Ode to the Gods of AV

 
This blog is inspired by today's twenty-something-year olds, as seen from a fifty-something-year old's eyes. Respect your elders, youngsters. (Such youngsters probably think the thing to the left is some weird logo for a fast food restaurant, band or cult.)

It is also inspired by the installation of a Smart TV/Smart board at work on Friday. I cannot wait to get my hands on that thing. I've struggled to stay sane during the era of the white board, knowing that such delicious technology existed but was not within my reach. Today is the day I finally get to use the smart TV. I feel smarter already.

Because this blog will deal with the bygone era of my beloved "technology," I will include many a photo. If you are my age, you will have a smile as you read. If you are young, you are going to wonder what this stuff is and will question how ancient I really am. Let's see how really old YOU are.

As the trainer at work, not only do I have to talk a lot--I have to deal with technology now and then. When I say technology, I mean simple things like lap tops, TVs, VCRs (yes, we still have a VCR--this is a budget production) and DVDs. Last week, I needed to show a DVD as part of first aid training. Prior to last week, I'd just used my lap top to show the DVD, so I didn't have to worry about finding, setting up and using the actual DVD machine.

On this particular day, I made a last minute decision to show the DVD on the "TV on a cart" set up. I asked the three trainees to give me a second while I went and hunted down the TV on a cart. After a short search, I rolled the thing into my office and got ready to show the DVD. Problem is, the person who last used this was either drunk, stupid or stupid drunk. All the chords were jumbled together, things were in the "wrong" places and nothing was plugged in the way they needed to plug in. (Note to self: Planning ahead is a good idea.) There was a VCR/DVD player component, a blue ray component, a TV, a stereo sound "system" with separate speakers and some extra cords...and, two remotes of which were not for the TV. Nothing was fully plugged into the TV--cords were dangling here and there, all tangled and unusable in the current state. I'm not sure which component was most recently used, but neither of them could be used in the way they were currently "set up."  I asked the trainees for their patience as I untangled the chords and moved components here and there on the cart. I unplugged, untangled, tangled, plugged.

While doing this (and getting covered by dust, as no one had EVER cleaned this cart thing and I know I purchased the stereo in 2005, so that was like 10 years of dust), I laughed and said aloud,

"I feel like I'm in the AV club in grade school." 

I looked up at the three 20-something year olds. They had blank stares, aimed at me and my cart. I stopped fiddling with the cords and asked,

"You don't know what the AV club was, do you?"

All three shook their heads "no." I think they looked a wee bit scared. I stepped out from behind the TV and stand and inquired, "So, you didn't have an AV club at school?" Their still-blank faces suggested not.

Because I didn't think before saying anything further, I didn't shut up. Instead of just worrying about the cords and getting the first aid DVD running, I added,

"I always wanted to be in the AV club, but only boys were in the AV club when I was in grade school." Now they didn't just look scared, I'm pretty sure the WERE scared. Adding insult to my self-inflicted injury, I questioned them:

"So, you never got to watch a movie in school on a movie projector--you know, the kind with the movies on reels?"

I might as well have been speaking a different language...because I WAS speaking a different language.

It was at this precise moment that I realized I was really, really old.

As their wise elder, and as old people tend to do, I decided it was my moral obligation to educate them on technology of old and how I had been in awe of the nerds in the AV Club. First aid could wait.

"Boy, did I want to be an AV nerd. They got to roll in the projector and set up the movies and fix things when the movie reel would suddenly spit out the movie film. Oh, to have been a nerd in the AV club!"

I started working on the cords as I spoke. "Man, were we happy when the AV nerd rolled in the filmstrip projector or the movie projector. There was nothing like that." It dawned on me that NO ONE under the age of 45 probably knew what a film strip was. I didn't even bother asking.

(Side note: Can I just say that I remember those filmstrips as if I saw one yesterday? I can still hear the "ding" alerting the teacher to advance the slide. The best film strip we ever watched was in fifth grade, when they showed the girls in my class the film strip warning us that we were going to get this mystery thing called menstruation. That was a doozy!)

I finally had all the cords and components in order. I was stymied for a moment when trying to figure out why there was no TV remote and what the two remotes in hand were actually "tied" to. I stepped in front of the TV to turn it on manually but there were no buttons on the front. One of the three must have taken pity on me because he stood up and pushed a button on the side of the TV.

Wa-la! The TV turned on. Boy, that master's degree sure wasn't helping me today, eh?

I manually turned on the DVD player and shoved in the DVD. I accidentally figured out that one of the remotes was for the DVD/VCR player, so I used that to get things going. Nothing but a blank blue screen stared out from the TV. I tilted my head to one side, considering how without a remote, I didn't know how to change the channels so I could pick the correct channel for showing the DVD. One of the three threw me a bone, noting that the TV needed to be on such-and-such a setting. I wanted to say, "Duh! I know that!" but realized that this information still didn't help me with the problem. Putting my master's degree to work, I figured that if the power button was on the side of the TV, the "channel changer buttons" were probably on the side of the TV, too. Yes! I changed the channel and was super-relieved to see the already-running first aid DVD pop up on the screen.

As the DVD rolled through the "warnings," I asked if anyone had ever smelled a warm ditto, fresh off the ditto machine (or, mimeograph, I suppose). Man, they probably thought I had snorted one too many dittos in my day. I couldn't help it. I was on an AV roll. I explained how the teacher would make the copies using this machine and the purple-blue inked wonders were warm when "hot off the press" and how they had their own distinct smell.

They did not look impressed. Actually, by this point, I'm not sure they were even conscious. They were probably deliriously happy when I shut up and showed the actual first aid DVD. It might be the first time I've ever taught first aid where the students were actually excited to get going on the lesson. I mean, who gets excited about learning first aid in a work training?

I was relieved to find out that they were familiar with an overhead projector. At least they knew of something from my school years. I didn't bother to ask if they had ever used a card catalog.

