Fearlessly Pierce

I thought it was Friday when I woke up but just figured out it is Thursday. Dang. I hate when that happens.

Do you chat with a snap? I had some youngsters ask me if they could send me some snaps. I laughed and told them I'm too old to snap--that's why I'm on Facebook, not Snapchat. I told them I would fire up my "old" chatty account (one I had opened back when Snapchat originally started) so they could snap away.

Let me be clear: I have NO idea how to snap. I think I might have accidentally sent these fine young humans some ugly videos of which I never meant to send. (Okay people--videos of me with doe eyes and rainbow vomit. I was trying out a filter. Nothing more than horrific and stupid. Don't get all weird on me.)

I did see what they snapped but I'm not exactly sure what I snapped back. Why? Because after so many seconds things disappear. Well, kind of disappear. I'm sure there is some way to save things or whatnot but I have no idea how that might be or how that might work.

I'll leave the snapping to the young folk. I'm gonna stick with lame memes and recipe posts of Facebook.
***************************************************
The following diddy may not be the faint of heart. It involves the piercing of flesh. You be the judge.


For some reason or another--none of which I can currently identify--I decided to get my ears re-pierced. I already have all the "original" holes from piercings in the olden days, so why not use what I've got? I've got earrings I can't wear because all my piercings have closed....

The illustration here shows what I did NOT do. No wild rook or industrial piercings for me. I stuck with the tried-and-true "this is what I did in the 1980's" piercings. I put this illustration here because I think it's really wild how all sorts of ear locations are now being pierced. Say what you will, I love it. It's just not for my ever-growing ears.

A tangent: you know, all those ear piercings must have acupuncturists freaking out. I mean, there are a lot of acupuncture points on an ear. Reflexologists probably feel the same way. Of course, some people are getting specific parts of their ears pierced exactly for this reason--a trend seems to be getting one part of the ear pierced to help with migraines. That probably helps soothe acupuncture fans.

Here's an example of the ear acupuncture points. See what I mean? All those piercings ripping right through some important points. Ear piercing trend = acupuncture hell.

Back to me and my lobes. Tried as I might, my earrings were not going to go in without a fight; so, I decided to get them done professionally at a tattoo shop. From what I hear, mall-found-ear piercing guns are not the way to go. Whatever--you know I love going to tattoo shops, so it seemed like win-win to me.

So, I chose a shop by both recommendation and by on-line review. One of my tattoos is from there, so why not? I wave adios to the wife and head to the shop. When I got there, it was pretty quiet. Surprisingly (to me), Madonna was singing when I walked in. I've never been to a tattoo shop where Madonna was on the play list, so I took this as a sign I had chosen wisely. I only see two workers, which I find strange, as this should be a busy place on a Saturday afternoon. No matter. The guy comes out and asks me how he can help. I tell him I am there to get my ears re-pierced. He acknowledges this, indicates "we'll" (whoever we'll is) be with me and then goes back to the tattoo is he working on. After looking around the shop, I sit down and get comfy.

Twenty minutes later, I'm still sitting there and my ears are not re-pierced. Funny how when really cute, young girls walked in, the guy was super-attentive and all about customer service. Me? Not so much. I'm not cute or young. I decide this is not the place to be and thus I walked out without a word.

I'm sure he lost lots of sleep over this.

I go to the next shop--again, a place of which I've gotten a tattoo--and ask about getting my ears re-pierced. This place is empty, too. What on earth is going on when tattoo shops are empty on Saturday afternoons? She says is free to re-pierce my ears but explains she doesn't have "that many" matching earrings. I don't care if they match but when she shows me what she has, I realize this is not going to work in any capacity--if I wanted my belly button or tongue pierced, I would have been in business. She tells me if I have some earrings at home, I should bring them in and she can easily re-pierce my ears. I thank her for her time and leave, ears still un-re-pierced.

It is at this point that I realize I am going to re-pierce my own ears. Screw this driving around town. Screw young people who have no respect for old people ear lobes. I'll show you. I'll save money and time.

As I'm driving home, I devise a game plan. I'll dig out some of the old posts earned when getting my ears pierced back in the 1980's (yes, I still have them) and SHOVE those puppies right through the existing-now-closed holes. I considered using the old "ice numb and potato behind the ear" method some of my friends used back in the day, but quickly realize we probably don't have any potatoes at home and figure I don't care to have ice cubes melting down my neck. Nope. I'm just going to do it.

The wife, realizing what I am about to do, makes it quite clear she wants NOTHING to do with this. Nothing. She reiterates she is not going to help me. What a chicken.

I gather my supplies--posts, alcohol (the cleaning kind, not the drinking kind) and wipes--and head to the bathroom. I am ready. My ears are ready. The wife is ready, albeit it far, far away. I "sterilize" the posts and ear lobes by generously dousing said items in alcohol. I close the sink drain thing, lest the earrings all go rolling down the drain. I take a deep breath and begin the procedure.

I decided to pierce four earring holes on the left side and one on the right. How I came to this decision, I do not know. It just made sense to me. Call it a numbers thing. Or, maybe it's because I had five earrings at my disposal. Although I could have done four and three, I did four and one.

Looking at my left ear, I considered if I should work front to back or back to front. For the record, I decided on back to front.

Starting with "Left hole #4" (which thus became re-pierce #1), I took that post, lined it up and SHOVED it through my ear. SHOVED.

Did I mention that I SHOVED it through my ear?

Oh dear god, it hurt like hell. I suppose it should hurt--after all, I just took a dull implement and shoving it through my ear lobe. Despite the pain, I was felt gloriously triumphant, as re-pierce #1 was a complete success. I put the backing on the earring and moved on to "Left hole #3/re-piercing #2.

Re-piercing #2 didn't go as swimmingly as re-piercing #1 and thus I ended up bleeding. A lot. I'm not sure where I went amiss but I decided to give that one a bit of time and then moved on to re- piercing #3 and #4. Thankfully, those went without a hitch and thus I returned to #2. After a LOT of bleeding and shoving and swearing and wooziness (with emphasis on swearing), I got #2 re-pierced. Bloody and angry red and now swollen but pierced.

The right side, with only one re-piercing to be had, did NOT cooperate. I'll save you the details but I ended up asking the wife for help, despite her insistence she would NOT be helping me.

Me: Come on! I can't see the back of my ear. Just tell me if I'm lined up with the old hole.

The wife: I told you, I am not helping you!

Me: You don't have to do anything. Just look! I need to know if I'm in the right spot.

The wife: I don't want to be doing this.

Me: Just look!

The wife: (not wearing her reading glasses, so she is of limited help) there is no hole back here.

Me: There HAS to be!

The wife: No, there is not a hole.

Me: Can you see where the earring is poking?

The wife: Yes, but I'm telling you there isn't a hole.

Insert some arguing here, along with repeated "I told you I don't want to be any part of this" statements. The wife left the bathroom--agitated and grossed out.

Long story short...I was unsuccessful. 

This pissed me off. I didn't want to go back to a tattoo shop but I wanted that stupid ear pierced. I announced we were going to the mall. Yes, the mall. Yes, the place with the ear piercing gun. The method of which I had originally poo-poo'd. The mall on a Saturday night.

I am pleased to report that the earring-gunned-is-she-12 years-old-employee had a VERY hard time re-piercing my ear. She, in her youthful ignorance, had been all sorts of confident when I asked her if she could re-pierce my ear in the exact spot it had originally been pierced. She looked a whole lot less confident when her first attempt failed miserably, as the earring didn't fully through the skin and thus didn't emerge out the "back end." Seems my scar tissue had better ideas than being re-pierced. I thought I was going to have to talk her through it but she got her courage back and gave it another shot (literally and figuratively).

I now have a pierced right ear. It was worth the trip to the mall as obviously I would never have been able to do it myself. I'll spare you the details of the crunching sound involved with achieving success.....

I look ridiculous with old-school posts in but I'm not taking them out until everything fully heals. By then, I'll have had time to buy some earrings worth wearing.

Today, I have a hair appointment. I'm sure my old-school posts with be up for discussion. I'll tell her to respect her elder and to focus on my hair. I thought about taking them out for the hair appointment but then thought better. There is no way in hell I am re-re-piercing anything. She can deal with my tacky posts. Because I'm nice, I'll clean them this morning before I leave for work. Beyond that, she'll just have to deal with it.

It's Thursday. Not Friday. It's a great day. It's a hair cut day. It's a "my ears are pierced and I rock" day. It's a "how the hell do you send a snap?" kind of day. Maybe I'll snap a few photos of my ears to some young people.....

Admire my ears. Admire my bravery. Admire my stupidity. Are you sure it's not Friday?
********************************************************
Happy Easter and/or Happy Passover and/or Happy Spring to all.

Political Palette

Forgive my need to write about mundane political things. It keeps me distracted and serves as free therapy. I try to stay polite in my lop-sided view of today's world. I know my left-leanings are more than colorful, so I'll work to stay balanced. Or, not.

My political palette says "Color me Green." The March for Science is quickly approaching. Earth Day (April 22) has been ear-marked for the next global political event of which I will gladly, proudly and loudly attend. I hope that the turn out will be as good as the March on Washington, as science is a pretty important thing--despite what the current administration seems to think. Call me crazy, but I like clean air, live animals, and protected national parks.

"The March for Science demonstrates our passion for science and sounds a call to support and safeguard the scientific community. It is time for people who support scientific research and evidence-based policies to take a public stand and be counted."

Now, I am one of those radical, hippy type folk so forgive me if I'm too environmental for your liking. I'm one of those weirdos who likes evidence-based things. especially when it comes to protecting the Earth. I know, I know--Science is so.... well, anti-alternative-fact driven. That belief in fake science is asinine--lib-tarded, for sure. I should sit down, be silent and behave--the white, rich men in Washington have this all under control. Global Warming is propaganda of the far left. Profit-producing pipelines are much more important than honoring sacred lands--that land is for the taking and those people need to get in line--get in pipe line (really bad pun intended). Tiny Trump and his minions remind me that coal and fracking are the wave of the future.

Speaking of Tiny Trump, I haven't had a tiny photo of him for awhile. Here he is with one of his besties. This is one of my favorites. But, aren't they all my favorites?

To be honest, I never dreamt that I'd have to be so politically active after all these years. I thought those days were long behind me. I suppose I should thank this administration for spurring me back into action. I never thought I would have to "resist" anything. I certainly never thought I'd have a T-shirt with "resist" and the National Park Service combined into one.

I'm no longer pink. My political palette says Color me red. Angry red.

*****************************************

My Penced-Political-Palette says Color me red, white and blue. As a model citizen, I want to make sure I represent both sides of the aisle. It is with this in mind that I suggest you check out this link supporting our great Vice President. It's only fair and right that I give credit where credit is due. You can thank me later.  http://www.officialmikepence.com/ 

Color me giddily converted.

****************************************
Color my sporty palette Cubbie Blue. I am pleased to announce the return of the World Series champs to town. That bright blue is what smiles are made of. I look forward to another great season--this time with no stress or angst or fretting. They won the trophy once in my lifetime--now it'll be so much "easier" to watch a game or see the standings. It would be delightful if they had another world series season, but I'm all good with whatever happens. Honestly. I'll attend games. I'll wear my team colors. I'll sing the song of my people. But, the results are just icing on this year's season. Be strong, Cub Fans. It's gonna be different being "lovable winners."

****************************************
Color me rainbow. The guy who created the Rainbow Flag passed away last week. It was about 30 years ago when the first rainbow was unveiled. "The first flags had eight colors, each stripe carrying its own significance: pink for sex, red for life, orange for healing, yellow for sun, green for nature, turquoise for magic, blue for peace and purple for spirit." 

I've always been a fan of the rainbow flag. It's so dang...well, colorful.

What's not to love about a rainbow? Rainbows aren't threatening. Rainbows are biblical. Rainbows are beautiful, colorful, wondrous. Rainbows are equal opportunity, the full palette. Please don't be all pissy because the gays soiled God's rainbow. Be happy there are rainbows and that some of them are more fabulous than others.

I'm sure Pence is all about tasting the rainbow.

I know, I know. I'm soiling God's rainbow by writing that. My true colors bleed through. I'm a one-sided rainbow. I own my palette's skewed color scheme.

Pink triangles, green forests, diverse nation. Face it: my political palette vomits a rainbow.

I vomit rainbows... and, I couldn't be prouder. Color me peachy.
*************************************************************

Tickled Pink

I'm traumatized. The really-little baby bunnies in the front yard are...well.... dead.

