The countdown to the new pet arrive continues. Three weeks from now, we will have eight paws running around the house. Or, at least peeing in various parts of our house.
This may be the longest three weeks of my life.
Foster Mom sends a text or photo now and again, which is helpful during this preparation stage... although I don't know if it's always helpful to see photos of something that is three weeks away. I've thought about getting in my car and driving to San Antonio to pick them up early but that's a long drive from the northernmost corner of Illinois and it takes away the fun of the unveiling on August 19th.
The wife is on a dog-themed spending spree. For someone who was tentative about dogs, she sure is buying a whole bunch of nice dog things. Yesterday, a "multi-purpose" 186-inch long pet gate arrived via Brown Truck. This is the Cadillac model of gates, complete with wood finish that matches our trim, metal slats that are small enough to keep the tiny pups from sneaking out and tall enough that even we can't step over it. We could probably surround the entire house with that thing. It folds into six delicious pieces so technically it could be moved wherever we want or need. I better behave or the wife will surround ME with it.
There are brand new water bowls, food bowls, food mats, fancy dog bed, dog food storage containers, treat jar and a few squeaky toys. Another bed is sure to be secured next. She can't buy leashes or fancy collars yet as she really don't know what an 8 lb dog looks like. A few cheap-will-have-to-do-on-Gotcha Day were secured but these are only for temporary measures, I am sure.
The only thing I've purchased yet are two Kongs and the actual dogs. I best get shopping.
Naming dogs of which you have never met is difficult. We've gone round and round about names, trying out different names as we walk around the block with our invisible yet-to-arrive dogs. Since the pups are from the border of Texas/Mexico, we've been considering Spanish-themed names. I'm pretty set on a name for the brown dog and the wife seems to have settled on at least part of a name for the white dog. My biggest concern is that we don't want to end up sounding politically incorrect when naming the dogs. I know that's weird but some of the names give me paws-pause.
Perhaps I should ask someone of Mexican descent if we are being ridiculous, racist, insulting or just plain ignorant.
In the spirit of friendship and as it is apt, we are going to refer to the two of them as "Dos Marias." I think it will be great fun to yell, "Dos Marias!" when calling them to dinner or to go for a ride in the car or when looking for them when lost behind the great fence. (We have dear friends of which are "Dos Marias." We honor them with use of this name for calling our dogs to dinner.)
Staying with the theme, I am considering if we should do all commands in Spanish. That means I'll have to teach the wife Spanish but she can learn a few commands. I'll have to brush up on my Espanol lest I shout out things of which should not be shouted.
T-minus three weeks. We can do it!
I assume you are curious about the name I'm considering for brown dog. I shall tell you but it is subject to change at any time before (and potentially after) the Gotch Day. I am open to suggestions but make no promises I'll listen. El perro (or is it la perra? Does spanish recognize the difference between boy and girl dogs or are they all perros? Time to take that refresher course...) shall be named Senorita Maritza Bandido.
Has a great ring to it, don't you think? I will some day explain my name choice but for today that is enough. As long as it doesn't end up being offensive in any capacity, I put the odds of this name making the cut about 2:1.
T-minus three weeks to Eight Paws. Un montón de tiempo para retocar en mi español y para la esposa a gastar más dinero.
Don't be fooled. Google Translate wrote that sentence. I'm pretty much at making names and yelling out a few commands point of Spanish. Here's to electronic translation and lots of practice. Or, I should say, "Aquí hay traducción electrónica y mucha práctica."
Senorita Maritza Bandido. I like it more and more each time I say it. Make those odds 75% chance of making the cut.....
Saturday, July 29, 2017
Friday, July 21, 2017
Eight Paws
Update on the "Irish Spring Keeps Critters Out of the Yard" saga: The bunnies couldn't care less about the soap; in fact, last night one of the bunnies was STANDING ON the soap. So much for deterring the destruction.
In a lapse of judgment or in a stroke of genius, we have adopted two dogs who will be arriving from Texas in mid-August. Two mighty mutts, their breeds are unknown and their tales most likely unfathomable.
They are rescue pups from the southern US border, which begs the question: would they even be here if there had been a wall across the border? Which leads me to another question: What if they don't speak English? And finally: what if, as "45" has suggested, a drug lord threw a 60 lb. bag of drugs over the fence and it had fallen on the pups?