....I wasn't dumb enough to ask if they had ever used a tape recorder, heard of an eight track or knew life before the VCR player.

.....I didn't mention that the microwave didn't show up until I was in high school and that there was no such thing as a cell phone.

......I daresay I didn't confess to knowing life before MTV or that I used a MANUAL typewriter to learn what they now call keyboarding.

....I didn't note that I didn't use a computer until after college and that the Internet was nowhere to be found until I was well into adulthood.

I sighed and let them watch the DVD in peace. As they watched, I gave a silent nod to the AV nerds of old. I thought of the movie reels, the chime of the filmstrip, the first time I used a microwave. I thought about how I lugged around an electric typewriter in college and how it really sucked when the ribbon ran out. I thought about how we'd listen to the radio and tape songs we liked using an external tape recorder/player.

As the DVD rolled, I gave a nod to the technology of old and a fist pump to the Tech Support of today's world. The IT guy at work is the AV guy of yester-year.

.....maybe the filmstrip will make a come-back. If that happens, I am so ready. Maybe I can show film strips on the new Smart TV/Smart board.....

Genius!

No Way! Yahweh.

I don't know how I forgot to mention this but let it be known that I gave church up for Lent. The Baby Jesus brought me too much stress, so I had to let him go. I am thankfully no longer the president of the board at church. I wasn't made to have a church. I'm not even sure I was made to go to church. It is with profound relief that I can let him go for Lent.

Out of respect to the soon-to-be-risen Master, I continue on as queen of the newsletter, keeper of the website and substitute in the sound room. I'm also the vice president but unless the president is assassinated, I'm good to go.

Perhaps the Baby Jesus has been dismayed with my change of leadership and my newly found Jesus-free freedom, so he's tricked me to Christian Radio when flipping stations and I've forgotten to put CDs in the car. I usually end up listening to this positivity-laced-Jesus-is-coming-look-happy music when there are commercials on my usual stations. Jesus has a good gig going on because (1) his station doesn't play any commercials and (2) it's happy, mindless adult contemporary easy listening of which is nice when traveling to and from work. The wife, who has a "smart car" with iPod bluetooth and satellite radio and knows nothing of commercials, is probably flummoxed by this. Hey, I say love the one you're with.

Well, love the one you're with until it's money-raising time....someone's gotta pay for that commercial free approach. When it's "tithing time," the music seems rather scant. Just begging for your money. That's when I turn the channel and listen to the commercials. It's like going to Catholic mass while on the road.

I really like Easter but it's all about the chocolate, not the main event. (No offense to the most holiest of days--Move! That! Stone!) I can still remember how sick I felt after eating 40 Cadbury chocolate eggs back in the college era. That had to be four bazillion calories and an almost terminal level of sugar. I''m still recovering from that madness. Let it be known that I don't waste my time on any of those waxy, cheap chocolate bunnies. I want the expensive, tasty real chocolate bunnies. Skip the Peeps. Those things freak me out.

What the hell IS a Peep, anyway?

Before I forget, I want to mention Kleenex with Vicks built into them. I know--weird, non-existent segue from Jesus and Peeps to Kleenex. I'm trying to decide if it's genius or madness to have such a product. I used a box of them over the past week and the verdict is still out. I really like them and the smell of Vicks always brings back happy memories of childhood. (Wait--that's kind of weird. When you smell Vicks as a kid, it means you were sick. How is that happy?) So, each time I used one of those chemically-laden tissues, it made me happy. But then, my brain kicked in and was like, "holy shit, you are breathing in a vat of chemicals using these things." If you haven't snorted one of these things, you should try it. Just don't blame me for all the brain cells probably being killed while huffing one of those thing.


As you can probably tell, I woke up in a rather irreverent mood today. No reason of which I can determine. It's a nice feeling to wake up irreverent. Perhaps it's from sniffing one too many Vicks-Kleenex or hearing one too many Christian rock songs. Had I slept longer, I might not be this way. Unfortunately, today's alarm clock--earlier than usual and of course on a weekend--was Freckles puking on the rug. Why she always throws up on a day we could sleep in is more genius than those Kleenex.


Speaking of her lumpy majesty, the dog continues to plug along. Yahweh, she's still she keeps sprouting disgusting-cauliflower-puffs of skin growths and has more boogers in her eyes than in a room of kindergartners during cold and flu season, but she never misses a meal and she has stopped the barking madness. I look at her and shake my head, chuckling. I thought we'd be dogless by now, with the vet's prophecy coming true--that being Freckles would only last a few months after the passing of Lucy. (Oh, how we still miss Lucy.) Perhaps in the spirit of Easter, the Baby Jesus swooped down upon her and said, "Let there be Life" and he extended her expiration date, not only in human years but in dog years.
Damn dog is going to live to be 20.


I think I shall remain irreverent all day. Pray to Jesus for the wife. She's gonna need some prayer today if I'm gonna be a smarty pants all day.....

.....Wait--perhaps you should pray for me. The wife is so not going to be entertained after a few hours of my irrevent-cy. Or, maybe it's irrelevancy. Whatever, someone is gonna need prayer. Just remember: Prayers, not peeps. Amen.

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The Training Furballs

Follow up from last blog's report....the Book de la Face experiment definitely backfired, as illustrated by the wife's taunting: "Well, that didn't work. You wasted more time not having facebook and then re-creating facebook than all the time you wasted when you had facebook." Not only that, people are now finding me, which means I'm adding friends to the friends I recently unfriended. Sigh.

I should've come up with a stage name.

Follow up on the left-handed mouse experiment: As people were unable to use my computer at work due to my left handed mouse (I have to share my computer at times and the left handed mouse REALLY freaked people out), I changed it back to right-handed. That said, I've left my home computer as left-handed...so, I'm left handed at home and right handed at work. Seems balanced enough. So far, so good.