Now, I know nature is like that--a cruel master, a balance of life and death. But, I don't like it. I don't like it at all. Poor baby bunnies. It is at times like these I am glad to be a vegetarian. No lucky rabbit foot for me.

Being that I wasn't sure they were fully dead, I went outside and poked them with a stick.

Yup. Fully, surely dead.

I originally thought they had been dug up by a neighborhood animal--dog, coyote, desperate hawk. But, further inspection (during the poking with a stick), I figured out that the guy laying our mulch yesterday accidentally uncovered the nest of not-yet-done cooking bunnies, leading to premature launching from the nest. Out they popped, only to quickly die from the elements.

Please know that later today I will pick them up and give them a proper burial. I can't leave them sprawled out on the front lawn.

On the hot flash front, I am tickled pink to announce I am no longer even having the slightest of tingling signalling the potential of flashes. Nothing! I'm back to "normal," whatever that may be. I'm gonna marry that Estroven.

On the political front, I am really tickled pink that the Republicans didn't get their act together and thus had to pull the bill from the House Floor. Blame the Democrats all you want, Mr. Cheeto. There is good and bad to everything. I'm not saying that the ACA is good or bad, because it does need to be improved but remains better than anything the rich, white crusty Bozos in Washington DC could come up with.

[This meme cracks.me.up.]

On the leisure activity front, I suggest you go see "Beauty and the Beast" as well as "Missing Elements." I'm a huge Emma Watson fan, so my vote is skewed about the BnB movie. Well done, I say. And, that astronaut/racism of the 1960's movie had me crying. Seriously. I shed a tear. I was moved, angered, surprised, reflective.

I now step onto my soap box. You have been warned.

In my estimation, history books often fail to accurately represent the true stories, as the truth doesn't best serve the persons "in charge." I suppose "false stories" and "alternative facts" have been around for the ages. Alternative facts were just better "hidden" over the years.

Large and in charge. Just like this group of guys making the decisions for women's health. Does anyone see a problem with this picture? I can't imagine what kind of history book they'd write. I'm so glad they have my best interest at heart.

Women, get your shit together and start advocating, resisting, voting, running for office. Do you REALLY want these guys in charge of your uterus, your freedom to make decisions, your ability to get equal right?

IMHO, the telling of U.S. history finds it best to keep such stories (like the one told in Hidden Elements) under wraps or twist them to reflect the best about the folks who are large and in charge. The history books of which I consumed during my education may have encouraged feelings of patriotism, but the books provided a tainted view based on opinions, distorted thoughts, perhaps even hateful rhetoric of the majority. I am so glad they made this movie. I had no idea that such "behind the scene at NASA" women and minority stuff was going on. In fact, I hate to admit this, but I imagine a bunch of white nerdy guys sitting in mission control when thinking about NASA in the 1960's. It never dawned on me that women and minorities might have been involved.

Why did I limit my thinking?

Because that's what I was taught. No one ever mentioned the women or minorities as part of the space race. Of course they didn't. It didn't serve the story or the superiority.

I now step off my soap box.

Back to the movies. I was tickled pink to see two good movies in a row. I usually have an uncanny ability to pick out stinkers on which to throw my money. I would see both of these movies again, which says a lot.

I have committed to seeing the Power Rangers movie with some clients. I doubt the Rangers will inspire me to greatness but one must do what one must do. Who knows? I'm a comic book fan. Maybe they'll turn out to be a great group of crime fighters who represent truth or diversity or equality. Yes, maybe I'll be tickled pink. I've always thought the Pink Power Ranger to be a good omen. Maybe she's just what we need at this time of women stepping forward, donning their pink knitted caps.

Pink hats, pink Power Ranger, pink ribbons, pink attitude....

I think I may have discovered a new favorite color.
***************************************************

Commandeering My Shopping Cart

Left: my creation regarding 45's refusal to shake a foreign-official-who-happens-to be-a woman's hand yesterday. Call this my healthy coping skill. Cheaper than staying drunk or having the FBI show up at my house.

A short political note: the local political calls have picked up in frequency. Why these people don't have to be on the "Do Not Call" list is beyond me. The people running for mayor of our town call more and more. I think I'll cast my vote for the one who calls the least.
Three magic words: 
NO. HOT. FLASHES.

I am incredibly pleased to report that the OTC Estroven (or whatever it is called--I'm too lazy to go get the box) has put an end to my repeated bursting into flames. Every once in awhile between 7-10 PM, I feel as if I might be starting the what-used-to-be inevitable, but it never develops into a full-fledged anything. I have a bottle of DIM waiting in the wings, just in case the Estroven stops being as effective as it is or if I learn that this stuff is bad for me.

It'd have to be pretty bad before I'd discontinue. Like, parts falling off or out of me. That'd do it.

Since I'm not having hot flashes 10-15 times a day anymore, I've been able to do everything without interruption or hatred for humankind. This means I can stay focused for extended lengths of time.... which means I can shop on Amazon without interruption. This is good and bad. My money man (yes, I have one of these now--a sure sign of the aging process) would tell me shopping on Amazon is bad and supports impulsive purchases. My brain tells me it is good because I do research, comparison shop and then make the purchase of which I was always going to make.

I'm not sure if I like my money man or not. I hate when people have my best interest at heart. He sure puts a damper on impulsive spending.

Money Man: Why do you have Amazon Prime?

Me: Because I use it all the time. Two day shipping, baby!

Money Man: Perhaps it is better not to have it--instead of immediate gratification with two day shipping, put purchases in the shopping cart and leave it there for a few days. If you still want it, go ahead. If not, delete it or leave it in the cart.

Me: [blank stare at Money Man] [I think to myself] Who is this spawn of the devil? 

Money man: Do you use Amazon Prime Video:?

Me: Yes! (I'm hoping this is the right answer. It's the honest answer but I'm not sure his motive for asking.)

Money man: Okay, that's good. It's worth the cost. You should keep it. I watch Amazon Prime Video all the time. Would you consider waiting before making purchases, thought? Do you really need to get your orders within two days?

Me: Ummmm. [I kinda-sorta nod yes, but I'm not very definitive.] "Hold the shopping cart," I say (which is just a statement, not a promise).

My money man makes me nervous. I have put my faith--and my accounts--into his hands. So far, he seems to be headed in the right direction. If he ever contradicts my beloved Suze Orman, I'm firing him. No one messes with my Suze.