Never mind. Let's focus on how it took me a year and a half to consider getting another dog. I mean, how could we do any better than Freckles and Lucy? What joy they brought-what love they gave! And honestly--during the past 18 months, I've appreciated the freedom of not having to worry about being home within five hours (the window between potty breaks), not fretting when it's storming while I'm at work and it's been glorious without having to get up at 2 AM to let Freckles out. My official pros and cons list about getting a new dog was completely balanced, 50/50....
Then came Tracy's Dogs.
I knew we wanted to rescue a dog if we ever did decide to get a dog. I told the Universe this was my "final answer," giving a rescue one shot in the dark. Thanks to a good friend, I learned of the Texas-based Tracy's Dogs. After watching videos, reading posts and pursuing information, I submitted an application and then let it go.
If you haven't seen their website or looked at their videos, you have no idea what you're missing. Check it out. www.tracysdogs.com
I had no expectation of being chosen. I mean, this place gets tons of applications and after frustration with a few local rescues, I figured I wouldn't be chosen. So, I put the entire thing in the Universe's hands and went on with my life...
....for twenty four hours.
Yes, within a day, Tracy's Dogs called my references, my vet and then me.
I cannot convey to you how shocked I was when the Adoption Manager called. She was so nice. What a great conversation. We went on for days. When asked about the perfect dog, I provided a description that the wife had given me: under 20 pounds, young but not a puppy, non-shedding, female and with no awful medical issues. Bonus points if the dog has two eyes. While interviewing me, she paused (no pun intended) and then asked, "would you consider a smaller dog?"
I hadn't anticipated that, either. So, now I'm being interviewed AND I'm being asked if I would consider a smaller dog. Could this get any better? The Universe was out of control.
Yes. Yes, it could. The dog she envisioned was a small white female, something like a poodle or other non-shedding type pup. Eight pounds of fluff, to be exact. Perhaps two or three years old. If I had to pick something for the wife, this would be it. By the end of the conversation, we were approved for adoption (she had already talked to our references and vet) and we were put in touch with the foster mom.
The call to the foster mom went swimmingly. She too was ridiculously nice, talkative and candid. Foster mama had lots to say, which helped paint a picture of the pup in question.
Then, the Universe took a turn of yet another thing I hadn't seen coming: the little white dog had completely bonded with a scruffy brownish street dog and they had been inseparable since being picked up together at a high kill shelter. They share a bone at the same time, they eat out of the same dish, they sleep in the same bed. My brain started to hurt, as this was quickly morphing into a two-for-one scenario.
I knew there was no way I could separate them. None. Zero. Zilch. If I wanted the white ball of fluff, the scrappy brown dog would have to be in tow. I dreaded telling the wife this. It was hard enough for her to consider having a dog again. Having to consider TWO dogs might push her over the edge.
The dogs had yet to be posted on the website, so for the next 24 hours we didn't have to worry about their availability status changing But, we knew that they would then be placed on the page and all bets were off.
I didn't know what to do. After talking to the wife by phone, she said I should come home and we could talk about it, make a decision. I warned her I was all in.
I guess she was all in, too as on the counter were two little dog baskets, two dog food containers and two squeaky toys. I contacted the Adoption Manager and secured our new little furry friends. They are now officially ours. Paid in full, posted as adopted.
We have until August 19th to get our acts together, to sleep as much as possible and to stay out longer than seven hours at a time. We probably should just stay out all the time so we don't mind staying home more often once the pups arrive.
I know the dogs' first weeks in our home has potential to being a disaster--after all, the two pups will have traveled on a truck from Texas with 60 other dogs after having endured some pretty tough times. I know having another new home will be overwhelming. I know they will come with lots of baggage. But, I know the Universe, Freckles and Lucy wouldn't steer us wrong, and so that first week might be just fine. I think I'll thank the Universe right now for the great transition from homeless to winning the lottery.
I think we've all won the lottery.
Stay tuned for names, photos and general information.
Perhaps the eight paws will work better at deterring the bunnies, chipmunks and squirrels better than Irish Spring. I look forward to finding out.....
************************************************************
In a lapse of judgment or in a stroke of genius, we have adopted two dogs who will be arriving from Texas in mid-August. Two mighty mutts, their breeds are unknown and their tales most likely unfathomable.
They are rescue pups from the southern US border, which begs the question: would they even be here if there had been a wall across the border? Which leads me to another question: What if they don't speak English? And finally: what if, as "45" has suggested, a drug lord threw a 60 lb. bag of drugs over the fence and it had fallen on the pups?