In the "well, I didn't see that coming" department, I've run into an issue of which I didn't even seem possible. For the past six months, I have been working as the "trainer" for my company. My job is to babble all day at people and whip them into shape so they are trained to do their jobs correctly...and, to "onboard" the newbies. (What a weird word--onboarding. Alas, that is what they tell me I do, so all aboard!) Onboarding the newbies has been an ordeal, as we've had many a hire during my short tenure as the trainer. All that training has led to a problem......

.....I've developed furballs.

In case you are not familiar with human furballs, they are most definitely different than cat hairballs, so erase that image out of your mind. What happens is all that talking leaves me froggy and phlegmy. (Froggy, furballs, you'll get the picture.) Who knew that talking all day would bother me? I talk all the time. I'm always yipping about something.

Previously, my job was to shut up and listen. After all, who wants a counselor who does all the talking? Counseling is a relatively quiet job. Oh sure, there's all that skill teaching, cheerleading and encouragement, but it's quiet and tends not to involve use of a loud voice--one's job is to sound soothing, not terrifying.

(Side note: I daresay a few of my clients find me terrifying, but that's a subject for their counseling and has nothing to do with my voice...well, not that I know of...)

My training job has challenged my yipping ability. By the time I get home, I'm making all these god-awful throat clearing noises to move the furballs and phlegm and scratchiness out of the way. Laying down to go to sleep is the worst. The poor wife. It takes me 15 minutes to just stop clearing my throat enough to sleep. God knows she's not going to sleep until I knock it off. Even the deaf dog is bothered by my noises.

It's obnoxious. I don't want to do it. I try not to do it. But, that little froggy, phlegmy irritation leaves me powerless. I can't not do it.

In an effort to save my sanity and my marriage, I've taken to all sorts of rituals and life-altering changes. Hot lemon tea with a dollop of honey....throat drops of various sorts (medicated, non-medicated, zinc laced, ...no dairy after dinner (dairy makes the problem a billion times worse), taking my allergy pills earlier in the evening (not that this is an allergy problem, but what the heck), drinking more water during the day, not talking once I'm done working, gargling with salt water, taking a decongestant (although I'm not technically congested), trying not to clear my throat unless it's absolutely, furbally necessary, yadda yadda yadda (or, not yadda yadda yadda in my case--I'm trying not to talk so much). I already take an obscene amount of Vitamin C every day, so I won't be adding more to that. An on-line search educated me on the availability of products designed to help singers and teachers. Lemon tea with honey is a top suggestion, so at least I'm on the mark with that one. (I do not like hot tea with honey. I don't like honey. Go figure. Who the hell doesn't like honey? What's not to love about hot tea?) I have yet to try licorice root, slippery elm or apple cider vinegar, so I have a few options left to try before taking a vow of silence...perhaps I'll have to learn how to talk from my diaphragm. The wife thinks it's funny, as she's a teacher and she talks all day long, just as all our teacher friends do. How they do it and still sound and feel normal, I do not know.

I will be trying the apple cider vinegar next, so stay tuned. I really don't want to give up ice cream and chocolate, so I'm willing to take on the vinegar. It has so many positive qualities that it deserves to be the next test subject. Since I am not consuming dairy after dinner, I'll have to start having ice cream for breakfast.

It's a sacrifice, but one must do what one must do. 

Visitors to the Addiverse: feel free to laugh at my furballs. Teachers: feel free to snicker. Trainees: be quiet and respect thy trainer. Self: try to talk at a quieter volume during training. Embrace the apple cider vinegar. Say no to the after dinner chocolate. Say yes to ice cream for breakfast. Furballs: I'm sorry but you must go. It is either you or me. The wife isn't gonna tolerate the two of us, so I chose you to hit the road....

...and, Unfriended friends of Facebook: You are required to make suggestions for my training issues or I won't accept your friend request. I have standards to maintain and furballs to lose. No suggestion = no friend of mine.

I'd say more but I'm embracing "silence is golden" when not at work. Besides, I never talk when I'm eating ice cream and it is breakfast time, so here's to my bowl of breakfast and golden silence.....

Pass the honey. It's golden. Maybe I'll like honey better if it's dribbled all over my ice cream....

Pinning the Two-headed FB Monster

Great news! Freckles has stopped her morning barking. She has finished training us and thus no longer needs to bark. She seems to have stopped her search for Lucy, too so all is a bit less stressful in the addiverse.

Photo....A bit of sacrilege in honor of the approaching Easter holiday. I'd say I'm sorry but I'm not. I'm still laughing about this meme.

My plan to save myself from book de la face doom didn't exactly go as planned. The goal was to deactivate my account for an unspecified length of time and get my freedom back. Too much time had been wasted perusing the feed. So, I sent out an email to those who I thought might need to know I was walking away from the time-sucking entity, deactivated my account and walked away. I knew that I could re-activate it without issue when the time came.

As soon as I got to the kitchen table, I realized I needed the book of face for church. I'm an administrator of our group page and it's one way the church communicates. We're so forward thinking, aren't we? Anyway, I thought about this and decided that having a "church facebook profile" would suffice. I figured it would be easy enough to set up a new account and limit it to church people.

Oh, what a fool I am. Oh, all the time I did waste.  

It took hours to get things right. Hours. So much for saving time.

Because I had de-activated my original profile before making a new church profile, I couldn't make myself the administrator for the church group, which meant I couldn't do what I needed to do. Duh. It took a lot of brain power to figure that out. I then had to make a profile, complete with name which would let church people know it was me but make it hard for the world to figure out it was me. After all, if I started gathering non-church people, it would defeat the purpose of the new church being that I was about to become. Then, I noticed all the photos I had posted via my original FB profile were now gone but my name was not. So, people could still "see" me but not the photos, which was a bit disconcerting to me. Try as I might, I couldn't get my name to go away. I thought about blocking myself from myself but realized that wouldn't work because everyone else would still see me. Even removing myself from the group didn't work. All in all, it was a much bigger ordeal than I had imagined. Worse, I accidentally deleted myself as administrator right after I had made myself an administrator.
Side note: Thank God Madge was okay during her tumble at the Brits. As I am in the same age group as Madonna, I shall not make jokes about broken hips or anything age-related like that. Respect your elders, people! Side side note: Madonna is going on tour this fall. There is no doubt I will be there. Time to be saving pennies.  Back to the topic at hand.