Money man wants to put me on a budget, which is irritating, bordering on terrifying. After all, I already put money into savings, don't have any debt and don't make that many impulsive purchases. The reason he wants to do this (well, I suppose there are many reasons, none of which I like) is that my retirement fund leaves a lot to be desired. I already knew this--I didn't have to get a money man to tell me such obvious things. But, it is his job to point this out, whether I know it or not.

I want to tell my money man, "Listen, pal. I can't help it people like you started retirement savings right out of the womb. It took me a long time to get here. Respect your elder!"

Thank goodness he loves Doctor Who, lest I have to fire him.

My money man pointed out that I spent more money last month than I brought in. I look at the numbers and think, "huh." Yup, I did. I do not know how to explain why I still have money left if I spent more than I brought in, but the numbers show I still have money. I don't want to challenge him on this, as I'm afraid he'll make my budget that much worse. It's at this point I wish I had lied to him and low-balled my expenses. Ah, hindsight is foresight.

Thankfully, he has compassion and thus is agreeable to putting things like making charitable contributions, feeding the birds outside and even looking ahead if we want to get a dog. To do this, though I have to think about my spending.

Money Man: How often do you go out to eat?

Me: [I know he knows the answer. I gave him detailed data and it's right in front of him. I know what he's doing.] For lunch?

(Yes, I'm stalling. It's kind of like lying to God.)

Money Man: Per week.

Me: Um, well... probably three or four times a week for lunch. Probably twice a week for dinner. (I'm totally lying. I eat out more than that.)

Money Man: Would you consider eating out a few less times for lunch?

Me: Sure. (I hate this man. I begrudgingly acknowledge he is right.) I could bring my lunch two or three times a week instead of going out.

Money Man: And coffee?

Oh no. Those are fighting words.

Me: I only go to Dunkin' Donuts. I drink the cheap stuff.

Money Man: How much per month?

Me: Well, $30 in the month? That's not bad, considering how much Starbucks would cost me. (Yes, I'm justifying my habit. This is one small luxury I want to keep.)

My money man is wise enough to leave this topic alone. 

Money Man notices I haven't budgeted for things like clothes, taxes or insurance. Piss. I hate when that happens. I point out to him that I had to buy new tires for my car last month, so that is the kind of money I use to by clothes ore taxes. I stress how that is the reason for overspending my incoming money last month. It is then he starts on the purchase of a car.

Money Man: Do you plan on buying a car in the next few years?

Me: No.

Money Man: How long do you think you'll be driving your current car?

Me: Five more years. (I'm hoping this will buy me time to have money for more coffee.)

Money Man: What kind of car do you drive?

Me: A Honda.

Money Man: Great! That can run forever. (Shoo. My coffee is safe for the time being!)

I neglect to tell him I buy new license plates every year. I justify this to myself by saying it is cheaper to buy new plates than buy new cars. He'll figure it out once he looks at my budget. Lie of Omission, I will tell him politely.

Forward to today. I have purchases in my Amazon shopping cart. They are killing me, sitting in there. They've been there since last night. That's probably a record for me. I keep clicking on the shopping cart. Yup, the stuff is still there. I do research and then go back to the shopping cart.

Do I need it, I ask myself?

Can I stall on the purchases? Can I? Will I?

My shopping cart is crying. I hear it call my name.

What's that other sound? It's my money man, whispering on the wind, reminding me that two-day shipping and ordering a WANT, not a NEED is not in the budget. Want. Need. Want. Need. Want. Need....

He is trying to commandeer my shopping cart, the rat bastard! I weigh the pros and cons of having to explain to my money man why I made those purchases. I weigh the odds that he will even notice the money has been spent from my checking account. I consider if I will or won't click on the button to make the purchase.

I'll wait an hour. But, that's it. That shopping cart is mine.

Stay away from my coffee and shopping cart, Money Man. And, don't mess with the ice cream, either. I've got my eye and my two-day shipping on you. I'll give up the license plates if you give me the cart, coffee and ice cream.

Don't make me run you over with my shopping cart, Money Man. I've done worse. One hour. The clock starts now.

****************************************************

Rum, Wind and Fire

This bursting into flames thing is getting old. Thankfully, there were 55 mph winds yesterday, so all I had to go outside for a minute and feel better. Mother Nature feels my pain.

Picture this. I'm at the local grocery store, picking up food for the agency training I am about to lead. I can barely get out of the car because the wind is so fierce. Once I finally escape, I head toward the door--hair flying into bizarre shapes, jacket flying open rendering me a flying squirrel. Because I am running a bit behind schedule, I'm moving through the store like a shopping ninja.

I get my bread, butter, creamer, salad and veggie tray. I find the french bread and load up on simple carbs. I zip through the pizzeria line to pick up the piping-hot vat of mostaccioli. I realize that I've forgotten a dessert product, so I grab the closest thing-- 2 for $6.00 Oreos. I fly toward the check out and get in line.

I pick the shortest line, which is often the kiss of death.

I see the guy behind me is only holding a bottle of Bacardi. Even though I'm in a hurry, I'm not in that much of a hurry. I flag him to go ahead of me.

This, of course, ends up complicating things.

When it's his turn, he starts yipping and yapping with the checker, which is fine. It's when it becomes very obvious that he knows the checker AND the guy who was in front of him in line that the issue occurs. They start talking about various topics, all the while the checker stops checking. The guy in line makes fun of Bacardi Man, telling him to take it easy on his liver. Bacardi Man is talking about being 60 years old and having no liver since being a teen because he drank so much. The checker chimes in, wondering where his wife is. Bacardi Man announces "mama's out in Wisconsin with some friends" and proceeds to talk about how he'll be drinking this bottle today while she's gone. He turns to me and drags me into the conversation. I smile and nod and laugh, all the while thinking SCAN THAT BOTTLE OF RUM SO WE CAN GET OUT OF HERE!

That's when thing get volcano-lava complicated.

I feel the familiar tingle in my face. It's just enough to get my attention. I hope that I am wrong but the little tingle continues. No, no, no.

It's not like I can stop what is about to transpire.  It's not like Bacardi Man can distract me out of this happening. My ears begin to turn red (yes, I can feel this) and the fire within my being begins to spread (slowly at first) and work its way out to my chest, neck and face. The insides of my elbows begin to sweat (it's disgusting and most definitely where I sweat the most). Then, the blast of heat consumes me. I want to shout (in my best Sweet Brown voice):

LORD JESUS, IT'S A FIRE!