Never mind. Let's focus on how it took me a year and a half to consider getting another dog. I mean, how could we do any better than Freckles and Lucy? What joy they brought-what love they gave! And honestly--during the past 18 months, I've appreciated the freedom of not having to worry about being home within five hours (the window between potty breaks), not fretting when it's storming while I'm at work and it's been glorious without having to get up at 2 AM to let Freckles out. My official pros and cons list about getting a new dog was completely balanced, 50/50....
Then came Tracy's Dogs.
I knew we wanted to rescue a dog if we ever did decide to get a dog. I told the Universe this was my "final answer," giving a rescue one shot in the dark. Thanks to a good friend, I learned of the Texas-based Tracy's Dogs. After watching videos, reading posts and pursuing information, I submitted an application and then let it go.
If you haven't seen their website or looked at their videos, you have no idea what you're missing. Check it out. www.tracysdogs.com
I had no expectation of being chosen. I mean, this place gets tons of applications and after frustration with a few local rescues, I figured I wouldn't be chosen. So, I put the entire thing in the Universe's hands and went on with my life...
....for twenty four hours.
Yes, within a day, Tracy's Dogs called my references, my vet and then me.
I cannot convey to you how shocked I was when the Adoption Manager called. She was so nice. What a great conversation. We went on for days. When asked about the perfect dog, I provided a description that the wife had given me: under 20 pounds, young but not a puppy, non-shedding, female and with no awful medical issues. Bonus points if the dog has two eyes. While interviewing me, she paused (no pun intended) and then asked, "would you consider a smaller dog?"
I hadn't anticipated that, either. So, now I'm being interviewed AND I'm being asked if I would consider a smaller dog. Could this get any better? The Universe was out of control.
Yes. Yes, it could. The dog she envisioned was a small white female, something like a poodle or other non-shedding type pup. Eight pounds of fluff, to be exact. Perhaps two or three years old. If I had to pick something for the wife, this would be it. By the end of the conversation, we were approved for adoption (she had already talked to our references and vet) and we were put in touch with the foster mom.
The call to the foster mom went swimmingly. She too was ridiculously nice, talkative and candid. Foster mama had lots to say, which helped paint a picture of the pup in question.
Then, the Universe took a turn of yet another thing I hadn't seen coming: the little white dog had completely bonded with a scruffy brownish street dog and they had been inseparable since being picked up together at a high kill shelter. They share a bone at the same time, they eat out of the same dish, they sleep in the same bed. My brain started to hurt, as this was quickly morphing into a two-for-one scenario.
I knew there was no way I could separate them. None. Zero. Zilch. If I wanted the white ball of fluff, the scrappy brown dog would have to be in tow. I dreaded telling the wife this. It was hard enough for her to consider having a dog again. Having to consider TWO dogs might push her over the edge.
The dogs had yet to be posted on the website, so for the next 24 hours we didn't have to worry about their availability status changing But, we knew that they would then be placed on the page and all bets were off.
I didn't know what to do. After talking to the wife by phone, she said I should come home and we could talk about it, make a decision. I warned her I was all in.
I guess she was all in, too as on the counter were two little dog baskets, two dog food containers and two squeaky toys. I contacted the Adoption Manager and secured our new little furry friends. They are now officially ours. Paid in full, posted as adopted.
We have until August 19th to get our acts together, to sleep as much as possible and to stay out longer than seven hours at a time. We probably should just stay out all the time so we don't mind staying home more often once the pups arrive.
I know the dogs' first weeks in our home has potential to being a disaster--after all, the two pups will have traveled on a truck from Texas with 60 other dogs after having endured some pretty tough times. I know having another new home will be overwhelming. I know they will come with lots of baggage. But, I know the Universe, Freckles and Lucy wouldn't steer us wrong, and so that first week might be just fine. I think I'll thank the Universe right now for the great transition from homeless to winning the lottery.
I think we've all won the lottery.
Stay tuned for names, photos and general information.
Perhaps the eight paws will work better at deterring the bunnies, chipmunks and squirrels better than Irish Spring. I look forward to finding out.....
************************************************************
Saturday, July 15, 2017
Spring Freshed Four Legged Pests
Somewhere along the way, I read that using Irish Spring keeps bunnies and chipmunks and other ridiculous friends of Mother Nature out of the garden. I'm pretty sick of our hostas looking like shredded grass trimmings. I'm irritated that plants have been mowed down to the ground by voracious lagomorphs. Don't even get me started on the damage the chipmunks are doing.
I went to the store and bought a multi-pack of the pungent Irish soap. I cut the soap into pieces, as directed on gardening websites. I placed the chunks around the "test plants." I went back into the house and watched.
Watched what? I watched bunnies ignore the Irish Spring and continue their mowing down of the hostas and I enjoyed Chipmunks moving the soap out of the way so they could continue their destruction of all things cherished. I don't know what I did "wrong" but the soap did not work.
At least our yard smells fresh and pretty.
While lamenting the feasting of the critters, I've been busy cruising pet adoption sites, looking for the perfect dog. Yes, a dog. I figure if we are going to get a dog, now is the time. I can't tell you how many hours I've spent looking at dog photos and reading descriptions. My eyes were red and blurry from one too many extended internet searches. To help narrow things down, I chose a "within 100 miles rescue group" that I thought had the "best matching to my criteria" dogs and focused on them. I found what I thought would be a great match for our household. They had a selection of most wonderful pups (placed in foster homes) and all were within 75 miles. I found what appeared to be the most perfect dog and even gave him a name of which to bestow. I filled out adoption application and paid the meager required fee. Then, the emailing back and forth began.
I had NO idea adopting a dog might be this difficult. I had NO idea I could be so wrong about picking a rescue group. By the time the czarina of the group finished chewing me up and spitting me out, I no longer wanted a dog. She was rude, condescending and just plain awful. At first, I thought I was being sensitive, so I asked the wife to read the email. The wife thought determined the lady was a bitch, so it wasn't me. (The wife never says anyone is a bitch, so that scared me a wee bit.) I have since did an internet search on the lady and it appears she doesn't exactly have a fan club. "Rude" and "condescending" were the two most utilized words when describing her demeanor. (Note to self: do much research BEFORE choosing a rescue.) I felt much better after reading the reviews. If I were her, I'd consider a whole lot of therapy and a whole lot let emails.
My favorite part? She indicated I would need to consider an "older" dog.... because, well... I am older. Bluntly: I am too old for a 1 year old dog.
Geez, it's not like I'm on the brink of death. Whoever said age is just a number never tried to adopt a dog from this lady.
Lady, I'm a pretty spry fifty five. I'm not using a walker and feeble and won't even remember I own a dog. She seemed mighty concerned that a 17 pound dog would be too big and that the dog had too long of legs for me. Um, what? I assured her, via email, that our last shih tzu mix weighed 17 pounds and that she too had long legs.
Do you know what a weird email conversation it is to argue about the length of dog legs for a 17 pound dog?
Those of you who know me know that our dogs are treated as good or better than most kids. You know I love my dogs with reckless abandon. The emails didn't get any better. Finally, the wife said ENOUGH. She was right. If were really are going to adopt a dog, it won't be through this rescue.
Maybe she did a secret home visit to our house and smelled all the Irish Spring and was afraid we would poison a dog in our feebleness.
I'm not sure my dog search will continue. Perhaps it is not meant to be. Perhaps the perfect pup will come along when we're not looking and we'll have a canine four legged friend again. Perhaps I'll just volunteer at the local animal shelter and get a dog fix that way. Time will tell.
A pet with us is provided the best food, great care, lots of walks, oodles of love. I know we would provide a great home for a new pooch. Although I don't know if we will get a dog, I do know that this lady will not be doing a home visit or telling me I am too old for a 1 year old dog or helping us adopt a rescue from her group. I apologize to the pups under her care. I know she wants the best for them but she really shouldn't judge a potential adopter by a number or dog leg length.
Hey, do you think an Irish Setter would work better than Irish Spring? Maybe I've been this wrong the whole time....
Watch out, bunnies and chipmunks. I may be on to something here....
Saturday, July 08, 2017
Let Them Eat Cake
Update on Ol' Pinky: Cold winding down. Pain tolerable. And, no more double-pink eye!
I saw the wife laugh today. A great sign. Better living through chemicals, I say. She still can't hear anything out of her ear but hey, we are focusing on the positive here. Yesterday, she was using a pressure point approach to helping her ear. Monday, she's going back to the doctor about the ear. I love the action of which she taking. No sitting around for the motivated woman in pink.
Her next "job" is to address the stress. (I like that that rhymes.) I leave that journey to her. All I can do is stand on the sidelines and yell things like, "TAKE THAT, BITCH!"
Scenario: Pinky contemplating some ridiculous statement from a person of which is making ridiculous statements.
Me: "DON'T TRY TO MAKE SENSE OUT OF THINGS THAT DON'T MAKE SENSE!" (Super supportive. That's me.)
The Wife: "Okay."
Me: [seeing she is still trying to make sense out of things that don't make sense]: "STOP IT! NOT YOUR CIRCUS, NOT YOUR MONKEYS!"
If that's not support, I don't know what is.
***************************************
On a different note, the second of my two work children has moved on to bigger and better things. She got a new job in the suburbs. For that, I am very proud. (It's like watching a baby bird fly the coop.) I am also sad. It was fun having work children. I will still have contact with my two work children but it won't be daily. Thank goodness for texting and social media.
Right before the start of her official going away party, I noticed there was an ice cream cake in the garbage. I was standing at the counter, slicing olives for the taco bar we were setting up when I looked down and...there it was. I took a closer look. Yup, that's half a DQ Ice Cream cake.
I asked, "HEY! IS THAT A DQ CAKE IN THE GARBAGE?"
My work daughter indicated it was.
Me: [indignant] "What the hell is half a DQ Ice cream cake doing in the garbage? That's sacrilegious!"
It still looked pretty frozen, so I knew it hadn't been there very long. Seems she was cleaning out the work frig/freezer in anticipation of her departure. There were other food products in the garbage but only the ice cream caught my eye.
Me: "How old is this cake?"
I was not amused. This was just plain wrong. WRONG! She muttered something about it being from a few weeks ago. A quick bit of math in my head helped me determine it was two weeks ago.
Me: "Is there anything wrong with it?"
She semi-sorta indicated there was nothing "wrong" with it, besides it being old and being in the garbage. How she determined that two weeks was "old," I do not know. Maybe 30-year-olds think food products older than a day or two should be thrown away. No matter, this was wrong, unjustified, shameful. I wanted to give her up for adoption, seeing as she had put a perfectly good DQ cake in the garbage.
I took a really close look. Nope, not freezer burned. Nope, not melted. Yes, looks perfectly good. Has some plastic covering on it...
You know what I did. You have no question about what I did. I took that ice cream cake out of the garbage, removed the plastic covering and...
...I ate it.
OF COURSE I DID! Why on earth would someone throw out such a wonderful, delicious, perfectly-fine ice cream cake? That is incredibly wrong, wrong, wrong. No one should EVER throw out an ice cream cake unless it is freezer-burned beyond recognition or is tainted with bodily fluid.
My work daughter was mortified but not surprised.
In walks a co-worker....
Co-worker: "Hey! Is that a DQ ice cream cake?"
Me: "Yeah, I dug it out of the garbage and now I'm eating it."
Co-worker: "Is there anything wrong with it?"
Me: "Not that I can tell. It tastes great, it's still frozen and I didn't see any garbage on it."
Co-worker: "It was in the garbage?" She looked a bit surprised.
Me: "Yeah, but I dug it out and it's great! God, I love DQ ice cream cakes!"
I know she is wrestling with her brain, as she love ice cream almost as much as I do. She asks: "Can I have some?"
I can't tell you how pleased I was to hear this question. I now hold this person in higher esteem.
Me: "Of course!" Seeing as her hands were full (she was carrying things in preparation for the party), she asked me to shove a spoonful into her mouth. I looked around for another spoon but she indicated I should just use the friggin' spoon in my hand.
I suppose when one is eating an ice cream cake out of the garbage, a used spoon is the least of your concerns. So, I shoveled a big blob of that cake into her mouth. I daresay she enjoyed that cake as much as I did.
A few minutes later, a client walked by the now-melting, half-eaten garbage-found ice cream cake. He was holding a plateful of tacos, walking away from the taco bar. He looked at the cake, looked at me, looked at it. He asked, "Is that a DQ Ice cream cake?"
I nodded in a most affirmative manner, adding how I had dug it out of the garbage.
He didn't seem one bit concerned. "Can I have a piece?"
I knew I liked him.
The guy put his taco-laden plate onto the counter, used a spoon to hack off a large piece of the quickly-disappearing cake and plopped it right on top of his Mexican fiesta. When asked about it being in the garbage, he said, "I've had more than one dumpster-dive-dinner along the way. This is nothing."
See? There are still good people in the world. He helped me finish off that food of the Gods without question. Other clients and staff looked a bit green in the gills, watching us eat that garbage-blessed dessert, but it didn't slow us down one bit.
As you can imagine, the wife was mortified by everything related to this event. She was disgusted that I would take something out of the garbage and eat it. She was also taken aback that anyone else would join me in such nonsense.
She OBVIOUSLY doesn't love DQ ice cream cakes like we do. She doesn't recognize the pure joy, bliss, heaven such a creation can bring. Sad. So sad. The wife might learn a thing or two by my behavior. Personally, I hope she learns:
Life is short. Eat the cake in the garbage.
It might not be her circus and those definitely aren't her monkies, but that cake can be hers....
....Sometimes you have to sort through the garbage to find the gold.
*********************************************
I saw the wife laugh today. A great sign. Better living through chemicals, I say. She still can't hear anything out of her ear but hey, we are focusing on the positive here. Yesterday, she was using a pressure point approach to helping her ear. Monday, she's going back to the doctor about the ear. I love the action of which she taking. No sitting around for the motivated woman in pink.
Her next "job" is to address the stress. (I like that that rhymes.) I leave that journey to her. All I can do is stand on the sidelines and yell things like, "TAKE THAT, BITCH!"
Scenario: Pinky contemplating some ridiculous statement from a person of which is making ridiculous statements.
Me: "DON'T TRY TO MAKE SENSE OUT OF THINGS THAT DON'T MAKE SENSE!" (Super supportive. That's me.)
The Wife: "Okay."
Me: [seeing she is still trying to make sense out of things that don't make sense]: "STOP IT! NOT YOUR CIRCUS, NOT YOUR MONKEYS!"
If that's not support, I don't know what is.
***************************************
On a different note, the second of my two work children has moved on to bigger and better things. She got a new job in the suburbs. For that, I am very proud. (It's like watching a baby bird fly the coop.) I am also sad. It was fun having work children. I will still have contact with my two work children but it won't be daily. Thank goodness for texting and social media.
Right before the start of her official going away party, I noticed there was an ice cream cake in the garbage. I was standing at the counter, slicing olives for the taco bar we were setting up when I looked down and...there it was. I took a closer look. Yup, that's half a DQ Ice Cream cake.
I asked, "HEY! IS THAT A DQ CAKE IN THE GARBAGE?"
My work daughter indicated it was.
Me: [indignant] "What the hell is half a DQ Ice cream cake doing in the garbage? That's sacrilegious!"
It still looked pretty frozen, so I knew it hadn't been there very long. Seems she was cleaning out the work frig/freezer in anticipation of her departure. There were other food products in the garbage but only the ice cream caught my eye.
Me: "How old is this cake?"
I was not amused. This was just plain wrong. WRONG! She muttered something about it being from a few weeks ago. A quick bit of math in my head helped me determine it was two weeks ago.
Me: "Is there anything wrong with it?"
She semi-sorta indicated there was nothing "wrong" with it, besides it being old and being in the garbage. How she determined that two weeks was "old," I do not know. Maybe 30-year-olds think food products older than a day or two should be thrown away. No matter, this was wrong, unjustified, shameful. I wanted to give her up for adoption, seeing as she had put a perfectly good DQ cake in the garbage.
I took a really close look. Nope, not freezer burned. Nope, not melted. Yes, looks perfectly good. Has some plastic covering on it...
You know what I did. You have no question about what I did. I took that ice cream cake out of the garbage, removed the plastic covering and...
...I ate it.
OF COURSE I DID! Why on earth would someone throw out such a wonderful, delicious, perfectly-fine ice cream cake? That is incredibly wrong, wrong, wrong. No one should EVER throw out an ice cream cake unless it is freezer-burned beyond recognition or is tainted with bodily fluid.
My work daughter was mortified but not surprised.
In walks a co-worker....
Co-worker: "Hey! Is that a DQ ice cream cake?"
Me: "Yeah, I dug it out of the garbage and now I'm eating it."
Co-worker: "Is there anything wrong with it?"
Me: "Not that I can tell. It tastes great, it's still frozen and I didn't see any garbage on it."
Co-worker: "It was in the garbage?" She looked a bit surprised.
Me: "Yeah, but I dug it out and it's great! God, I love DQ ice cream cakes!"
I know she is wrestling with her brain, as she love ice cream almost as much as I do. She asks: "Can I have some?"
I can't tell you how pleased I was to hear this question. I now hold this person in higher esteem.
Me: "Of course!" Seeing as her hands were full (she was carrying things in preparation for the party), she asked me to shove a spoonful into her mouth. I looked around for another spoon but she indicated I should just use the friggin' spoon in my hand.
I suppose when one is eating an ice cream cake out of the garbage, a used spoon is the least of your concerns. So, I shoveled a big blob of that cake into her mouth. I daresay she enjoyed that cake as much as I did.
A few minutes later, a client walked by the now-melting, half-eaten garbage-found ice cream cake. He was holding a plateful of tacos, walking away from the taco bar. He looked at the cake, looked at me, looked at it. He asked, "Is that a DQ Ice cream cake?"
I nodded in a most affirmative manner, adding how I had dug it out of the garbage.
He didn't seem one bit concerned. "Can I have a piece?"
I knew I liked him.
The guy put his taco-laden plate onto the counter, used a spoon to hack off a large piece of the quickly-disappearing cake and plopped it right on top of his Mexican fiesta. When asked about it being in the garbage, he said, "I've had more than one dumpster-dive-dinner along the way. This is nothing."
See? There are still good people in the world. He helped me finish off that food of the Gods without question. Other clients and staff looked a bit green in the gills, watching us eat that garbage-blessed dessert, but it didn't slow us down one bit.
As you can imagine, the wife was mortified by everything related to this event. She was disgusted that I would take something out of the garbage and eat it. She was also taken aback that anyone else would join me in such nonsense.
She OBVIOUSLY doesn't love DQ ice cream cakes like we do. She doesn't recognize the pure joy, bliss, heaven such a creation can bring. Sad. So sad. The wife might learn a thing or two by my behavior. Personally, I hope she learns:
Life is short. Eat the cake in the garbage.
It might not be her circus and those definitely aren't her monkies, but that cake can be hers....
....Sometimes you have to sort through the garbage to find the gold.
*********************************************
Saturday, July 01, 2017
Pink Squared
To be honest, I liked the ear plug issue. It meant she couldn't hear me when I was standing on her left side. She didn't complain once about me clearing my throat (an unfortunate issue as related to allergies).
Good news is that the wife went to the doctor AND that she took the photo of her lower back herniated disks that led to permanent nerve damage in her foot. (It's always good to emphasize the failings of the medical system so they actually listen.) I was afraid she wouldn't go to the clinic but she was miserable enough to jump into the "medical loop." Poor thing was diagnosed with a nasty ear infection, arthritis and neuropathy. She was allowed an x-ray but not an MRI, as the "medical loop" requires she goes "in order" (x-ray, medication, physical therapy, THEN an MRI).
The doctor gets bonus points for asking the wife if she has been under a lot of stress lately. Good catch. My faith in the medical system increased a wee bit because that doctor recognized and mentioned the stress. Yes, the wife has been under a lot of stress. (Perhaps she should send her pharmacy, doctor and insurance bills to the cause of her stress. Or, I'd be happy to drop the bills off in person. I'm always up for a road trip.)
Since her doctor's visit, the wife has been a walking pharmacy. Better living through chemicals, I say. From painkillers to antibiotics, she is a pill box's dream.
She didn't think it could get worse. Then....
.....she got double pink-eye.
Pink squared. When it rains, it pours.
The wife still can't hear, she's stoned on pain meds and she's got two bloodshot, goober-crusted eyes. She looks like a bad party in the early 1980's. (Or, a good party, depending on how you look at it.) Despite just being at the doctor, she had to go back to get eye drops for conjunctivitis--to "prove" she actually had pink eye. I told her she should have sent the doctor a selfie so she could see the issue. Anyone within a 50 mile radius could see the issue was pink eye.
So, now there are eye drops added to the pharmacy on the kitchen table. I SWEAR TO YOU I DID NOT FART ON HER PILLOW. (This is an urban myth. But, I should probably not fart on her pillow, myth or not.)
Since the implementation of the pharmacy, I've been begging her to go get some yogurt. I offered to go get her some yogurt. She finally gave in and purchased a tub of yogurt.
Why have I been so adamant about yogurt? Because the way things are going, she is 100% guaranteed to get a yeast infection from the antibiotic.
As for me, I remain cold-free, pink-eye free and pain free. