagger

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

....and takes a selfie with me while in the cage. 
***********************************************************************

Belaboring This and That

Happy Labor Day! Or, most cases, Non-Labor Day.

I am laboring, as I am on-call. I am also going to be "riding the lawn" (riding lawn mower while the wife hand mows via the push mower), so that's semi-laboring for me and laboring for her. (She doesn't like the way I mow so I'm let off the hook; besides, I might vomit if I try to push a mower in the next eight hours. See below.O=)

I find it amusing that stores opened early today, considering the day is about having a day off for laboring. Ah, America--where no holiday or day of recognition is safe.

My non-laboring-laboring self hopes to watch a couple of episodes of Doctor Who, read a bit more of "Wild," survive tonight's football draft (on line and in, what I consider, the wee hours of the night) and make a five minute work-training video. In my new job at my old job, I am in charge of training. I have no time for Power-point presentations that feature a bazillion words in tiny print of which the trainer reads word for word. Today's audience has no stomach for such nonsense--they need clips and blips and sound bites and color. I plan on making a five minute video today....and, that's stretching it. Today's youngsters on the job (anyone under 40) aren't going to pay attention longer than five minutes. I'll take fast and use lots of visuals (like the dogs).

We went to breakfast with the Gaybors this morning. The amount of food brought to our table was obscene. Only in America--holidays are no longer sacred AND the portions are bigger than your head. It put the word "gluttony" to shame. I don't understand why we in America find it necessary to super-super size EVERYTHING. I tried to finish my vat of berry-laden oatmeal and the "short stack" of the largest pancakes on earth, but by the time I got half way done, I experienced a food injury and had to stop.  It's been thirty minutes and I still feel like I may puke. I think pancakes and oatmeal were a bad combo--both expand in the belly once in there. Thankfully, I have some ice cream in the freezer. I'll have that for dinner. I figure that will fit around the cemented ball of carbohydrates living in my belly.

Like I said. I can't mow or puke.

On the sad-news front, I do believe our Green Ash is beginning to show signs of the dreaded and most hated Green Ash Borer. I've been keeping a close watch on the tree, giving it a hug now and then, talking to it whenever I walk by, surrounding it in a bubble of love. This week, I noticed woodpecker holes and thinning of some branches. Dang. I haven't seen any borer "D" shaped holes but that's usually the last thing you see on the trunk. I can't exactly crawl up the tree and take a gander. Our tree looks the best out of any in the neighborhood, which is good and bad. It kind of prolongs the agony. That tree and I have a love fest going on. I wanted it to survive the plight but it's not looking good. The wife and I have decided to leave it until next year, mainly because it's still looking good, but also because it is going to cost at least $900 to have it cut down. I'm glad to have one more season with it. I shall savor every moment of having that tree alive on our property.

Shout out to my dad who is laboring over the issues with his ear. Van Gogh has nothing on him.

As for Labor Day itself, I do thank the Unions for their effort to bring us this fine day. I'm not a big fan of Unions but they certainly did have their day and time and they improved the work world in a bazillion ways. For this, I tip my hat to them. The holiday has unfortunately lost its meaning; it is no longer recognition of the work and sweat of our workers. It is a day of picnics and trips and the end of Summer, the start of school and lots of shopping. Fire up the grill, sit by the lake, finalize your fantasy football line up. I wish no one had to labor today, but those days are gone. Every day is a Labor Day.

So, happy Labor Day. I hope you do not belabor too much on this day.  If you are laboring, God love you.
If you are in labor (which has nothing at all to do with today), hope your doctor isn't on a golf course or boat or four-wheeler.