If I don't get my coat off, I'm going to die. I let Bacardi Man keep yipping while I tug at my coat, trying to be casual about the whole thing. Once that's off, I tear at the thin sweater I am wearing, as I'm beginning to get desperate.

If it were appropriate, I would have taken off my pants. 

I casually drape the items over the cart, hoping that my bright red face and ears aren't giving me away. I can feel the insides of my elbows dripping. I try to remain calm while the three stooges keep talking about his drinking problem. I focus on how this is a "power surge" and that it is a positive sign that I'm nearing the end of egg producing nonsense.

Things don't get much better when it is finally my turn. I hand her the "tax exempt" letter. She starts yapping about that, talking about how she hasn't seen our agency for awhile and that we're not in the system anymore but she's gonna hand-enter it. She's asking where "we've" been and how we are doing. All the while I'm thinking "SCREW THE TAX EXEMPT. SCREW IT!" No, she is going to triumph at this task.

By now, I'm starting to cool down. Thankfully, being on fire don't last long. I'm still miserable but I'm under control. My ears are no longer on fire, which is always a good sign. She finally gets everything in order and I'm on my way, now 10 minutes late.

The wind. The wind now takes control.

I'm trying to empty the cart but the trunk keeps slamming shut because of the wind. Since many of my groceries are heavy, I need two hands to move them from the cart to the trunk. I grab the giant salad and off pops the lid, sending sausages and onions onto my binder. I swear, put the now-no-top salad back in the cart, only to have one of the two receipts I have escape from my grasp.

Dang, I need that receipt! The business lady is going to kill me if I don't have that reciept. So, I am now running against/with/against the wind trying to catch the receipt. I am here to tell you that receipts fly REALLY FAST when the wind is 55 mph.

No, I did not catch the receipt. Business Office lady, forgive my sin.

That's when I see the cart is rolling down the aisle at breakneck speed. It's rolling along as I watch in horror, frozen. It suddenly starts veering left....now heading towards some really nice cars. I gasp and break into a sprint, all the time yelling, "NOOOOOOO!" I catch the cart, in the nick of time. I'm sweating again, only this time due to terror and effort.

Getting the food into the car was a major undertaking. Each time I bend over to take something out of the cart, the wind blows the door shut. I'm swearing and I'm fighting and I'm one hot mess--pun intended. I stop for a breather, hoping that NO ONE is filming this endeavor. I am now at least 15 minutes late. I leave the escapee sausage in the trunk and turn to put the cart away.

There are NO shopping cart stall thingies in sight. Who has a parking lot without these things spread all over? The nearest one is at least four rows over. This means I'm going to have to take the cart back into the store, lest I damage unsuspecting vehicles. I push that empty cart as fast as I can, all the while praying, hoping, begging that no one is using their camera phone to capture my endeavor to post on Facebook.

Once in the car, I'm freezing. Of course I am. All that sweat combined with freezy wind has left me shaking. I am now 17 minutes late. I'm wishing I too had purchased a bottle of rum.

When I get to work, I drag the items in, one by one, still fighting the stupid trunk lid. As I carry in the various items (getting really pissed off at the outside entrance, which also won't stay open), everyone is staring at me--where have I been? Why do I look like I've been through the war? Where's the food? Somebody with brain cells and empathy (and a history of hot flashes) asks if I need help....

YES. YES--OF COURSE I NEED FRIGGIN' HELP. LOOK. AT. ME! People jump up and start helping. Damn right, they did. Respect your elder, under 40 crowd!

I'm pretty sure I looked like a deranged, rabid flying squirrel who had been caught in the cross fire during squirrel hunting season.

Suffice it to say, training went off without a hitch, albeit now 19 minutes late. No one cares about that when they are feeding their face with free food. I could have been 45 minutes late and they would have forgiven me--as long as there is free food, everything is easily forgiven. I plop down, finally able to catch my breath....when I remember....

....I'm parked illegally. I have to go outside and move my car, out of the way and into a more legal manner.

You know what I did? Nothing.

I. DID. NOTHING.

Screw the illegally parked car. I'm not going back out there until I have another hot flash. When I fire up, I can go outside and kill two birds with one stone. If anyone wants to say something about it, I will throw my keys at their head and make it quite clear that THEY can move my illegally parked car. Trust me, I think--I will throw those keys so hard that I'll probably take out both of their eyes.

As I said--this bursting into flames thing is getting old. But, I will continue to embrace the power surges, keeping the eye on the prize. I shall be empowered by my natural heating and detoxification unit. That said....

Mother Nature can kiss my ass. 'Nuf said.

Tiny Tweets

Time for some lightheartedness in the Addiverse.

I've started making little images for my own entertainment. It is free therapy and gives me tiny giggles. I thought I'd share them with you along the way. If you are my facebook friend, this stuff will end up being re-runs (or, vice versa), but that's okay. Maybe that will give you two chances to laugh, groan or shake your head.

If you are someone who has referred to me as a "libtard" or "snowflake," you might want to move along as you will not find a guffaw here. Kindly move along.

I'm not sure if these are funny or not, but they are funny to me. Much more funny that having a commander who tweets all hours of the day--bad grammar, bad spelling and all. (Will someone PLEASE help the guy with spelling?) Sad to say, now all sorts of politicians are starting to tweet back and forth. Tweet wars at the highest level. I suppose if you have a commander who tweets, ya gotta tweet back to get his attention.

As I make these creative diddies, I will throw some other politicians into the mix.... After all, the circus is in town so might as well include all the clowns. 
 I'm not a tweeter. Perhaps it's time I start tweeting--or, at least start following some more tweeters. I have the Facebook down pat but Twitter feed hurts my head. I have an account but never use it except to follow Doctor Who tweets--and, I have those sent to my email so I don't have to go to my Twitter account. If I do start using this media, I won't be tweeting and I won't put time into Tiny Trump Tweets--after all, I see those on the nightly news.  I'll be stalking from afar.


At least I'm in the Twitter age bracket. God help me if I try snapping or instagramming. There is probably a law against people my age using those social media platforms.

Please tell me our Commander in Tweet is NOT snapping. He should not snap or chat. One social media platform at a time, por favor.

I guess we should all get used to this form of communication. Sound bites, tweets, status updates. Since the liberal media feeds us alternative facts, I suppose we'll have to rely on 140 characters for our national updates.

Perhaps that 140 character limit is good for our Commander in Tweet. Short, simple, familiar. Reading that State of the Union address must've been tough. Rehearsing it in the limo isn't the way to go--what the speech writer should have done is break it into 140 character tweets. THAT would have worked handsomely for his Tweetness.

Let be known that if this "140 Characters of National News" is the new norm, then I will keep making these memes. They say more than 140 characters, anyway. They make me laugh. They get my brain waves back on the positive, on the happy, on the lighter side. It's really not funny but if life gives you lemons....

...pick up the damn lemon and throw it at someone's head. Tweet that.

Surreal Days, Surreal Ways

If you are overwhelming sick of political babbling from me or anyone else, ask yourself why and then feel free to skip to the second section of this blog entry. I'm ranting about something else there. Doesn't mean you'll like that ranting any better but remember: you always have freedom and options in the Addiverse.

Remember: If you find yourself in political banter of which you do not want to be a part of, you can always say, "Hey! How 'bout them Cubs?" and the conversation will gloriously morph toward the World Series Champs. 

Works like a charm. 

******************************************************************************

Article [I] Amendment 1 - Freedom of expression and religion) Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

*************************************************************************

Okay, so correct me if I'm wrong. If the White House holds a press conference and deliberately--VERY intentionally, very much in retaliation--keeps certain media agencies out, is that not against the First Amendment? 

Wait--maybe I don't want you to correct me if I'm wrong. Because I'M NOT WRONG. Take that, Alt-right and alternative fact lovers. I have had enough of you.

Everything seems surreal these days. There are times in the day that I stop in my tracks and shake my head, trying to figure out if what appears to be happening is really happening.... or, maybe I stop in my tracks because I've burst out into a hot flash and have to pause to remove my sweater. Hard to say.

I've been using BBC news as my go-to news media, as they seem to fall somewhere in the middle of left and right. Guess who didn't get invited to the table yesterday? That's right, the BBC. I assume they weren't allowed into the press conference because they actually tell the truth. The truth is a whole lot of terrible for a guy who gets all his data and facts from neo-nazis (watered down to Alt-right so it doesn't sound racist) outlets and the ever-biased Fox News, all while lounging in his robe, lonely and bitterly, in the WH. I considered maybe 45 didn't want the BBC to be in attendance because they are foreigners, but the New York Times, Washington Post, LA times and a few other media agencies were locked out, too... so, that can't be the reason.

I might have semi-overlooked this unconstitutional-but-not-surprising-in-this-regime retaliatory action but when I learned that Breibart News, The Washington Times and One America News Network were in attendance, I almost blew a withering ovary right out my girl parts. 

Seriously. Google those three "news" outlets. Your ovaries will be spitting angry, too.

This is not normal. This cannot be our new normal.
********************************************************************************

As for thoughts on mental illness, the issue of which I spoke about a few blogs ago continues. Suffice it to say it is almost surreal when listening to the people involved talk of mental illness. I hoped by now "we" wouldn't think of mental illness as those who are "psycho mass murderers." Having a mental illness isn't a weakness. And, yet the perception is that it is...a weakness, a failure, bad. People don't know what mental illness "is." Anxiety is fine.... it's not a mental illness.

What? Can you please say that again? Anxiety isn't a mental illness? The stigma and misconceptions in this particular situation is deafening. (By the time I'm off my mental health soap box, I'm going to need mental health treatment to resolve this anger. Or, maybe I need to eat more chocolate and talk about the Cubs.) As I said last time, I'm here to bust stigma--not judge. I feel awful for the family in question as they are laden in stigma. We in America really do a rotten job of educating people on mental illness.

Bear with me if I'm preaching to the choir here.

There seems to be a whole lot of confusion in regards to mental illness, both within the family facing a mental health crisis and in the general population. Let me openly acknowledge that when it comes to stigma, I'm all over busting it. To the stigma-laden, may I please educate thee:

Anxiety is a mental illness. It just doesn't sound as scary to hear "anxiety" as it is to hear you might have some "other" mental illness. Isn't easier to say, "I have anxiety" than "I have schizophrenia?" Of course it is. Anxiety is familiar. Anxiety is prevalent. Anxiety is understandable.

Say it with me: "Anxiety is a mental illness." It's okay. Really. Help me bust this stigma. 

"Anxiety Breakdown" is not an actual "thing" in the mental health world. I'm guessing that was a polite way for the family doctor to say "Nervous Breakdown." After all, having to tell a patient that he/she has mental illness isn't very fun. Doesn't telling the patient it was an "anxiety breakdown" sound more like "a touch of the flu" than anything scary? That's part of perpetuating stigma.

Problem is that "Nervous Breakdown" is technically not a diagnosis, either; rather, it is a description of symptoms related to the significant decompensation in mental health. Honestly, I'd bet dollar to donuts that we've all heard that someone has had a nervous breakdown. To me, it sounds like something that happened in the 1970's, leading to the rise of Valium. Stigma tells us "Nervous breakdown" is when someone completely falls apart--that's not mental illness.  

Side note: primary care physicians are usually NOT equipped to talk about mental illness. They probably had a short rotation through psychiatry while in med school and that was that. (Well, besides the education they get from drug reps. But, that's a whole 'nother topic.) So, call it a nervous breakdown and move along.

Delusional thinking can surface when someone is so anxious and so stressed that they literally lose touch with reality. Someone who believes that they are being followed, that people aren't who they say they are, that everyone is out to get them--they are experiencing psychosis. It doesn't mean it is a permanent way of thinking. It means right now the person is delusional. Stigma leads us to denying that a loved one can meet the criteria for psychosis. I can't blame them--it is brokenheartedly awful to see someone who happens to be delusional.

"Anxiety Psychosis" is a "real" thing, not that I'd ever use that term. A doctor telling a patient they have anxiety psychosis sounds REALLY scary and a whole lot like mental illness, so those words are not usually spoken. It's pointless to argue with a person with delusional thinking--after all, it's their reality. Stigma thwarts family efforts to accept this. 

It's okay. I'm not judging. I'm just asking for stigma busting.

Therapy is EXTREMELY helpful with anxiety. Therapy does mean you are weak or a loser or should've tried harder. It's an amazing tool to learn skills and help oneself. Why people remain so fearful of therapy, I do not know. People go to physical therapy all time time. What's the difference?

Anti-depressants are often used for persons with anxiety. They are not a quick fix but with time, such medication can work handsomely. A treatment provider calling an anti-depressant by some other name is being chicken. Anti-depressants can help reduce or potentially eliminate delusional thinking/psychosis because it is addressing the driving force--anxiety.

Remember, anxiety is a mental illness.

Anti-depressants have to be taken daily and for months on end. It is a long-acting med, taking three to six weeks to get to full "strength." It's not a med you can take now and then. It is not fast acting. As time goes on, the person feels less anxious, can think more clearly, gets back to daily living, no longer has false beliefs. it's important the person keeps taking the med, even when they are feeling great.

It is possible to have two mental health diagnoses at the same time (in this case, anxiety plus a personality disorder). It doesn't mean mental illness is twice as bad because there are two diagnoses. It means the person met the criteria for the illnesses. No matter how many "labels" are slapped on the patient (after all, they are "just" labels), the goal is to medicate the mental illness (anxiety, depression, bipolar, schizophrenia, etc) and get therapy for the personality disorder.

Families may play a role in the situation. Families don't want to hear this--after all, why would they? But, at times, the family plays a part and it's important the family recognizes its role in the issue. It's not good or bad. It's just factual. Ever watch an episode of "Intervention?" Then, you know what I'm talking about. The family system considers if they have a role in the issue. It's up to them to move forward...or not. 

I wish this family love, patience and understanding. 

I wish the person identified peace, health and recovery. 

I wish those in the world with mental illness acceptance and support. 

I wish for everyone a much less surreal world. 

I wish all of us to persist.

Nevertheless, we persist.

******************************************************************************

Un-Flashing-Believable

The past weeks have been quite...challenging. I'm going with that descriptor, lest I fire up into a frustration-fueled, diarrhea of the mouth laden asswipe. The stressors continue at a fevered pace. I wish I could say otherwise.  No need for giving "power" to that on this beautiful Saturday morning. After all, it's 65 degrees today when it should be 35 degrees.

Mother Nature didn't get the memo that Spring is at least a month away in these northern midwest parts. I'm all good with 65 degrees in February. That said, do you think Mother Nature will tell the trees and plants not to start sprouting yet? I'm concerned about this. What if all the buds spring forth and then it returns to seasonal weather, with a frigid cold snap? Will all the trees and plants be ruined? Will the forsythia be faced with certain doom? Will the birds fly north too "soon?" These are the things that keep me up at night.

Side note: Here's how I envision Mother Nature (aka Mother Earth) at this time of the year: Cold and snowy, heavy garb, frost on the ground, beauty in the night. Instead, I'm considering if I should wear shorts or not.

Actually, I tell you what keeps me up at night: HOT FLASHES. That's what keeps me up at night. Mother Nature certainly did NOT get the memo that it is totally unfair to "bless" me with hot flashes while eggs are fired out of the ol' ovaries every month. Seriously--I cry foul. I wake up in a swimming pool and curse the being who created this passage of life. If the eggs would stop, I might be a bit more likely to embrace this reoccurring "seeping of the sweat." I try to focus on how this MUST be the harbinger of happier days to come--the day my eggs take a bow and retire after a long, successful journey. That said, it's hard to do. I love you eggs, but it's time to go. You've worked for me over 40 years. That's long enough. You're due a pension, a day at the beach, a quiet night under the stars.

I now have hot flashes during the day, too. My 30 year old co-workers are VERY amused by this. Actually, they are probably more confused than amused. I mean, they are over 25 years younger than me. They are worried about making babies and raising families and drinking fancy beers. They are not thinking about hot flashes. I try not to be obvious but it's hard to miss when I take off my sweater, look miserable, wait a few minutes, put my sweater back on.
Go ahead, judge me, you youngsters who have no inkling of what awaits you. You'll be sorry.

Interestingly, I can now tell the time by my flashing. Yesterday, while sitting on the couch (no TV on, no clock in the room, no way of telling the actual time), I felt the burn begin. I yelled out to the wife, "Is it 7:20 PM?" After a pause, she exclaimed, "Yes, it is! How did you know?"

Mother Earth, Mother Nature, Mother of Pearl, MOTHER OF FRIGGIN' GOD! That's how I roll. My hormones are on a time schedule. It's almost nightly that an episode occurs and it's always at 7:20 PM.

I've been advised to take a gander at black cohosh. I've heard this from more than one flashing woman. I was going to wait until things really got fired up but I'm to the point I want to roll  in a field of this stuff. I assume they want me to ingest this stuff in pill form, not by rolling in and chewing on the leaves ...well, at least that is what I THINK I'm supposed to do. A lady suggested it to me last week while I was in the middle of heat stroke.

I am not responsible for anything heard while in the midst of a flash.

Back to the weather. I love warm weather. I'm not a fan of winter. I'm tickled pink it's 65 degrees out. That said, I could use a little 35 degree weather these days. It's a lot easier to go stand outside for a few minutes than taking off clothes. I have left meetings to go stand outside and feel sweet relief. I smile because it is so delicious. Once done, I go back to the meeting, no one the wiser. I'm sure they think I went to the bathroom.

Black cohosh and unseasonable weather. Looks like it is time for both. 

I gotta get me some older coworkers......
*********************************************

The System and The Stigma

To honor the privacy of the person of whom I speak, I am using [he/she] as the pronoun. Thanks for your understanding.

Someone close to me is psychotic. Truly ill. Someone who has never been psychotic. Not a client at the place of which I work. I am used to be around psychotic people, day in and day out at work. This is a person in "real life," not work. This person is consumed by conspiracy theories, terrified that people aren't who they claim to be--even persons [he/she] knows and loves. The person lives life believing [he/she] is being followed, that [he/she] has information that "they" want, that the police aren't really the police....

This has led to me being frustrated--on a personal level--with "The System." I am frustrated beyond compare.

This person, although clearly psychotic, does not meet the criteria of "The System" to be involuntarily hospitalized. The police can see the person is clearly mentally ill. The crisis worker knows the person needs intense help. The family knows something is very, very wrong. The family system is in shambles. I know that this person is in need of emergency help that cannot be gained any other way but via hospitalization. Yet, there is nothing we can do because [he/she] does not meet criteria for involuntary hospitalization or even for police transport for emergency assessment.

I understand why the laws are "strict." After all, we don't want it be easy for everyone to be hospitalized at whim. We want this to be an "emergency" need, not a simple "throw 'em in the loony bin." As a professional in the field, I am very glad that the laws are strict. As a non-professional, the system feels like it is fighting against our efforts and is frustrating to the nth degree. After spending extended time with this person, I know I am exhausted--I cannot imagine what the family feels like after facing this for weeks.

"Fighting" the system is bad enough; swimming upstream in stigma adds fuel to this very ugly fire. The family has never experienced someone with mental illness. Despite progress in educating people about mental illness, it's glaringly obvious that we need to do a whole lot more. This weekend, a loved one stated to me, "[he/she] needs to snap out of it!" The ones who have not seen [him/her] in person do not grasp the severity of the situation and completely down play it, asserting that the person is acting out or too sensitive--the person is just putting on a fine performance or unable to handle a little stress. "[He/she] needs to get over it!"

There is no judgment here from me. In the community, I am never surprised by the stigma. It's pervasive. There is much understanding about mental illness. I have heard how people are weak, faking it, could stop it if they tried harder, that people can snap out of it. I've seen families scream at loved ones, demanding they "knock it off."  When giving presentations, there are always those who do not believe in mental illness except in cases they hear about in the news--you know, the psycho mass-murders with schizophrenia. THAT'S mental illness. No, I do not judge the family.... but, I thought they would have been more educated on the subject. Why I thought this, I do not know. I was mistaken. The time of crisis is not the time to educate anyone; I bite my tongue and can speak another day.

Today, I will take the day off of work and once again try and get this person help. I do not know if I will "succeed," whatever that means. I know there will be much anger and frustration and desperation from the family involved. I know I will see crying and pleading and yelling and begging. I am certain that this will not be pleasant in any capacity.  

Today, I will navigate the system as best possible.  I know the words I need to say. I know the paperwork I need to sign. I will work with the system.

Today, I know stigma will not be busted. It is what it is. There are more important things to do in the immediate. Stigma will be busted another day.

I wrote this blog with the hope that even ONE of you will bust stigma today. That you will stand up for someone with mental illness. That you will believe someone with mental illness. That you will do your best to employ a non-judgmental stance. That you will not automatically think those with depression or anxiety or PTSD can just snap out of it. I wrote it with hope that an educated reader will educate just one other person about mental illness. That others can recognize medication is not a sign of weakness. That mental illness doesn't mean you are dangerous or flawed or dumb or weak or faking it or not trying. I wrote it because that one person with mental illness will feel just a wee bit less of a failure when you talk to them like a human being, not like a to-be-feared "psycho."

Fight the stigma, not the person. The person is already fighting a battle. They need your help to fight the stigma, as that is a battle of which they cannot partake. Be the difference. Be the difference.
**********************************************************************************

The Professor

Geez, this teaching gig is kicking my ass!

I can't remember if I told you this or not... I am teaching a class at the local university. Yes, you can call me "Professor." It's a wellness class, so it's not that much of a stretch. Wellness is basically what I try to teach the clients of whom I serve. I suppose you could say that I am well-versed on the various tenets of building/finding/maintaining a relatively healthy life.

I've always wanted to be a "professor" but I'm not by trade an educator nor do I have my doctoral degree. That has limited my ability to find such employment. I'm still not an educator, per se, but I am a professor. Crack.me.up.

God love you teachers. You are so underpaid and so unappreciated. I've always held teachers in high esteem but now I will probably bow at your feet whenever I approach you. Anyone who thinks teaching is easy and goes into teaching "to get summers off" should be slapped in the head as hard as humanly possible. I've seen how hard the wife works to ensure learning opportunities are a given for her students. I've seen the hours and hours she has put in "behind the scene." I know the money she spends on supplies (teachers know: budget for supplies? What budget for supplies?). Sincerely--god love you!

As for me, I (thankfully) have little idea of what is going on in the world as I spent the last week doing research on the topics of stress and sleep. (Can't say that I'm too broken up about missing story after story about The Cheetos antics.) Now, you know I could fake it with the best of them on the topics of stress and sleep but it seems that scholarly research is the best way to go when facing twenty-seven college-aged students. Besides, a newbie professor like me probably shouldn't just shoot shit in a most confident manner. (And, I CAN shoot the shit with much confidence. It's a major step in the right direction that I realize shooting the shit is not the best way to go when being professorly.) In an effort to be prepared, I read the book and did
research like there was no tomorrow. My eyes became blurry watching video after video. I made PowerPoint, re-made PowerPoint, watched PowerPoint, edited PowerPoint, practiced PowerPoint.  I looked for catchy little memes to enhance my PowerPoint.

Side note: I am not the biggest PowerPoint fan but they do give me a chance to show off my artistic flair and give the students something to look at instead of staring at me the whole time.

All this means what? It means no blogging, no binge watching Netflix, greatly decreased posts on social media and a whole lot of dreams about stress and sleep. It means sitting at the kitchen table hour after hour, preparing for professor-ness.

My current job as the agency trainer prepared me well for this journey. I stand in front of employees day after day, babbling as coherently as possible, ad nauseum. I'm used to technology fighting back when trying to do a presentation, so I'm well-versed at combating issues when using the college technology afforded to me. I can bellow out information in a loud voice for all to hear. I can stand hour after hour in front of some form of media-laden device.  I take attendance and document what has transpired.

I'm still no teacher but I can "educate" the training masses. It's important to note that I am NOT a teacher. That would be an insult to the teachers in my life and in the world. I am a trainer serving as a professor. I'm training people how to be well.

Last night's stress and sleep lesson went swimmingly. Or, at least I think they went swimmingly. I did have one nursing student glaring at me the whole time, so I'm not sure she thought it went swimmingly. I choose to believe she is bitter, party of one, that she is a senior nursing student who has to take a one-credit wellness class before she can graduate.

Don't worry, glaring nursing student, I saw you laugh by accident last night. I've got your number.

Good news is that no one fell asleep when I was talking about sleep. And, no one was texting during the lecture, so that is a bonus. I did see one guy look at his phone but he then immediately looked up and saw me giving him "the teacher look." I think he piddled on himself.

Today is a day of rest. I don't even really know what the next chapter's subject is. I can look at that tomorrow, when the research begins once again. For today, I will focus on being the trainer at work.

Professor. Professor of Wellness. Professor of the Addiverse. Today, wellness. Tomorrow, the world.
************************************************************