Sheltering Mr. Cat

As the things continue to get whiter and darker at the same time, Life goes on in the Addiverse. Thankfully, my job continues to keep me entertained to no end.

Case in point: Last week, I had a young man with schizophrenia request me to come see what he "does" as a volunteer at a local shelter. As he speaks about the cats at the place of which he volunteers non-stop (it is his one true pleasure in life), I could not turn down such a genuine request. 

Please note: I am EXTREMELY allergic to cats. We're talking hives and swollen eyes and itching and eventual difficulty breathing. Oh, I can deal with one cat at a time, but only when armed with allergy medication AND an immediate washing of the hand if said hand actually touched the cat. Two cats I can take if I have allergy medication AND I don't touch either of the cats AND I change my clothes after being in a house with two cats. More than two cats: count me out. I will sit on the front stoop and wait for the party to end.

If you think I am kidding about that last sentence, I am not. One time, during a party at a friend's house, I actually had to sit outside on the front stoop while the party raged on inside. The hostess owned 6+ cats. I was wheezing within minutes of being in that house. I watched the festivities through the picture window.

To be clear, I really like cats but I can't have a cat. I am way too allergic. (That and the fact that the wife is most definitely a cat fan. Now, now--don't be hating on the wife. She is just not a cat person. After all, she doesn't let me walk on the counters. You think she's gonna let a cat walk on the counters?)

Back to the cat-loving client. I explained to him numerous times that I couldn't come visit due to my severe allergy. He was not going to take "no" for my answer. I'm telling ya, that guy wore me down. No matter what I said, he had an answer. He promised me I wouldn't have to touch any of the cats and that he would only expect me to stay a few minutes. I knew he was lying (to himself--I saw right through it). I knew I wouldn't be able to get out of there in a few minutes, but, he wore me down.....

....I went to the shelter and hoped for the best.

I had no idea how many cats (or volunteers) there would be. There were cats and volunteers everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I teetered on anaphylactic shock just waling in the door. (From the cats, not the volunteers.) The cats looked mighty happy and relaxed, almost as if they were looking over their kingdom and reigning over their minions--er, I mean volunteers.

Mr. Cat, as I shall call him, was very excited to see me and immediately started dragging me around to meet the cats. Every.Single.Cat. Not just the cat, mind you. He read every cage door tag aloud to me. He made sure I knew the cat's name. He talked about their demeanor. I knew I could live through up to 30 minutes of being in the building, so I decided to do my best and enjoy his oozing of pride.

[Because Mr. Cat has schizophrenia, he has what is known as a very flat affect--that is, he shows little emotion and has a very monotonous tone when speaking. I tell you this only so you can envision the interaction in a more realistic manner.  No smile, no warmth to the voice. Very matter of fact and direct. Envision this.]

It's when he opened each and every cage that I knew I was in trouble. Not only did he open each cage, he demanded--in his flat, loud, no-nonsense voice--I pet the cat.

Mr. Cat [points to open cage of first cat]: Aren't you going to pet the cat?

Me [shaking head no]: You know I'm allergic to cats.

Mr. Cat [with an unusual amount of emotion, most definitely aimed at me]: You mean you are not going to pet this cat?

Me: No, I really can't pet that cat. I'm really allergic.

Mr. Cat [louder, firmer]: You are not even going to touch it on the back? You have to pet this cat.

Me: Seriously, I can't pet the cat. I honestly can't.

Guess who petted the cat?

I have to say, the cats were very happy to have affection pointed their way. Lots of purring, lots of rubbing faces on my arm...one cat was even licking me. Of course, each cat needed attention, per his explanation. Thus, I petted every cat. One hand only. No holding the cat. Just petting its head or back.

Mr. Cat: Do you want to hold this cat?

Me [in a hopefully stern but compassionate voice]: No, I don't want to hold the cat.

Mr. Cat: C'mon. Just hold the cat.

Me [backing away slowly]: I can't hold the cat.

Mr. Cat: At least pet the cat.

Me [not a fool]: No, I'm not petting that cat. You'll just hand it to me.

Mr. Cat smiled. It was then I realized his day had been made.  Mr. Cat was very much enjoying my visit.

I did not have to hold the cat. I had to do something MUCH worse: I had to go meet the dogs.

Mr. Cat knew Freckles and Lucy. He is always talking about Freckles and Lucy being in heaven. He wanted me to see the dogs so I might miss Freckles and Lucy less. That was a kind and loving act on his part. For me, it was torture.

Mr. Cat: Do you want to see the dogs?

Me: No, no I really don't want to see the dogs.

Mr. Cat: C'mon, come see the dogs. They're really nice. Look, there is one like Freckles and Lucy.

Me: No, no, no! Do not make me look at the dogs. I can't look at the dogs!

Guess who looked at the dogs?

It was awful. I am still having flashbacks. I don't go to shelters for a reason. I'll give money but I'm not going in the door.

First up: a tiny little shih tzu-ish mutt, super old, mostly deaf and decidedly limited in sight. The guessed age was between 10 and 13. There was no way that dog was less than 13. I know an old dog when I see one, having just survived the passing of a crusty old dog. I was heart broken that the dog was there and it gave a little howl suggesting he knew of my ability to spoil older dogs. Now praying for more cats, ready to kiss cats on the head and rub them all over my arms and face in order to escape this torture, I turned to leave. That's when Mr. Cat shoved me toward the next cage, housing a sausage of a three year old dog, own surrender due to owner health issues. She gave me a pitiful take me home look. Oh, how I wanted to take that dog home....

I am going to send Mr. Cat my therapy bill.

Please know that the dogs were very well cared for, with volunteers loving each of them--sitting with them, talking to them, petting them, feeding them, playing with them. If you had to be a dog at a shelter, I'd pick this place. Lots of food, lots of love, lots of very clean cages. Still, I can't bear it. I tried everything but knocking Mr. Cat on his ass to get out of that room.

Suffice it to say, I left without a dog. Just scars. No dogs. By the end of the tour, I was ready to go home, roll into a little fetal ball and call it a day.

Mr. Cat thanked me for coming to see his cats. He asked me if I wanted to take a cat home.  He even offered advice about what cat I should choose. For once during this whole ordeal, I stood firm. I did NOT come home with a cat. I returned to my office with hives on my forearms and very itchy eyes but nothing more.

As I was leaving, Mr. Cat promised me we can look at photos of cats on the shelter's webpage when he next comes to see me in my office. Although I adore Mr. Cat and honor his dedication to the cats of which he serves....

....I think my computer shall be broken that day.

No, I KNOW it will be very "broken" and nowhere to be found. It'll be in the trunk of my car, avoiding cats and dogs, hidden right next to my supply of Benadryl. The computer and I will be avoiding photos and stories of the animals like there is no tomorrow.

hell. Who am I kidding? I'll look at the web page when he next visits. Pray that crusty teacup elder of a dog is gone by the time he makes me look at that website.
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Counted my chickens.....

Well, THIS is gonna be A LOT harder than originally anticipated.

I talked a good game last blog entry, didn't I? I meant every word of it....yet....

So.Much.Harder.

"You're just sore losers."

"Whiny bitches didn't get their way."

"This is what you get when everyone gets a trophy." (That was a weird one.)

"You're not going to lose anything."

"Losers protesting because they didn't get their way. Poor babies. We didn't protest when No-bama took the presidency."

"Get over it. Move on."

Those are just a few of the nicer comments. I choose not to think of or repeat the hateful, repulsive ones.

And, the safety pins--even the safety pins are causing havoc. I thought it a fine gesture, a sign of solidarity for those scared. Well, there has been a whole lot of hate over those things, too. I won't dignify the things I have read or have heard. Yes, heard. Not everything comes from the media.

Maybe we need a open-carry safety pin law.

It's easy enough to sign off of social media. It's easy enough to listen to recorded music than the radio. Saying something on paper is a whole lot easier than seeing people face to face. I forgot about the reality of the holidays. I got a taste of that this weekend, when we went to one of the least diverse places on the planet with the most amount of conservatives in one square block. I did a lot of bobbing, weaving, ducking, and general moving around. I was exhausted by the end of the two hour event. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to be seen as a sore loser. I didn't want to argue about my rights or discrimination or anything. I was there for a party, to celebrate something of which was not tied in any capacity to the election. (Well, unless the Donald paid for the party. Then, I can understand.)

I don't know what is true and what is not anymore. I don't know if the news on "this" side is truer than the news on "that" side. I don't know if there are hate crimes going on or if, as the Tea Team says, the 'libtards' are purposefully doing these things or making false accusations to rile up the remainder of the 'libtards.' (God, I hate that word.) I don't know if there really are white folk marching in the street, ripping religious head garb off of those non-Christian terrorist types on the bus. I don't know if there are haters really painting swastika on walls or worse. I don't know if little children are taunting and threatening each other in grade school. I assume these things are true. I imagine it easily these things are true. I believe these things are true. But, I don't know if what I believe is true because there is so misinformation.

I don't even know what is true about the guy who's gonna be seated in the oval office:The Donald is for gay rights. Here's a photo of him holding a gay pride flag.

The Donald's VP is one of the most, and I mean most, anti-gay men on the planet. He funded conversion therapy, defunded AIDS-related initiatives and thinks condoms are the work of the devil. Which Donald is true? The guy wearing the gay flag or the guy who picked a homophobic running mate?

The Donald is thinking about having a gay man on his team. He is all about the gays. He loves the gays. Nothing is going to happen to the gays. He has gay friends. He has black friends. He loves his black friends. They love him.

The Donald is thinking of having Sarah Palin--a woman!--on his team. You betcha! He is inclusive. He loves women. No one loves women more than the Donald.

I've even heard that the Donald is actually a Democrat who is playing the other side for the fool and that it's going to be totally different than it looks like at this moment once he actually takes the presidency. Well, THAT would be interesting!

I could counter the nonsense and ridiculous comments by asking you. the non-libtard, to say aloud eight times (one for each year): OBAMA IS COMING TO GET YOUR GUNS!

Were you sore losers when you said that? Were you extremists? Were you scared? Were you protesting your president? Did you "just get over it?"

Gee, you still have your guns. So, what are you? What was that? Why was that okay but my fear is not?


That, in a very weird way, gives me hope. You still have your guns. I'll still have my rights. Win-win!

 So, this is much harder than I anticipated.

I only have a few days to figure out Thanksgiving, the holiday of which I think will be most problematic. There is definite concern that things will turn religious, political and dark. We will be in the home of someone who was disrespectful to our current president, someone who has 100% drunk the tea. Someone who has voiced he doesn't care if gays lose their rights because of the bigger picture. Someone who has facts only from one source. Someone who repeats things but has done no research. Someone who is afraid that blacks want the same rights as him. Someone who believes that hateful rhetoric toward the Muslim community.

It is much, much easier said than done to just not go to event. I don't want to send that message. That can't end well in the big picture. I'm just adding fuel to the fire by not going. But, I also don't know how to sit there quietly and behave while my blood pressure cooks to a whole new level. It's not my house, so it's not my place to argue.

Sigh. Maybe I'll smile and nod, all while wearing a gay pride button on one side and a safety pin on the other. I'll be a sore loser libtard but I'll be happier than I would have been. Oh, if only I were a drinking kind of woman.

Counted my chickens. Not even hatched. Damn chickens, way too early. Dang, I need a stronger mantra. Yup. A new mantra: They still have their guns. I'll still have my rights.

I need a reliable news source. A vat of chocolate. A new set of chickens.

Maybe I don't have chickens. Maybe I have ducks....

Maybe I have squirrels.

Raving Squirrels. They may be loser squirrels, whiny squirrels, black squirrels but whatever they are, they are most certainly not in a row. 

No more counting chickens.
I'm having squirrels from here on out.
Safety-pin wearing squirrels.
Dancing with the gays at a rave squirrels.
Rabid, angry, raving squirrels.
You have been warned.

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Ice Cream, Friendship and Bubbles of Love

I dedicate this entry to incredibly supportive friends & family of whom I can never thank enough. You are the rock stars of the Addiverse.

I've gone back and forth about this blog entry...

It would be super weird if I didn't write about the election. I mean, it's a pretty big deal and you know I'm all full of opinions and fervor when it comes to this kind of thing. Not spewing my feelings, profound thoughts and withholding general nondescript babbling might make you worry that I'm drunk in a corner or I've gone completely off the grid (and/or off the cliff).

Since you already can guess my reaction to the election, what more can I add to the conversation? (You might be a wee bit surprised about my political stance--I am a very bipartisan voter. Many a Republican should thank me.) You know what I'm chewing on in my busy little brain, so is writing about the election worthy of the electricity it takes to zap it across the world?

In a weird, happy and probably very healthy way, I don't want to write about the election. It is what it is. Oh, I suppose I can embrace it, ignore it, fret over it, celebrate it, scream about it but it still is what it is. What more can I add to the conversation? So, why write about it? Wouldn't you like to hear more about the World Series? Poop? The status of my still-not-replaced air bag in my Honda? Maybe some funny memes about Cheetos....

Let's face it....there is no way I can keep myself from writing something. The turning point? Reading the stuff about all the hate crimes which have transpired  in the last 24 hours. Pushed me right off the "won't write about it" ledge.
Not all the way off the ledge. I'm dangling. Just like participles in my blog entries. Dangling but hanging on.

So I don't lose my grip, let the words written here proclaim my willingness to do the very best to surround all the hate in a bubble of love.

Know that I will work to see the good in all people, just as I hope they will see the good in me. 

This is a tall order. After all, I've had some things happen in my life that make it hard not to get scared or riled up or distracted by what just transpired on a national level. I don't want to dwell on the past but every once in awhile, it whispers in me ear. I am deeply troubled by the hateful rhetoric and the immediate visceral, physical, hateful reactions being seen around our country.

It makes the whispering just that much louder.

But, that whispering doesn't have to lead to hatred. After all, if I'm in hatred, I am very much part of the issue. Instead of being hatred, I need to be love. I can hear those whispers and think, "not today, history. Not today."

I'm not over it. I'm certainly not done with it. I'm still angry about it. But, I can work with it. Let's just say I have a lot of work to do and a whole lot of brownies in a mug to eat. I can still hear that whispering and still feel that fear but it's a whole lot less painful when surrounded by the love of friends, family and self.

For the time being, I'll stick to the Weather Channel and NFL football. I'll enjoy the company and comfort of dear friends. I'll not peer into the future and worry about things of which may or may not transpire. I'll eat chocolate and ice cream and make gluten free dessert products in a mug. I'll scream the Serenity Prayer as often as needed. I'll talk about Carrie Underwood's legs. (How the hell does she walk around the stage in those high heels?) I'll order a gluten free pizza and eat the whole thing in one sitting. I'll feel what I feel in a most authentic manner, all while holding that mug cake in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

I shall sprinkle myself with friendship, gratitude and humor. I will spend time with those people who can have a laugh and a cry in one conversation. I will be strong and loving at the same time. I'll do my best to focus on the good in those who oppose that in which I believe. It's gonna take a lot of ice cream, friendship and hugging. I won't believe what the whispers have to say. I will stand up for what I believe but I don't have to let it engulf my very being. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disgusted about this or that. It would be a lie if I said I wasn't incredulous. But, I can work with that.....

...and, I can work with this. I'll post one meme about the election. Just one. I can't help myself. I behaved all the way to the end of this post. That's gotta count for something. Hope you've seen this movie because this meme says it all....

heh heh.

Two in Five Million

Friday, November 4, 2016. It's 9 AM. I am sitting at my desk--yes, the same desk I had fallen off the day before. A peer is in my office, working diligently.

Enter the maintenance man. 

He takes a gander at the two of us and asks, "Why aren't you two at the parade?" He jokes about how he thought we'd be there, that of everyone he thought for sure we'd be meandering the city with our kind. (The Cubs World series parade. People, KEEP UP!)

Exit the maintenance man.

My peer, whom I shall refer to as Clark Sheffield, looks at me. I look at Clark. I ask aloud, "Why AREN'T we at the parade?" Clark shrugs and indicates he doesn't know. We both WANT to be there. We both NEED to be there. But, we aren't there. He points out that he has a court appointment at 10 AM, so he really can't go. I concur.

Then, his dang phone rings... the court appointment has been cancelled.

I declare this a sign from God. 

I ask him if he wants to go. We stare at each other, big smiles painted all over our faces. He pulls out his cell phone and checks out the Metra train schedule. He announces, "If I drive 85 MPH, we can catch the 10:20 AM train."

I have no idea if he was kidding or not about the 85 MHP part, but I know I didn't care. All I have to do is (1) figure out if I can be back by 5 PM and (2) find someone to cover my one appointment for the day. I get a co-worker to agree--rather quickly. (She started to hem and haw and ask questions...I educated her that it was a YES or NO question and that the answer had to be NOW.) As for the 5 PM bit, it looked plausible, as long as we were able to catch a train allowing for that needed arrival time.

The next thing I know, we are in his car, screaming down the freeway. 

We aren't in our Cubs gear because we hadn't planned on going to the Cubs Parade. He's not wearing walking shoes and I'm wearing shorts despite it being 50 degrees. We don't have information. We don't have a plan. But, we have faith and a World Series win. That is enough.

Side note: Smart phones make things easy. It's like cheating. We had access to train schedules, parade schedules, street maps, etc. I say we didn't have a plan but really--does one NEED a plan when technology is along for the ride?

It is important to note that we both took the time to seek input from our spouses BEFORE leaving the parking lot. My wife thinks this is the greatest idea I've ever had (seriously--she was all giddy about this), while his wife wasn't completely sold on the idea. I think it was more about her wanting to come along more than him actually going to the parade with me.

We made the train, with minutes to spare. I purchased the tickets while he parked the car. It was an easy enough ride to downtown Chicago, with almost all the commuters blanketed in blue.

Once there, we quickly surmised that we would need swimming skills to navigate the sea of humanity in front of us. There was no questioning where to go--all you had to do was get into the stream and go with the flow. Our goal was to see the parade. Bonus points if we got to Grant Park to hear the rally and speeches.

The traffic downtown was more ridiculous than usual but everyone was honking and cheering and waving. The beeping was in good cheer, not in hateful anger. I found it quite surreal. Cars stuck in traffic with happy passengers. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it.

My photos do not do justice to the event.

I have never seen so many people in one place at one time. I've been to sporting events with 80,000 people and this was nothing like that. This was a whole new beast. Thankfully, everyone was happy and laughing and singing and celebrating. Even the cops were laughing and high-fiving people. There wasn't an angry bone in that entire entity.

Of course, it might have been all the pot smoking that made people so happy. I'm not sure. All I know is that I was VERY surprised by all the pot smoking. Right out in the open, not a care in the world. What were the police gonna do--arrest someone for smoking a joint while dealing with a five million person crowd? Not a top priority.

Clark and I did indeed see the parade--and the World Series trophy--but we were not able to swim our way to Grant Park. We tried but the crowd went one way while we tried to go the other. Let it be know that it is impossible to go against a crowd this size. (I now also understand how someone could be stampeded or trampled. I always thought that sounded ridiculous. Now I know. Even a friendly crowd could easily trample someone.) We were lucky enough to see the parade. With this, we swam our way back to the train station, traversing the bottles and cans and garbage and people.

I cannot express to you what it feels like to see people as far as you can see. I mean for as far as the eye can see. Just people. People wearing blue baseball caps. People smiling and joking and having a great time. People celebrating something fun, something historic, something almost unreal.

For one moment in time, there was nothing but elation and celebration. There was no election. There was no strife. There was no hatred, arguing, name-calling.  What a profound relief to be immersed in such frivolity. Baseball may only be an event of which has nothing to do with my real life but this sure was a nice by-product of a non-entity.

Being that I am twenty years older than Clark, I'm not sure he had the same reaction as me. But, I can tell you that he seemed to be having a pretty good time, soaking it all in.

It took us an hour to walk a mile. That's how many people were in the streets. I wasn't sure we were going to make our train but we squeaked in before the Metra rolled away from Union Station.

Yes, I made it home by 5 PM. 

Clark and I are now part of history. It is estimated that five million people were in attendance and that this was the largest gathering of people in America....EVER. It's been deemed the seventh largest gathering of people in the history of the WORLD. I daresay that data sounds correct. That city was packed with people.

We were two in five million. Not everyone can say that. (Well, technically, four million, nine hundred ninety nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety eight people can say that, but who's counting?)

Clark and I will always be bonded together by these few hours in time and space. 

I believe this to be a once in a lifetime thing and so I am just that much more grateful to have attended the parade. But, Clark? Clark is young. Clark sees this as the start of something, not a one time thing. He can see more victories in the future. I can tell there are more parades in his future. I will wish him and his wife a good time. I'll wave to them from the train station. I think one five million person gathering is enough for me.

Unless....that dang maintenance man asks me why I'm not there.....

...all bets are off if the maintenance man arrives.....
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Desking the "W"

I fell off my desk today.

Yes, I was standing on my desk at work. You may be wondering WHY I was standing on my desk at work. Or, perhaps you question nothing that goes on in the Addiverse, as nothing is too weird, too bizarre, too unusual, too....well, not too thought out.

In celebration of the Cubs winning the World Series, I decided to make a great big blue "W" out of poster board and hang it in my window at work. Now, this is against all the workly rules, but I like to live on the edge. (We're not even supposed to use scotch tape to hang anything anywhere, so putting a scotch-taped sign in my window is dangerous on many accounts.) Hey, I'm the only one on the lower level with a window, so I say why not fly the "W?" My window is technically at ground level, so you would think flying the "W" would be easy... but, when standing in my office, the window is near the ceiling.

Hence, I was standing on my desk.

Now, it might have been that I was so tired from last night's ball game that I had a momentary lapse of balance... or, more likely judgment. Or, perhaps I usually demonstrate momentary lapses of balance or judgment. Whatever the case, I took a wrong step and a-tumbling I went.

No worries. The giant bruise on my shin will eventually fade. Nothing is broken. My glasses are bent and my keys fell behind my desk (of which is not movable, making that an interesting problem), but otherwise, I am no worse for the wear.

All this because of the Cubs winning the World Series.

I did not enjoy Game 7. I was a ball of angst. Some people hoot and holler and high five. I sit on the couch, frozen in anxiety, wearing headphones, watching music videos on my tablet, internalizing all the feelings that go with an event like this. The more stressed I become, the less I have to say; in fact, I was totally silent for the majority of the event...

...except, it seems that at one point I was growling. I had head phones in, volume up to eardrum-crushing levels. I had no idea I was doing this. The wife wondered what I was doing. I didn't know what she was talking about. "Why are you growling?" she asked. I turned off the volume and realized that I was indeed growling from the bottom of my throat. Huh.

The lead slipped away. The score was tied. Things were crumbling.  My heart was pounding in my ears. I could no longer watch the game. I stood up and exclaimed,

"I CANNOT DO THIS!"

I got up and left the room.

The wife does not understand my way of watching sports. She hoots and hollers and high fives. It is the one time she externalizes and the one time I am internalize things. I am a novel concept in her sporting world. She does not understand my superstitions, my silence, why I am wearing headphones, my why I cannot "do" this. As she pondered my way of being, she made the mistake of all mistakes. As I was walking away, muttering of how I could not take any more, she said that no matter the outcome, team is very young and....

"....there's always next year."

ARE YOU FRIGGIN' KIDDING ME?

YOU.DO.NOT.SAY.THAT.TO.A.CUBS FAN! That's all we've said for the past 108 years. We've lived for that "next year" for all those next years. Well, there is no next year. There is HERE AND NOW.

HERE. NOW. GAME SEVEN. NOT. NEXT. YEAR!

I was so distraught at this point that I went upstairs to bed. Now, I didn't go to bed to sleep. I went there to be far away from the TV and so I could lay down and let the blood flow back through my body (instead of pooling in my brain). I went there to lower my blood pressure. I went there to get a grip and to block out any thoughts of a potential loss.

It is then I learn: OH MY GOD, NOW THEY ARE IN EXTRA INNINGS. Nope, nope, nope. Can't do this. If I were a drinker, I would have been so drunk by this point I would not have been able to walk for a week. I would be drinking out of the bottle. Not the first bottle. Probably out of the third bottle.

The wife came to bed when the rain delay came to town. I was still drowning in my angst, more silent than ever. I muttered something and laid there, stewing. I wanted to throw up. I said that we'd know the outcome if we heard fireworks. That probably sounds like a weird thing to say but it's true. A World Series championship would certainly result in neighborhood celebratory fireworks.

The relief I felt when I heard those fireworks was beyond compare. 

I know this is a game of which has no bearing on my "real" life. I usually make fun of people who are so serious about a team, about a game. I usually can't wrap my head around the zeal, the inconceivable passion for a sporting event. But, there I was, allowing a game rule my life, my very being. How I didn't implode, I do not know.

Today, I am very tired. I struggled to stay awake during a most boring training. It was difficult, to say the least. My saving grace was that everyone else was just as tired. Some people didn't have voices, as they had spent the night screaming at the television. My voice was just fine. I had knots in my back and shoulder blades and neck, I had a headache to beat the band, I had eyeballs that felt like they were on fire, but my voice was perfectly nasal as usual. Of course, I have a bruise on my shin and a sore arm and a set of lost keys, but I have a voice.

I'm here to say that the blue "W" is proudly waving in my window. It is illegally scotch-taped to the window (take that, powers that be!) and it is staying in that window for as long as I deem appropriate or, until they write me up for using scotch tape. 

I proudly embrace that big ol' bruise on my leg, my crooked glasses, my sore muscles, my weary bones. I fully embrace my illegal scotch tape. I gladly embrace my guttural growling. I accept my internalized ball of distress-ness. I own all of my weird superstitions. I admit that I fell off my desk. Most importantly, I embrace the fact that the Cubs won the World Series last night. THAT is something of which I thank the baby Jesus, of which I celebrate in my own quiet way.

For once, this was not "there is always next year." This is this year, THE year. Cub fans, alive and dead, near and far, young and old: that poster board "W" in my window is for all of us. Every.Single.One.of.Us. I'm waving the "W" with you, for you, in honor of you.

We look good in Cubbie Blue.

If I can survive this, I can survive the nonsense of the upcoming presidential election. If the Cubs can win the world series, a woman can become the president. A woman who, by the way, was raised in Cubs territory. No kidding. She's from Park Ridge, a decidedly very Cubbie Blue place to be. This makes me very happy.

I will be pretty quiet on election night. My goal is to not get caught growling and to keep the faith through the duration. I will go to bed when things get too tense. I will wear headphones and watch music videos.  If the Cubs can do it, we can do it. One week, people. One more week.

May the force, Harry Carey and Ernie Banks be with all of us.
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P.S. Cleveland, you are a class act. Seriously. Thank you.

Hallowed

I am practicing an upgraded way of being as I enjoy my little plot of reality on planet Earth. It's simple, it's free and it's nothing new. Anyone can do it. 

I am clearing the hairballs out of my chakras.

Kidding. My chakras don't have hairballs. They are filled with glitter and chocolate.

 Before I move on to the topic at hand (which was supposed to be Halloween), I want to congratulate my second chakra, as it must be spinning in a most bionic manner. Getting my period this month--AGAIN, RIGHT ON TIME at this stage of the game suggests my second chakra is a happy place to be. I embrace my ovaries, surrounding them in love and light. After all, it's pretty amazing that they've been able to shoot eggs for over 40 years. Thank you, ovaries. You've done me proud. I'm okay if you'd like to fade into retirement, though.
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Okay, NOW we can talk about Halloween.
*********************************************************As it is Halloween in less than 48 hours, I have a task of which I must complete, much sooner than not: I need to figure out a costume. Usually, this is a super-easy thing for me to do. This year, not so much. I'm not sure what the hold up is in my creativity department is but it's giving me a run for the money. After all, I need time to make/put together/buy the costume.

Side note: Don't suggest "pinning" to find a costume. I don't have time to Pin. If I go to that site, the next thing I know it will be November 1st.

This is serious business, this costume thing of mine. I have to be something for the work party. Let me clarify: a daytime work party, with clients--no booze, no nonsense--just music, costumes and sugar products. Still, this remains very serious to me.

It is important to me that my costume be relevant, recognizable and clever. A tall order, to be sure. So far over the years, I believe I have been successful on all accounts. This year, though.....

Suggestions from Book de la Face have included Tony Stark (a most wonderful idea), a cup of DD coffee (a most, most wonderful idea), a role of toilet paper (hilarious) and various cartoon characters (fabulous, but iffy--last year, I was Tina Belcher.... most people didn't know who that was, quite to my dismay). Let's brainstorm aloud, shan't we?

• I've already been poop, so that's out. I never do a costume twice, although it's debatable, as one time I was just a plain old poop and another time I was later Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo, so technically I've been poop twice. 
• I assume there will be a lot of "Rey" from Star Wars, so I've crossed that off the list.
• I figure lots of people will be Chicago Cub baseball players OR Joe Madden (an easy enough costume), so forget that.
• I do NOT want to be anything political, so that rules out a few costumes.
• I've already been the characters from all my favorite TV shows.
• I thought about being a cardboard-applicator tampon, but that seemed to freak people out when I mentioned it. 
• Wonder Woman would be awesome--with the movie coming out sooner than not and seeing she's from island of all women--but, I'm not ready to don that measly outfit.
• I could be a pirate, seeing as we'll be going to a Pirate Party in December--two for one... but, that's cheating.
• I could easily be a zombie but that wouldn't be right, as I don't watch any zombie shows...
• For some reason, I think there are going to be a lot of pineapples this year. I have no idea why I think this. Time will tell.
• I can't wear a scary mask as my glasses won't allow it... and, trust me when I say I HAVE to wear my glasses.
• I wouldn't mind being something chocolate, considering I've never done that, but I'm afraid people would mistake me for some form of poop (Hershey squirts, anyone?).
• I do have an idea for a board game but it would involve flesh colored leggings and there IS NO WAY IN HELL I am donning or buying flesh colored leggings.
• All princess ideas are OUT. No princess costumes. None. Don't toy with me. (I was one of the ugly step-sisters one year... that's almost a princess.... and, there is a certain Warrior Princess, but that's not the same thing. 
• No clowns. I hate clowns. And, with all the clown problems this year, I might accidentally get shot or arrested.

Would it be wrong if I wandered around the office with my eyes closed and wearing ear plugs, pretending to be Helen Keller?


I asked the wife about a particular idea that sprung to mind while typing this. She said I shouldn't be anything of which requires me to buy something. Spoil sport.

What does she know? She finds no humor in Halloween. 

I daresay I am thinking WAY too much. I am confident that when I am helping the wife with the yard today, an idea will spring to mind. 

Perhaps I should go as my Facebook feed. Right now, it's a bunch of dogs, cats and Cubs (the kind with two legs, not four)... babies, recipes, positive memes and poop. Heaven. Sure would be clever, relevant and recognizable. Hmmmmmm..... that might be the winning idea.... although, who knows what will come to mind as I wander the yard this afternoon?

Time is of the essence, so if you have an idea of which you think I cannot live without, do say something. Send a message, a comment, an email, a text, a post, carrier pigeon.  Bet you can't wait to see what costume wins the honors.

While you are waiting, might as well clean your chakras. Make sure they are spinning in the correct direction. See them happy, clean, shiny and glorious. Get the fur balls out. Get the love and light in.

Flesh colored leggings. Dear god. Don't picture flesh colored leggings while cleaning your chakras. You have been warned.
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Singing the Blues

OMG OMG OMG OMG! IT.IS.HAPPENING!

Okay, so non-sports fans won't care about my excitement but the rest of you can raise a Budweiser my way. 

The Cubs are in the World Series. The Cubs. The Chicago Cubs. Pinch me. The Cubs are in the World Series.

For those of you who jumped on the bandwagon more recently than not--you do not understand. Yes, you are Cub fans. But, lifelong Cub fans understand the pain, the angst, the agony. You are welcome in the Friendly Confines but unless you have lived through at least 25 "wait until next year" seasons, you're a rookie. Ah well, ya gotta start somewhere.
  
If you are going to the game, PLEASE do me a huge favor: do NOT put ketchup on your hot dog. It is just plain wrong. Chicagoans know that ketchup belongs on fries or some other place--not on a hot dog. I will ignore my one Cub Fan friend who uses ketchup (her hotdog pictured here, with her face cut out of the photo to save her from humiliation) and I only ignore her blasphemous behavior because she has been a Cubs fan since she shot out of the womb.  Ketchup. Sheesh.

I have few words this morning as I'm still in disbelief. If it were not for Facebook, I might doubt this is actually happening. Alas, my Chicago friends assure me it is true. My news-feed is blowing up in Cubbie Blue.

Although I am basking in the glow of this moment, there is one person I wish could see this. I know this series will be very bittersweet for his family. As I watch the games, I will think of him. Oh, how he would love this moment.

To Brian, who did not live to see this moment but was the truest Cub fan on the planet: this series is for you. To his family, who attended an astounding number of games with him: this one is for Brian, which is thus for you, too.

I know I will soon write of other things besides baseball but on this chilly October morning, I honor a team, I honor a man, I honor a family.

Holy Cow, Brian! The Cubs are in the World Series.  And for today, that is enough.   :-D
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Delicate Pinstripes

I can't take it!

I am a delicate flower.

It's too much.

Of what do I speak? Politics? Climate change? Crime in our city? Bunions?

Oh, no. I speak of something much, much, much more intense. Much more stressful. Much more personal.

Post season MLB baseball, that's what. Or, more specifically: the Cubs playing in post season baseball.

During last night's game, I read a book and had the wife flipping between the Cubs game and the Badgers college football game. I needed to do all three lest I spontaneously combust.

I.am.a.delicate.flower.

Do you hear me? I.AM.A.FRAGILE.DELICATE! FLOWER. FRAGILE!!!!!

The wife laments that I don't get excited during sporting events. She hoots and hollers and yells while watching beloved sporting events on TV. Me? I sit there, seemingly emotionless, reading a book. She wonders why I don't give her a high five after a great play. She asks how I can sit there and read a book while "my" team is on, playing in a game of which I have waited so long.

What I am REALLY doing is trying not to throw up, trying not to let my very being burst into flames, trying not to go into A-fib.

Now, real life is much more important to me than any sporting event. I don't usually talk in the terms of "we" when referring to a team. "We" is reserved for family and friends, for people I actually know, for people who have something to do with my real life. A professional sporting team is not a "we." It is "they." I don't understand people who say "we" when referring to something that really has no bearing on their "real" life.

And yet, a few sentences ago, I used the word "my" in reference to "my" team. Go figure.

Perhaps my "my" is fueled by a kindred spirit-ship to Cubbie Blue fans who have followed the Cubs through a century of losses. Perhaps I like pin stripes. Hard to say.

Side note: I LOVE the way bleacher bums at Wrigley throw opposing team home run balls back onto the field. This.is.GENIUS. It is on par with that leaping that goes on in the Cheddarlands. No one dare keep a home run ball at Wrigley. No one. They will throw YOU onto the field if you don't get rid of that evilness that is visiting your sacred space. I love that. North-siders, you do me proud.

Being that last night's home opener against the Dodgers was on a Saturday night, I actually had a prayer of watching the entire game. (Remember: I am a delicate flower. I can't stay up late watching those late-late night games on school nights.) I settled in: I purchased a book to read on my tablet, grabbed a snack, checked my email and turned my eyes toward the screen.

I should have known everything was going to be all right once I spied Charlie Hustle on the network's announcer team. You can't go wrong when Pete Rose is in town. The guy is hilarious. (He should also be in the hall of fame, but that's a whole different discussion for a different day.) He's a hot mess who brings much laughter, rough-around-the-edges with badly dyed hair. He makes it possible for me to watch as much as I dare. He is awful and wonderful at the same time. A dialectic to embrace.

Despite it being a Saturday night, I could only take so much. I was so glad the Badgers were playing at the same time because that meant the wife was flipping back and forth between games. I was so glad that my no-brainer book kept my interest at times I dare not look at the screen. Even so, I couldn't take it and announced I was going to bed.

D.E.L.I.C.A.T.E.

I wasn't tired. I wasn't tired at all. I didn't need to go to bed; yet, I went to bed. I did not turn back. I did not have a need to turn on the TV or go on line to see what was transpiring. When those relief pitchers start hitting the mound, it's time to go to bed. (I am NOT a fan of this ridiculous one-pitcher-per batter relief thing that teams now do. It seems to work. I do not understand it, I do not like it, I do not embrace it.)

The wife is stunned by decisions such as this. She cannot fathom turning off a Packer game in such a situation. And yet, there I was, cleaning up and heading upstairs. I did not know the result of the game until the wife turned on the television in the morning and let me know that a grand slam saved the day.

Oh dear god. A grand slam. I can barely breathe when watching the highlights. Most people would be distraught--mortified-- that they went to bed before such a wondrous feat. Not me. It reinforced my decision. Once the game was tired up and they were going through pitchers like water, I would have needed anti-anxiety medication (intravenously--no time for a pill to take hold).

I know my viewing habits would be different if we were at a party or if watching the game with other people or if I were actually present at the playoff game. I would crawl my way through the last batter. Perhaps that is the key--to watch the game with a pack of pinstripes.

I shall not look ahead. I shall not speak of future games. I shall focus on the game of this day. Of this series. Of this moment. I will scan social media, pausing for a dot when an article or a replay or a post warrants a pause. I will accept invitations to watch games with others or... if given tickets... attend a game and watch every pitch, right through the final out. But, if I'm at home on my couch, I will do what I can to watch and go to bed when I no longer can. I will wear my Cubs paraphernalia and think of Steve Goodman and thank the baby Jesus for Joe Madden (even though he subscribes to that ridiculous relief pitcher way of being). I will laugh at Pete Rose and he will laugh at me.

Pete's no delicate flower. 

Today, I will hum in my head the song of which emanates from the friendly confines after a victory. I will not hum it aloud. I will not admit to humming it silently within my being. But, I will be humming it. I will smile when humming and I will do what I can to prepare for the game tonight. I'll have to buy another book and I'm glad NFL football will also be on--flipping between games will save my very being from having a nuclear meltdown.  I will watch as much of the game as I possibly can, even though it's a school night. I will watch and I will hum and I will go to bed when I can't take one more pitch.

"Go, Cubs, go!
Go, Cubs, go!
Hey, Chicago, what do you say?
The Cubs are gonna win today."

May the spirits of Harry Carey and Steve Goodman fill my very being today.
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Gloating, Goating, Squawking, Clowning

So, where have you been?

Oh, wait--it's me who needs to answer that question.

The Addiverse has been filled with avoidance techniques, requiring additional hours "hiding" people on Facebook, watching Amazon Video rather than cower in front of the TV, hanging out at art shows and contemplating the healing properties of making art instead of wasting brain cells on anything less profound. It's a beautiful time of year, with trees bursting into flaming colors and football season in full bloom. Oh, how I do love autumn. Even ragweed, the pathetic play of the Chicago Bears and the shortening of the days can't keep me down this time of year.

As you peeps of the Addiverse know, I always keep an "eye" out for our dogs-no-longer-on this-earthly plane, with Freckles showing up as a lion and Lucy showing up as a blue bird. I've seen a lot of lion photos lately; blue birds have been showing up in person. (I remain glad that lions are not showing up in person. After all, what the hell would I do if there were a lion in the back yard?) Lucy has decided to show up as a blue jay. A loud blue jay--a squawking blur of

blue. I've always loved the call of the blue jay, as it reminds me of childhood trips to the "cottage." Now, the sound makes me smile for two reasons, as it now lets me know Lucy is near. I have a blue jay that is hanging out at one of the sites; in fact, while sitting in the parking lot last week, a blue jay hopped onto the light right next to me and had much to say. At first, I was pretty stunned that this bird was perched so close to me. Then, I said hello and thank you, as one should always thank and recognize signs. The bird had something in its beak--I think it was a peanut, but that didn't keep it from talking. I had a quick conversation with this yappy bird and waited for it to fly away. Funny thing is, it didn't seem in too much of a hurry to hit the road. So, I stayed and it stayed and it was marvelous.

Halloween is right around the corner. Friends, a word of advice: don't dress up like a clown. 

I've never been a clown fan, no offense to clowns. This year, being dressed as a clown might end you up in handcuffs or worse, all because those scary clowns are lurking about the neighborhoods. This isn't a new phenomenon; clown sightings have been happening for decades. It's just that 24 hour news and social media have taken clown-mania to a whole 'nother level.

I have two young co-workers who truly believe the clown thing was devised by the government to distract us from other newsworthy things. At first, I thought they were kidding. Then, I realized

they weren't and thus worried for their sanity. Now, I think they may be genius. After all, we ARE talking about scary clowns instead of other scary things. Those youngsters might be onto something.

The Chicago Bears are not officially clowns but they might be better off in clown make-up, considering how awful their season has been. People are talking about them, so might as well make it two-for-one. They are making it easier for me to make picks in the football pool--just don't pick the Bears and it's a sure win for my fantasy football team.

Speaking of sports (the Bears still are a sports team, despite current record), the Chicago Cubs are firing up win after win, quite to my Cubbie Blue heart. Being a lifelong Cubs fan (the only team to which I am fully true) has me terrified that a goat will cross the field and the team will implode during the first round of the playoffs. The Friendly Confines will burst into flames and goats around the nation will gloat in glee.

What a year the Boys in Blue have had. Winning is fun to do and to watch. I pray to the Baby Jesus that this year brings home top honors. I hope that Sox fans are drowning their sorrows in some form of cheap canned beer instead of taunting their cross town rivals. Only time will tell. Call me pessimistically optimistic.

"Keep the goats and clowns off the field." That is my new mantra for the fall....

....although, they say one should always envision what is wanted, not what is not wanted, I think I'll fine tune that mantra to be:

"Thank you for the lack of goats and clowns in my life." That should do it. Winning is fun. Winning while wearing Cubbie blue is even more fun. Winning when while wearing Cubbie Blue and staying far away from clowns and goats is the most fun. I love winning at fantasy football but I'd love a World Series win even better. Be strong, north-siders, be strong.

Hey, maybe the government has the Cubs AND clowns in the news to really keep us distracted. Who has time for politics, global warming and whatnot when there are victorious Cubs and creeping clowns in the news? No argument here. I'll take the win. You keep the clowns.
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Really?

Pawn stars, duck callers, singers, dancers, survivors, screaming housewives, bigger than not brother, dating bachelors, wrestlers, tiaras on tots, bosses and celebrities......

This election has me all fired up for a variety of reasons. One of the things that has bothered my brain the most is that reality TV has made it deliciously possible to have a "reality" TV star run for president and have a much larger than not chance at success.


Now, I'm not saying that the man in question is the first reality TV star to reach for the stars and he is certainly not the first star to run for or become a President. (Case in point: Ronald Reagan. "Bedtime for Bonzo," anyone?) My issue is with reality TV itself. Although I find today's supposed-reality reality TV shows very entertaining, I have the ability to discern that they are not, in fact, reality.

Somehow viewer braincells have lost the ability to tell reality from not-reality. I personally enjoy not living in reality more days than not but I still can grasp the real from scripted, reality from hallucination, entertainment from the Hollywood tainted. Some days are tougher than not for me to figure reality out from non-reality, but I've got a pretty good batting average.

I have a very specific, judgmental definition about what Reality TV is/should be: It is unscripted, with non-celebrity types living real lives, being filmed during various real-life adventures in their mundane or not-so-mundane lives. I found this slide while Googling. It depicts my thought exactly. Dump the actors. Dump the script.

Today's Reality TV is not unscripted nor is it real life. It might have been a long time ago but today's reality TV is not reality at all. No offense, but I cannot wrap my head around how many people believe such shows are unscripted and/or feature unscripted, real life situations. I'm not judging-- I'm just scratching my head....this from a huge fan of MTV's Real World. (We're talking the first two or three seasons. Let's be clear.) That show changed a lot of things in my media-cluttered mind. How it morphed into the Kardashians, I do not know, but here we are.

Because people believe Reality TV is actuality Reality TV, I feel like we are staring into the Eye of Sauron. I don't know about you, but I don't want to be staring into the Eye of Sauron. It creeps me out, almost as a certain candidate's bad hairdo creeps me out.

I affirm that Reality TV (and 24 hour news programming) is to blame for the current presidential election nonsense. After all, one of the candidates has a show that is a huge it. I liked it. I watched it. But, it was nothing more than a TV show. Entertainment. Narcissistic distraction. Mindless humor. But, never presidential. (Being bombarded 24 hours a day by biased news has helped us none. It has dumbed us down and ruined actual reporting. That's for a whole 'nother blog.)

I suppose we could blame "Candid Camera" in the late 1940's for the reality TV, as that is where it all started. I'd bet dollars to donuts it wasn't officially scripted but I'm sure there was a pretty specific plan behind the show. There were other shows along the way but I think things morphed once "Survivor" (in something like 2000) came along. It started out so.... real. The first two seasons of "Survivor" were amazing. If it was a scripted show, I sure was not in the know. Those people looked miserable.  Now, "Survivor" is a blur of staged activities with known entities, not reality at all.  There is nothing wrong with the evolution of the show because it is great entertainment and it is very enjoyable for many reasons. It's just not reality TV. It's morphed into a game show, a known entity based on strategy, not survival. 

I suppose it says how warped I am that'd I prefer to see "normal life" people eating bugs and crying in the jungle. 

Since I'm full of opinions today, I shall assert the following: I think I should make my own reality TV show. I'd call it...  

"55 and Pregnant in the Addiverse."

Seriously. How could that NOT be a hit? I'm still shooting out eggs on a monthly basis. My uterus hasn't fallen out. I'm sure I could find some unsuspecting guy to share some sperm. I'm sure there is some Hollywood doctor who'd love the chance to be on television and thus would pump me up with hormones. I'd make sure it was unscripted. I'd let the cameras in from preparation to birth. I'd go to work. I'd eat cereal for dinner. I'd bicker with the wife. I'd pay bills and weed the lawn and drive my ten year old car and eat fast food without qualm. I'd go grocery shopping and to the dentist and to the hair salon. There is only ONE SMALL PROBLEM.....

.....It's already been done.
In 2009, there was a documentary/reality TV show about a 55 year old woman who shot out a baby. (The lady's story isn't happy, as evidenced by her being charged with manslaughter. But, that's a whole different technically non-related issue.) Even at 55 years old, I wouldn't be the first person to achieve this success and I'd have to have a different name for my TV show because she's already hogged the one I would use. I could still have a baby and TV show, but I'd have to change it to "Pregnant and 56." But, even that wouldn't be that surprising as she had another baby when she was 62 years old. SIXTY TWO!

God bless America, I'm going to poke my eyes out if I still have the ability to cook a baby in my girl parts when I am 62 years old. I'm not ready for "Pregnant and 63." I'd like to provide my ovaries a well-deserved retirement by the time I'm 63 years old.

And, I wonder why we have a non-reality reality TV star entrancing the masses. The media has us by the balls. We eat this crap up. We ask for more. We believe what we see, even when we can see the wizard behind the curtain.

Like I said... Pawn stars, duck callers, singers, dancers, survivors, screaming housewives, bigger than not brother, dating bachelors, wrestlers, tiaras on tots, bosses and celebrities. Not my reality. Hopefully not your reality. Just for today: turn off the 24 hour news and make distance between you and the election. Go for a walk. Get some fresh air. Look for unbiased information. Eat some ice cream. Accept that wrestling is not real.


....I hope you know TV wrestling isn't real.  I'd hate to think I was like someone who tells a six year old Santa is not real.

Okay, okay. Wrestling is as real as a movie or a sit-com or your favorite book.  Wrestling is as real as any entertainment...

.....it's as real as those screaming housewives. Just leave Santa and my poor ovaries out of this.
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