Ode to a Wild Mama: 1970’s style

Great news! A Baltimore Oriole stopped by my little orange feeder last week! I was so excited I almost couldn't breathe. I tried to take a photo but I was so excited and my phone was out of arm's reach, so I only got a blurry snapshot before he hit the road. Although I have yet to see another orange friend, I must say knowing that I had success makes me tickled pink. I can tell something took a nibble out of the orange a day or two after his visit but I haven't had the pleasure of witnessing another visit. I shall keep the faith. It's like a bird fest out there, so I have plenty to watch as I wait for another oriole visit. There's a Cardinal splashing all the water out of the bird bath; yellow finches are hanging upside down on the thistle feeder; the robins are out of control in their singing; and, a grackle just missed smacking into the patio door window. The baby chipping sparrows are demanding a meal from their mom (or dad, as the case might be). It's a good day to be a bird in the Addiverse. ***************************************************************

It's Mother's Day! Happy Mother's Day to all you mamas. This year, I thought I'd write an ode to my wild mama. As I wrote it, I realized that most of you won't know what the hell I am talking about. Well, too bad--it's my mama and I'm gonna write an ode if I want to. (You'll get the gist of things. It's short and sweet, so even if you don't understand, it won't take long to enjoy.) 

I decided to base my ode on the 1970's. Seemed like a plan. If it helps, you should know that my mother was our girl scout leader. She was active in the PTA. Every summer, she filled up the car and zipped us off to "the cottage." My sister and I were way ahead of the pack because our family ate McDonald's at the time of the Big Mac's birth. She still bowls and I'm pretty sure she still makes a mean stew. 

And so, I give to you my ode. Happy Mother's Day, Wild Mama!

Ode to a Wild Mama: 1970’s style

Nineteen Seventy Something-Something

A Volunteer to lead the girls in green, cookies in hand.
Taking the Girl Scout Oath on the road
Screaming grade school girls with sleeping bags
Bravely facing the wild
Hiking through the woods at night
Flashlights turned off….
Was that a bat? THAT WAS A BAT!
Wait--we're missing a girl. Count them again!
Giggling, wiggling, screeching
Why aren’t they sleeping?
Saturday night revenge with pots and pans.

Nineteen Seventy Something-Something
A suntan, sun-worshipping sun-goddess
loads the family car
Food, clothing, toys, towels, portable radio, swimsuits.
Folding chairs for good measure.
An annual short trip north to Sun on the beach
Pier oversees the green-algae lake.
Sandy beach perfect for baby-oiled sun tanning.
Trips to Town, a stop at Ben Franklin, a bucket of chicken for dinner.
Dice games, board games on the porch,
Sunrise over the lake in the wee hours
Matt Nolans, Up-This-Hill.

Nineteen Seventy Something-Something
Pork Chops, Mashed Potatoes, Corn
Stew with peas-licked-clean by the family dog
McDonalds on Tuesday nights.(Please don't make us eat vegetables and just say no to cube steaks.)
PTA ladies cooking up vats of infamous barbeque
(best Barbeque ever—even to this day!)
Lovingly served with milk and Hostess cupcake
wrapped in white paper
Always order two.

Nineteen Seventy Something-Something
Bowling in leagues, bowling for fun.Bowling trophies, trips and pots.
Bowling on weekdays, weekends, as needed.
Bowling goddess, rolls on and on.

Nineteen Seventy Something-Something
Sums it up....
Blue Mustang
Elvis
Mac Davis
Elvis
Blue Mustang.

Definitely a wild mama.

Catching Up, Shutting Up

I'm sitting in the kitchen, looking at the sad and lonely oranges that I have provided for the non-existent Orioles. I refuse to give up but the chances grow slimmer every day. The wife is sick of my orange and bird bath rituals. I say to her she knows not what she is saying. I tried some grape jelly, too but that didn't help. I did attract some ants but that doesn't count. At least I should get a few hummingbirds out of this deal sometime during the warmer months.

No offense to all the other beautiful birds hanging out in our yard. They are much appreciated.... but, they are not the elusive Baltimore Oriole.

None of the other birds appear interested in the oranges or jelly but they do seem to continue their love fest with the bird bath. I don't think anyone else is hogging the Orioles in our neighborhood. I think they must be somewhere else, like the next town over. I'll shit on myself when one finally lands on the bird feeder. Someday. Someday they will arrive and I'll shit.

On another note, it's come to my attention that the Wife is NOT reading my blog. Well, not that I can tell. She's not on Facebook and she's not blogging. So, I say all is fair and I'm going to write about her all I want. Maybe I'll start posting photos. That'll teach her. Heh heh.

I will tell you that she is currently completing a "safe driver" course on line right now. That's what happens when you don't stop fully at a stop sign. I can tell she is NOT enjoying it. I still think it's a great idea because if she can go for a specified time of year, the ticket will magically disappear off her record. No more teasing me when I come to a full and complete stop.

In my work world, I've been assigned to be a project manager for new software development and implementation. This may or may not sound like something I would do; after all, I was an art major and am a counselor by trade. I have no formal education on using computers. That said, I am a huge nerd and like this kind of stuff. I had the opportunity to do the same thing (albeit without being the  official project manager) but this time it's different. I'm really trying to not be a bitch about the whole thing. A kinder, gentler approach is in the works. I've been watching videos and reading manuals all weekend. I had a rocky start to the project, but that's because I was nervous, not incompetent. Now that the first meeting is out of the way and I've had time to dig into the "stuff," I'm ready for tomorrow's meeting.

This time, I won't hand out the wrong agenda. I'll also sit so I can actually hear the conference call.

The allergens in the air are off the chart these days. Although the trees are amazingly beautiful, they've set my sinuses ablaze and my eyes a-watering. I love this time of year but do not enjoy the allergies that accompany the beauty. I take OTC meds but they seem to have given up.

Maybe the Orioles are having allergies, too and they'll show up once the trees are done blooming.

As a public service announcement, I suggest you check out "The Shut Up Sisters" if you have a child with mental illness, you are a teacher for students with IEPs or you cross paths with kids in public. We saw them speak yesterday and found them to be fabulous. They are a hoot. The idea is that imperfection is perfection when it comes to kids, encouraging proud but braggy parents to "shut up about your perfect kid." It's the "movement of imperfection." Who doesn't love that? It sounds kind of mean, that shut up word, but it's really not. It's real. It's life. It's imperfectly perfect. They have a website, a blog, a book and a fabulous FB page. They travel the globe spreading their message. Chek out www.shutupabout.com

As for the government, I have nothing whatsoever to say that might be even remotely constructive, so I'll skip that topic except to encourage use of RESIST via text. Yes, if you text RESIST to 50409, faxes will be sent to your legislators. It is super-easy, it's free, it's therapeutic and it's effective. I'm so pissed about health care and all those ridiculous men making decisions for women's health that I have to do something and texting is complimentary to the hate mail I send.

So far, the FBI or Homeland Security hasn't shown up at my door, demanding to meet the crazed woman who sends hate mail to Republicans. Of course, now that I including this in my blog, I'll probably get a visit. Boy, will they be disappointed.

Perhaps they'll be able to tell me where the Orioles are hiding. Maybe there is some secret tracking device on our house that emits vibes scaring the Orioles away. Maybe it's the microwave sending out bird-alienating beams, keeping every Oriole in the neighborhood far away.

Bird alienating beams. I like that. I'm going to start a RESIST movement about that.

Maybe they are illegal alien birds and they've been sent back to Mexico or whatever country them came from after their winter holiday. That certainly would explain everything. I'm not sure where to send a text about that but I'm sure some hate mail will feel therapeutic.

I end with 50409. RESIST. I'm resisting. I'm texting. I'm project managing. I'm birding. (I'm sneezing.) RESIST with me....

....And, shut up about your perfect birds if the Orioles are in your yard. I don't wanna hear it.

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Shut up, indeed.
Shut Up about Your Perfect Gift
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Professing Finals

Boy, am I glad it is finally time for Final Exams. This adjunct professor thing is sucking up all my free time.

For the record, it is REALLY fun to be the creator of a college-level exam. I mean, seriously--I.am.writing.university.exams! I HAVE THE POWER! Oh, the power, the glory--how it goes to my head.

It's been super distracting to teach this semester. For instance, I didn't even notice I haven't done my laundry in awhile because I've been making presentations and researching exam questions. It wasn't until I could no longer squeeze dirty clothes into the hamper this afternoon that I realized I was neglecting this ever-important task. I didn't notice that I was negligent--again--about posting a blog. I haven't even watched each new Doctor Who episode more than one time. People, this educator gig is serious business.

I finally got to use my faculty I.D. card--at Chipotles, no less. Thanks to the wife, I learned that today is Teacher Appreciation Day at Chipotles, complete with free Burritos. Teachers must love Chipotles (or, more likely love free food), as the line was out the door. No kidding. Educators everywhere, as far as the eye can see, all proudly wearing their school identification tags.

I am sad to say that I was older than the majority of the people standing in that line. Dang. Alas, most of my teacher friends retire at age 57 or so, which means they would not be the ones standing in line for free burritos. They are at home enjoying retirement, not standing in line for free burritos. Well, I tell you what--that free burrito bowl kicked ass!

Speaking of advancing age... last night, a group of students in my class did a presentation on Aging and Death. This group, four freshmen, had lots to say about old people and dying. A few times, I burst out laughing. I couldn't help myself. Their view of old age was very telling. Oh, to be young and naive.

I think my favorite statement of the presentation was: "Old people pee a lot. They pee all the time." Spoken like a true 19 year old.

I challenged their belief that people my age and older basically break bones, fall down and pee. Thankfully, they didn't talk about old people and sex.

Why am I glad they didn't talk about that? Because that meant I got to talk about old people having sex. Yes! It was super-fun to watch students squirm when told "YOUR PARENTS ARE HAVING SEX!" Oh, the joy it did bring.

The group got an "A" for their effort, although I was a bit dismayed at how they view people of my age and older. Every once in awhile they would make a comment, look mortified, turn toward me and apologize.

"It is what it is," I told them, shrugging my shoulders and gently shaking my head. I waited until the end of their presentation--while they were playing "The Death March" and taking a bow--to loudly remind them that old people have sex.

That'll teach them to play the death march and talk about peeing.

No, I didn't have the heart to tell them that their grandparents were probably having sex, too. That might have killed those 19 year olds.

This semester, I had three women from China and three men from Saudi Arabia in my class. In an effort to be culturally diverse, I thought I'd put some comments in Chinese and Arabic on the final handout I provided. At first, I thought this was a great idea... but, in the long run, this made me very nervous--after all, I used Google Translate to say "thank you and best wishes" in what I hoped was their native language. I had no idea if what I posted was correct. I could have written "Your Arm Pits Smell Like Old People Pee" and I wouldn't have known it. As I handed them the printed pages, I asked meekly what it said. I am glad to report that they were tickled pink and all agreed that I had said what I hoped I had said....

....well, except for the one young women from China. Turns out she's from Japan and not China. She reads Japanese, not Chinese.

So, she didn't agree or disagree about what I wrote. She couldn't read it.

All semester. An entire semester and I thought she was from China. I can't tell you how many times I apologized. So much for my cultural competence. She said, "No worries," (that's a quote) but I was indeed shaken up. I mean, seriously! Turns out I am one self-absorbed, culturally-pathetic, culturally incompetent American. She appeared to get quite the laugh out of it. Me, not so much.

For the final exam, I think I'll include something in Japanese. Maybe something like, "Safe Travels. Thank you! I'm really sorry!" That might be a good way to make up for my horrible, embarrassing error.

...Well, that is unless Google Translate has a bad day. Then, I might be making things a whole lot worse. God help me it says something like, "Your old parents smell like pee and have sex while eating burrito bowls for teachers."

My cultural competence would be in the gutter....

...my clothes still dirty in the hamper...

...and my pee volume ever increasing....

...and my faculty I.D. revoked....

...and no more free burrito bowls for me.

Maybe I'll stick with good old English and leave it at that. As long as I don't fall done, break a bone and pee on myself.

Chromed

I was going to write about "13 Reasons Why" but I changed my mind. Maybe next time. I have thoughts and questions. I need a nap and coffee before I tackle that topic.
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I am writing this on my new Chromebook. If that is not exciting, I don't know what is.

If you stumbled upon this blog because you were looking for a review on Chromebooks, I have good and bad news for you: this isn't an official review but it is an accidental review of sorts. I welcome you to the Addiverse and hope you'll stay to hear about the ridiculousness of which surrounds my life.

If you are a regular in the Addiverse but know nothing of what a Chromebook is, that's okay. You're used to my babbling. What's one more day of babble?

Baltimore Oriole update: I have yet to attract one single feathered friend of the Oriole time. I haven't given up but the wife is getting a little sick of my obsession with oranges and grape jelly.

...I was very busy over the past month researching Chromebooks. Not exactly earth-shattering, but it has sucked up a lot of my time and brain power. It's the IT guy's fault as we are changing the way we do business and he thought the Chromebook would be the way to go. As the project manager, it was mine to determine what would best suit my purpose. I thought having some form of technology which would be useful when I teach at the University would be a bonus. I wanted to wait until the agency purchased me a Chromebook, but you know me--I can't wait for anything.