It took a week of nonsense before I finally gave up and re-activated my original account, sans 500 people. By lightening my load by 500, it made my profile much more manageable. The only problem? Now, I have TWO Facebook accounts. Two. Twice the fun? No, twice the pain in the ass.

I changed my name on the original profile, thinking this would keep people from finding me once I unfriended them and that this would solve my church page dilemma. I didn't want to change it too much, though, lest those I wanted as friends think it wasn't me. I figured changing the name would make my stuff "disappear" off the church page, which would be a huge bonus. Of course not. All it did was change the name on the church page. So much for that idea.

I am embarrassed to admit how much time I've wasted on updating that reactivated page. Talk about brain cells being consumed, never to be seen again. It's almost as bad as the Apple cult. Getting out is a lot harder than one would imagine. In fact, I'm still working on this endeavor. I accidentally un-administered myself AGAIN from the church group while trying to delete my original profile from the church (God knows I don't need two profiles in one group). Dang, I deleted the wrong one, leaving me unable to add myself OR delete the wrong profile.

The result of my endeavors? Instead of making my life less complicated and saving myself lots of time, I created a two-headed monster.

The good news is that it is MUCH easier to navigate my "real" profile and it's nice to have all the church stuff in a church place. The bad news is that I'm always signing in and out of the two accounts. I flip-flopped sign-in stuff (emails and passwords) so this ends up being quite the entertaining task. It may be easy to teach oneself to use a mouse with the left hand but it is not easy to have a 50-something brain flip-flop passwords. I could flip-flop them back, but that hurts my head even more.

The worst part of the endeavor? I found myself wasting time on Pinterest. Lots of time. Obscene amounts of time. The time freed without Facebook was filled with time seeking pins on Doctor Who and other nerdy things. Funny animals. Sassy comments. Inappropriate memes.

Think there is a pin that says, "I'm addicted to the Internet and my life is definitely unmanageable?"  I'd go take a gander but I've got to go check both my Facebook accounts.
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Mousing to the Left

I've been having problems with my "mouse hand." My newer-than-not-maybe-six-month-total position at work requires a whole lot more time at the desk, with much of the day on the computer. I am not meant to sit at a computer but that's for a different day. Suffice it to say that all that mousing around leaves my entire right arm aching. Not a carpal tunnel aching--a whole arm aching. I decided it was related to bad ergonomics--in this case, having the mouse too far to the right. I have this mega-keyboard (one of those really cool looking ones designed for good ergonomics, of which I adore) so I can't move the mouse any closer to center. I've tried numerous things but the keyboard can only move so far on the pathetic key board holder thingy. Last Friday, I re-arranged my desk set-up half a bazillion times, moving the mouse, the keyboard, the monitor, the chair--everything. I even tried using the laptop instead of the keyboard...but, I still had to use the mouse, which left me in the same mousing predicament.

I was staring at my desk, contemplating the meaning of my ergonomic disaster when it hit me....why not use my LEFT hand to drive the mouse? There is a ton of room to the left of my keyboard. My left arm doesn't hurt. My right hand would be free to hold coffee or chocolate or a pen. I don't use the number pad on the right side of the keyboard (don't get me started--I'm a leftover from the typewriter generation and never made the leap from old school to right-side number pad), so I knew I could shove the keyboard even further to the right.

Genius.

I immediately dedicated this old dog to learning a new trick. Heck, I eat with my left hand, I play the drums, which requires both hands. The left hand is just sitting around doing nothing. I like my left hand. It likes me. Why not give it a whirl? Besides, if Freckles can train me to sit on the couch in the morning, why can't I train myself to left-hand-mouse?

I made a promise to myself: I would use my left handed mouse for one month before giving up. I decided that in order to give this a fair shake, I had to only use my left hand. No cheating. No flip flopping back and forth between hands.

In order to assure my compliance, I changed the settings on my computer, switching the buttons on the mouse to be for left handed people. (Side note: did you know you can do this? The right click becomes the left-click on a "left handed mouse.") Oh sure, I could change the settings without much fanfare, but I knew I would not. I could not. I swore that I would not.

At first, the mouse was on its own mission. It went flying every which way except for where I was aiming to go. I don't know who was driving that bus but it certainly wasn't my left hand. Thankfully, I anticipated this; after all, I've been right hand mousing my entire computer tenure and couldn't expect perfection on Day One. Practice and patience, grasshopper.

I noticed that Day One featured a lot of facial expressions. I guess my left hand is tied to my face. Who knew that doing something new would lead to such nonsense?

I quickly deemed that highlighting portions of sentences (to move them, delete them--you know) was the worst. It took me awhile to figure out highlighting "backwards" (from right to left instead of left to right) was a whole lot easier. Learning to click the "right click as left click" was surprisingly easy. I can't explain why. Perhaps our hands talk to each other and they like consistency: the index finger is the designated driver and the middle finger comes along for the ride.

I was pretty nervous about making this switch during work hours as the powers-that-be at times request I do something on the computer NOW while they are standing in front of my desk. (Ah, the price of competence.) Right handed mousing--BAM! Done. Left handed mousing would mean "can you come back in 20 minutes?"

If there were a document emergency, patience would have to prevail.

I am pleased to say that after three days, I have succeeded in my mousing mission. I'm not saying I'm as sure-handed on the left side than the right side. I'm certainly not saying that I'm even half as fast using my left hand as compared to my right....but, I saying that my brain has made the switch and no longer argues about this way of being and I'm no longer making weird facial expressions. Only 25 more days to go before I can even consider if I want to continue this way of being.

As for Freckles, I tell you this: that damn dog is now barking in the kitchen while I'm sitting on the couch. She trains me to sit with her on the couch so she shuts up.....this morning, she has left the couch and returned to the kitchen....barking. NOW what are you trying to teach me, oh great canine sage? The barking. Oh, the barking. She has a treat. She's eaten breakfast. I'm sitting where she wants me to sit. She's gone outside.....and, yet the barking continues.

I return to the kitchen table and sit down. Guess where she goes? To the couch. Then, she starts barking there.

I'm gonna give her a left-handed mouse right to the snout. 
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Of Caffeine and Canine

Now that the Donuts That Dunk has once again come to town, the wife and I are obsessed with the smooth happiness in a cup. This has PROBLEM written all over it. I hear the place calling to me. I'm driving along and my car suddenly veers to the land of pink and orange. I don't need to be buying coffee via a drive through every day. I pray the novelty wears off sooner than not. Having DD in town sure beats driving 30 minutes across the state line to get a cup of joe.

Yesterday, while out running errands, I heard the call. I wasn't near the DD but heard it, anyway. I fought a valiant battle and finally, FINALLY got my car to go home without stopping for coffee. I was so proud!

My victory was short-lived. I put the dog in the car and went back later in the afternoon. Sigh. I need a 12 step meeting for this.

Or, maybe a 12 cup card punch.

Speaking of the dog, the wife and I have been properly trained. In an effort to get Freckles to SHUT UP in the morning, we developed a new ritual. It works handsomely...well, the dog no longer barks at length...instead, we do the work and the dog sits on the couch.

It seems that we have reinforced new behavior but the behavior is ours. When the dog starts barking, one of us goes into "shut her up" mode. When it's my turn, it goes like this:

1. Barking. Barking loudly. Ear-piercing loudly. (The dog, not the wife.)
2. Grab.laptop and coffee.
3. Take laptop and coffee, go in to the front room.
4. Plop dog the couch.
5. Plop myself on the couch.
6. Dog falls instantly asleep. I do my work while seated in my place.

See? You can teach old dogs new tricks. I learned this new trick without effort.

I am not a fan of typing while on a couch but it works. Well, it works for the dog. It doesn't nothing for carpal tunnel (of which I do not have but one must be cognizant of ergonomics at all times). The dog instantly stops when we do what we have been trained to do. The dog is snoring and dreaming before I get through half a cup of coffee.

Coffee from, of course, the land of DD. 

Now, I do NOT go to DD in the morning, as it is too far away. No, I plan ahead and put a cup in the frig for the next morning.

It's an illness.

I have DD for the single-cup machine at home but it's not the same. I don't know what the hell they do to the coffee at the store but it's one bazillion percent better than anything I can make at home.  I've even tried the DD creamer available at the grocery store. (For the record, it is hard to find "cream only." I can find original--cream and sugar--and caramel and extra sweet but not just cream.) Please, novelty! Please wear off. Soon. Very soon.

I am addicted to DD and my life has become unmanageable.

I'm seated on the couch and my dog has become manageable.

I'll take a quiet dog over concern over coffee concerns any day.

Don't need a punch card for that.
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Picking Your Poison

Things are hopping in the Addiverse. Between Freckles barking incessantly and a recent bout of food poisoning (that really kept things hopping), it's been like having the circus in town.

I suppose the dog is number one on the list, as she's the loudest and most obnoxious. She's taken to barking non-stop in the morning. It's piercing as it echos through the kitchen and interferes with my desire to enjoy my coffee in the solitude of the wee hours. This started after Lucy died, so our first thought is that she has finally gotten past her depression stage and has moved on to her anger stage: "WHERE IS THAT DAMN OTHER DOG?" It's tough to understand the disappearance of a sister and even tougher when you are more blind and deaf than not. I know she misses Lucy and see her look for her at times--well, look for Lucy's food, which is the same thing as looking for Lucy. That said....

....after much observation, I know we've moved  from anger to "now I've got them trained." I daresay we have reinforced this "bad" behavior and Freckles now knows that we are her minions. We wanted her to shut up so we've accidentally trained her to be rewarded before shutting up. Our "Stop barking! Here's a treat" equals "if I bark, they give me a treat." Dang, I hate when that happens. She's trained us to do EVERYTHING in the exact same order every morning. Pee, treat. Eye drops, treat. The wife gets up, peanut butter treat. Louder, non-stop barking, treat. Barking, get put on the couch and go to sleep. It's not until she's on the couch after this routine that she stops barking. Weekends are a drag because we don't do things in the same order as on weekdays. That messes with her routine, which messes with our piece and quiet.

There is a saying "pick your poison." It is usually used in reference to choosing your alcoholic beverage. In this case, I say we have to pick our poison of barking until your eardrums bleed and waiting for the extinction of this behavior OR being trained by the dog to follow the same routine and to dispense treats as desired. I think it's clear with which poison we choose.

Speaking of poison, I had a delicious case of food poisoning on Monday. Well, I suppose I should say Sunday Night but the worst of it was Monday morning. The wife was sure it was the flu and I was sure it was food poisoning. It's pretty hard to prove which is which, even after a detailed research effort on the internet, as many of the symptoms are the same--both feature things shooting out of your body, feeling absolutely horrific and even having a fever. I didn't have the achy feeling like you get with the flu and this hit suddenly--I was totally fine and then WHAM! The flu tends to start slowly and lead to misery, then aches and pains and delirium. My poison started with an intense, sudden, surprising stomach ache and "moved" (quite literally) from there. I thought I was was going to die. I shat like I was preparing for a colonoscopy. The thought of eating or even drinking anything made me gag. At one point, I curled up in a little fetal ball on the floor in an effort to feel more comfortable. I think that scared the wife--I'm not known for curling up in a fetal ball on the floor. Thankfully, it left as quickly as it came. Twenty four hours later I was back to eating like there was no tomorrow and I felt perfectly fine.

Told her it wasn't the flu.

The culprit? I'd bet dollars to donuts that it was.........

.....the church pot luck.

This is why I despise pot lucks. I'm not a fan of leftovers, I am always skeptical about food left out for any duration and I'm always suspicious about the various cooks who have prepare potluck food. You don't know what's going on with that food or in their kitchens. I almost never eat at the church potlucks--I stick to the cookies and brownies as I figure those are the least likely to cause issue. I ate some rice product (I think it was rice, I'm not sure--it might have been risotto or pasta or something--it was kind of mushy) that had been sitting out for an unknown duration, was barely lukewarm and involved some "gravy-not-meat-gravy like" substance. I ate a whole bunch of things because I was hungry. Talk about picking your poison. I shoveled all sorts of foods so figuring out what might have been the culprit is difficult. Chicken-tainted hands/cross contamination, foods not kept at appropriate temperatures, fecal-surprises-under-the-preparer's-fingernails, hidden meat products, spoiled ingredients....it's all possible in a potluck.

Call it a pot shot in a pot luck.

I didn't call around because I figure I'll hear about it at church next week if anyone else got sick. I suppose it could be something from our house but I'm pretty sure that's not the case. I didn't eat out that weekend, I didn't cook anything real and there's no poop under my fingernails. I didn't handle the dog's poop or touch any canine fecal matter anywhere. The wife didn't cook anything, either--no raw chicken flopping around on the counter for this family.

I'll pick a barking dog over food poison 100 out of 100 times. A barking dog will stop if you give it a treat. Food poisoning will not stop if you give it a treat.

Oh, someone's barking. I best go get a treat. Call me Pavlov.

Cabled

A certain decathlon man is transitioning from man to woman. Footballs are deflating. Ground hogs are waking up. People are selling their poop for money. Madonna's new album is almost done. Super Bowl Eve is upon us....

...but, the BIG news in the Addiverse is that the wife successfully negotiated a hostage situation. 

....with the cable company.

We are held hostage by a company who knows there is no true local competition. Rat bastards have us by the....um,...deflated balls. 

It's a game the wife plays every time our "contract" is up. The game goes like this: 

Get the bill. 

Shit on self. 

Call the cable company. 

Demand a better rate. 

Make threats. 

Negotiate rate. 

Watch cable, thank the gods that the Internet is still firing.

It's one of the dumbest games on the planet. Why on earth we pay ridiculous amounts of hard-earned money to watch TV is beyond me. Why it's cheaper to keep a land line than not makes no sense. Why I can't live without the Internet--and, they know this--is pathetic. (I could live without TV but not without the Internet. I feel them squeezing the wi-fi life out of me.)

I listen from the next room. God love her, she's become a professional at this: 

The wife, sternly: Bill, bill, bill, blah blah blah, customer for over 20 years, get rid of land line, get better rate or I'm cancelling. 

Cable minion: No land line = bigger bill. No better offer available. So sorry, Charlie.

The wife, no-nonsense-I'm-not-playing: Get me the retention specialist. 

Cable minion: Offers a ridiculous (and more expensive, of course) plan, complete with HBO and everything. Better than curing cancer!

The wife (who does not want nor need HBO): I WANT WHAT I HAVE AT A BETTER RATE.

(I can hear the ending of that sentence, of which she does not say aloud. I would not have been so kind.)

Cable minion: Oh, look! Surprise! I did find a better rate! Better rate, two years. 

The wife; accept offer, lock in, keep land line, hang up, disgusted but triumphant. 

What a waste of time and brain cells. Seriously, it's worse than buying a car. Actually, buying a car is easier because you can walk out. 

I'd make a crack about how we can watch the Super Bowl without issue now that cable is secured for the next two years, but it's still too soon to make such a remark. Remember: football is dead in our house. Instead, I'll express my gratitude that I can play games and read books on my cell phone using our home's wi-fi. 

Don't even get me started about cell phone companies. There is a special place in hell for them, too.

We could (1) give up our cable and live like we're in the 1970's; or, (2) threaten to go to satellite. I lived in the 1970's and am in no mood to go back to the world of antennas, phones on cords and no Weather Channel. I'm certainly not ready for a leap to space, boldly going where no cable company has gone before. We could get the Internet via our land line but friends who do this have nothing but complaints. We could try to sponge off our neighbors' wi-fi so we could use our gadgets without using cellular data but they all seem to have their wi-fi secured. 

Side note: I really like the names the neighbors have given their routers. I want to meet these people. Like, which one of you named their router THE TARDIS? I must meet you. I need to re-name our router. Suggestions welcome.

Thanks to successful negotiation of the cable hostage situation, we'll watch non-reality-reality TV all weekend. We'll use our wi-fi to fire up our tablets and computers and phones. I'll watch Netflix and the Weather Channel while the wife shops on-line. I'll pay bills on-line and she'll grade papers via her school's portal. We'll get telemarketer and scam calls on our land line. I'll post this blog....

....but, we won't be watching the Super Bowl. There's a better chance Freckles will whelp puppies before we'd watch this year's Super Bowl. 

Considering Freckles is spayed and 14.5 years old, I think the odds are pretty clear about deflated balls being seen anywhere near our house. The wife can take on the cable company but she can't take on the lack of green and gold. Too soon, too painful. 

I'm gonna focus on renaming the router during the Super Bowl. The wife will be in a self-induced carbohydrate coma so she's not conscious during the game.

Let me know how the commercials are. 

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Of Moldy Cheese and Scabby Ink

Trigger alert: all Packer fans should read this blog knowing full well I am writing about the Packers and that last game of the season. If you've just stopped crying or have yet to see results from newly-prescribed anti-depressants, please know this entry has potential to trigger a new wave of emotion. The Addiverse takes no responsibility for any negative reaction or increased feelings of maudlin-inity. You have been warned.

Please know that I never once name the team of which not be named.

I waited a week to write this blog...not because I didn't have the time to write a blog but rather to ensure my personal safety and out of respect to my Cheddarhead friends. I wanted to make sure all my Packer Fan friends were at least a week past the loss of the play-off game before writing anything about it. I'm not kidding. I didn't want to trigger a wave of anger, angst, pain so soon after the event. That would be like pouring salt in a wound and then stabbing the wound, over and over, I'm not facetious--that loss to Seattle made life so painful for the wife that I didn't dare even wear anything green for the past week.

Friends, I am genuine in my respect.

The wife watched the game, as did every Packer Fan in this great football nation of ours. I was away getting a new tattoo during the game, as it seemed the safest thing to do. The wife did not expect a victory, or so her lips did say. In reality, her little green and gold heart hoped and believed a victory was in the works....and, the first three quarters of the game helped that beating green and gold heart build confidence--daring to believe the win was now reality. Life turned from "we have no chance" to "oh my god, we're might actually win." A blow-out would was expected. Being teased with an upset for 95% of the game was horrible, unforeseen event.

There is nothing crueler than when the Universe toys with your pigskin heart.

I unfortunately came home as the game was winding down. I immediately put headphones on and never did once look at the TV, lest I be accused of being a bad luck charm. (I'm superstitious and don't want to mess with Packer mojo.) I queued up a favorite Doctor Who episode and turned the volume up to "Painfully LOUD."

I knew it wasn't good when I could hear the wife yelling over the headphones. I was unable to turn the volume up any louder--my ears would've been bleeding and my eyes would have popped out. I focused on the storyline, best as I could.

Then, it happened. I won't write anything about the ending of the game other than to say a heart-breaking defeat in the last seconds of the game crushed all my Cheddar friends. It was a cruel, cruel way to lose. The Universe did not wear green or gold last Sunday. St. Vincent must have been taken hostage by something or someone right as the game was coming to a close.

I've never seen the wife so upset about a Packer game. She was beside herself. The torment was palpable. I had nowhere to hide. There was nothing I could do.

She talked about it all night. She literally couldn't sleep that night--no exaggeration factor here. She tossed and turned, muttered and growled. At 3 A.M. she apologized for still being awake. Her first words on Monday morning were about the game. Her first words when I returned home from work were about the game. She would say she wasn't going to talk about it and then she would talk about it. Talk about feeling helpless. All I could do was try to not scratch my itchy new tattoo and be a supportive spouse.

I begged her not to turn on the TV, to not listen to talk sports radio, read the sports blogs, view any of the Wisconsin newspapers she's always reading on line. I emphasized the importance of not watching the news or, dear god, ESPN for the next three weeks.

Suffice it to say, it has been a very long, sad week. Sum it up with the wife's words: "Football is dead to me." There will be no viewing of the Super Bowl this year in the Addiverse.

Last night, I mentioned how I was going to wear Packer Gear to work today, as our auditor is from the Northwest coast and happens to be a fan of the team that must not be mentioned. Oh.My.God. Perhaps a week wasn't long enough. She announced it was too soon to do such a thing.

It shall be a long, long off-season. The wife is practicing her new mantra, "it's only a game, it's only a game." I'm no fool. It's not only a game to Packer Fans. She can keep saying it but she's only lying to herself and to her tribe.

As for the tattoo, I got a blue bird in honor of Lucy, Bark of Poteidaia (of whom we continue to greatly miss). It's a cartoon, as are all but two of my tattoos. (I know, that's really tacky--but, I'm a tacky grrrrrl and I am a cartoonist at heart, so it makes sense. Go with it.) I had to think about it long and hard, as I wanted it to be just right. I've never looked at so many blue birds in my life. I finally chose a blue bird from Snow White, not that Snow White has anything to do with me or Lucy. She just had the best cartoon blue bird. I had the tattoo done by a high school friend's daughter, placed where I could see it. I hate that I can't see my back. All those tacky tattoos and I can't see them. The poor wife, who hates tattoos, has to see them but I can't and I want to. It would have been fun to put the blue bird on my shoulder, so we could sing about having a blue bird on my shoulder, but there wasn't room. I went with an ankle. The placement allows Lucy Blue to talk to Mickey Mouse.

The tattoo is at the ugly, scabby part, which is just fine as the wife's heart is at the ugly, scabby part of healing, too. Together we shall heal. Together we shall march forward and not pick at the scabs. Together, we will care for our wounds. Both of us are marked on that day for the rest of our lives.

For those who ask if getting a tattoo is painful, my answer today is" Getting a tattoo is MUCH less painful than a Packer Playoff loss. 

Let the healing begin.
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Poke it with a stick

In today's world, it often pays to "leave well enough alone." I know this but do not always listen.

I also forget that "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

You know me--I see something, I have to poke it with a stick.

So, despite feeling fine (besides a really irritating post-nasal-drip-clearing-of-throat issue for the past bazillion months), I decided to get a physical and have my goiter checked. I have a new doctor, so I thought it be best to meet him when healthy instead of sick. This is my new "preventative way" of "doing" medicine, so I thought I'd be cutting edge.

Besides, if it ain't broke, go to the doctor and get in the medical loop so they can find something broken. I don't think that is how wellness is supposed to work but it seems to be the rule of thumb.

My new doctor, who appeared to be 12 years old, took time to introduce himself, right down to the ages of his children and the length of his marriage. At first, I thought this was delightful--what doctor in this day and age actually times to talk like this? It was then I realized he might be trying to reassure me (and himself) that he is actually older than he looks. Perhaps that's why I found it really important to tell him I still get my period every month to the day--I'm not as old as I look, pee wee.

Okay, so maybe he's 30. I didn't ask. Let's go with 30. Better than 12.

This was an interesting "establishing patient" examination, to say the least. He didn't mention my blood pressure (which was borderline high and if I were the doctor, I'd mention it) or my pulse (which was ridiculously fast at the time the nurse took it and a "must" for review). He didn't look in my ears or squeeze my glands. He didn't listen to my heart (he did give a remedial listen to my lungs) and he didn't test my reflexes or anything of the sort. Instead, he questioned me about mental illness, this after reviewing my currently prescribed medications and taking a gander at whatever is written in my history--of which I could not see because the computer monitor was facing away from me. Um, hello? My blood pressure is high. I've got this coughing thing and my goiter is going to reach out and touch you. Don't you want to talk about that, instead?

Let it be known the number one reason I hate going to any doctor: EVERYTHING is mental illness--Broken tail bone? Oh, that's depression. Don't worry about that x-ray showing the broken bone. That broken tail bone is definitely mental illness. IT'S A FRICKIN' BROKEN BONE! That cut on my face that needs stitches from getting hit with a softball? Oh, that must be some form of anxiety. I'M BLEEDING AND I NEED STITCHES! I don't see "Softball-to-the-face Personality Disorder" in the DSM-V. Ugh.

I finally had to stop him and tell him that I work in the mental health field and that I'm well-versed on the topics at hand. Despite this, he handed me a one-page form with ten questions about my current mental status, I started chuckling, then asked, "are these questions for today, the past month or history--what's the time frame?"

It didn't matter--I was just poking a stick at it. After telling me it was for the past two or three weeks, I rated everything 'zero' and smiled, pushing the form back across the counter. Give me a stupid form, will you? I didn't see anything about a goiter on there. I didn't see anything about my blood pressure. What about my exercise and diet? What about my Tailor's bunyon?

My goiter would have jumped up and bit him in the face, had it been given the chance.

We FINALLY moved on to the goiter. I almost peed myself when he gave me a referral to an endocrinologist (I've waited 20 years for one of those) and was smitten when he read aloud the results of my ultra sound from many years ago--the lumpy, bumpy non-toxic goiter. I was giddy when he talked to me about the various lab results I've had over the past many years. So, he got points back after going in the hole with all the mental illness crap.

Here's where I really should have left well enough alone. I mentioned--once again--the "clearing of throat" thing. Heck, I'm there, I have his attention, I haven't been able to get rid of this irritating issue for months. The wife wants to slap me because it's so irritating. I poked that non-broken things with a stick until it jumped around. After looking in my throat for all of 1/2 of a 1/2 second, he declared it was a post nasal drip--of which I couldn't argue. Hell, even I can see that when I look in the mirror. He didn't look in my ears or my nose. He still didn't feel my glands. (Is post nasal drip mental illness? I think it is! Bipolar Nasal Drip. Get a rating scale!)  He prescribed some nose spray (um, I don't have and haven't had a clogged nose or sinus issues at this time, but okay), told me to use a neti pot (for my clogged nose and sinuses, of which aren't clogged in any capacity, but okay--that's good advice for anyone) and told me to change my OTC allergy med.

(Note to self: ignore all this and don't pick up the prescription. I'm going the garlic route and a few other natural ways of treating this.)

The doctor printed out the summary for the visit and reviewed it with me, emphasizing the stuff I need to do (have labs, schedule a visit to the endocrinologist, fit in a mammogram, eat iodized salt, change OTC med, blah blah blah). He was very detailed-oriented, circling words like "goiter" and "iodized." It was impressive as no doctor had done that before. He told me to see the endocrinologist, get a ultrasound of my goiter, eat more iodized salt (um, should I be eating salt with borderling high blood pressure) and to return in 6 months as follow up.

I took the print out and went back to work. When I sat down and my desk and fully looked at it, I had quite the surprise....he had provided a diagnosis of PND Paroxysmal Nocturnal Dyspnea.

Go ahead and google that puppy.

I am here to tell you it left me VERY confused. The doctor never said anything about me having issues with lung or heart failure, leading to me gasping for air in the middle of the night. I don't gasp for air in the middle of the night. He didn't talk about this with me at all. How could he give me a diagnosis like this without talking to me about it? Was this an old diagnosis of which I didn't know I had? How could I not know something like this? Was this from back in 1997 when I had to wear a Holter monitor? I never did hear the result of that besides I didn't need medication. Could this be an error? Everything else was correct. How could he make that kind of error? I showed the nurse at work. We got a good laugh out of it. I obviously wasn't dropping dead of this. She figured it was a coding error. I figured it was an error, too but it is disconcerting to see something like that and not know where it came from

I emailed the doctor and figured I'd hear back sooner or later. I heard him very quickly. His email featured a VERY apologetic tone.

Oh, he got the PND right.....I do indeed have PND. Yes, I do.

....but, in my case the PND stood for.....

....post.
....nasal.
....drip.

Oh, dear god, I snorted with laughter when I read that. Post.Nasal.Drip!!!!

No heart or lung failure for me--just a running-down-the-back-of-my-throat drip. I will be keeping this print out for eternity because every time I think about it or look at it, I start laughing. Maybe I shouldn't be laughing but I can't help it. Oh dear, maybe my laughter is a sign of mental illness.....

I wholeheartedly disagree. I believe my laughter is a sign of mental wellness.

VERY healthy mental wellness.

You know I think I have two forms of PND....post nasal drip and.....

PATIENT.
NEEDS.
DARK CHOCOLATE.

Poke that with a stick and my goiter will bite you.
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(Just so everyone can relax, my chart and diagnosis has been fixed. My PND of the nose kind, I'm sorry to say, continues at a blistering pace. Bring on the holistic approach....and the dark chocolate.)