In this case, that's not exactly true. I actually did take my time and research the bejesus out of this endeavor. I read countless reviews, both from technical sites and users. I studied up on the pros and cons of the various models. I went to Bestie Buy three times to look at the products. I was on Amazon every night, studying prices. I watched YouTube videos until my eyes were blurry. I took the IT guy's personal Chromebook home and tried it out. So, I can't say I was as spontaneous as usual.

It's almost depressing how much research I conducted. I'm going to ruin my reputation if I keep this up.

I ended up getting the Asus Chromebook 10.1" Flip. That way, I have a tablet and a notebook in one. The IT guy said Asus was the way to go. At first, I was mighty skeptical. But, after review and research, I learned that he knew what he was doing and I should have listened to him in the first place.

It's super small, which means it weighs very little--we're talking two measly pounds little. Since I lug this thing around everywhere I go, light weight is a huge plus. The battery life is ridiculous. We're talking 10 hours of use between charges. Who needs an outlet when you've got that much time on your hands? The little touch pad works handsomely. I have the option of using an external mouse. I already do everything on Google, so using a Chromebook is not a stretch. And, yes I can use it when teaching class or slogging my way through the work project.

That's the rub. If you need a "real" computer, this is not the way to go. There's very little storage room on the actual machine. It runs on Chrome OS, so start thinking about the cloud. If you are on the internet a lot and use Google Drive stuff, this is awesome. I think I'm breaking up with Microsoft and going with slides, docs and forms on Drive. We'll see.

Cords and short cuts have given me a run for the money, though. Not that you really want any details. Too bad, I'm going to give you an example about cord traumas, anyway. I have to use a micro HDMI doohickey but ordered a Mini. I have come to learn Micro and Mini are NOT the same. Finding a mini HDMI cord to hook up to a VGA has been challenging, more so because I don't exactly know what I'm doing. Ah, live and learn.

I could ask the IT guy but what fun would that be?

By the way, if anyone needs a Type A Mini HDMI to hook up to a VGA adapter, let me know. It's all yours for the taking.

For the record, I DID ask for help at Bestie Buy but they were no help. Seriously, Google lady: isn't it your job to know what cords go with Chrome products? I knew more than that saleslady. She should hang out with me and learn a thing or two. Or, maybe I should get myself a Google shirt and work the floor at Bestie Buy.

Short cuts leave me scratching my head. I have yet to learn any of them but need to get on it. This model doesn't have a delete button, so you can backspace but not delete, per se, without a shortcut. There is no home or end key and F buttons are surely a thing of the past.

My first attempt at using this diddy while teaching class last night went about as planned. I had the wrong cord, so I couldn't do everything I wanted... but, I was able to walk around the classroom with this little beauty in hand. I had my class notes in electronic version instead of on paper. I looked like I was in the 21st century, which was good, seeing as I was talking about aging. Who wants to look old when talking about aging?

Side note: I am pleased to report that the students don't think people are ever too old to wear jeans or get a tattoo. They said if you can rock a two-piece swim suit, you should go with it. No one should ever wear a Speedo, or so they tell me. They are all good with the 70-something year old Rolling Stones hopping and rocking around the stage, but Madonna should knock it off. I loved that they said no one ever has to dye their hair and that they embrace the gray hair thing. They did admit that guys can get away with gray hair a whole lot easier than women.

Back to technology. There is a chance that our agency won't go with Chromebooks. I considered that more than once before handing over the charge card. No matter. I decided this suited my purposes, work need or not. I need something portable at work, at school, in life--this will work just fine.

Besides, maybe I'll look younger using this piece of technology, gray hair be damned. Chromebook in one hand, iPhone in the other, tattoos proudly peeking out of my clothing.

As long as I'm not wearing a bikini while using this piece of technology, I'll be good to go. There is no way I can rock a bikini. I can barely rock shorts shorter than knee-length. I CAN rock a Chromebook with the best of them, but the bikini is a definite no.

(Respect your elders, young students or I'll wear a bikini to class next week. You won't even notice I have a new Chromebook. Your retinas will be scarred with the vision of me in a bikini. There is not enough therapy or money to fix that.)

So, do I recommend the purchase of a Chromebook? I'll have to get back to you. It's too early in the game to make a definitive answer. As of this moment, I give it two thumbs up. Ask me in a few months. That'll give me time to put this machine to the test and to go get another tattoo.

After all, I'm not too old for that.

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.
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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?
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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.

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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.

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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."

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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.
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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.
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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.

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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.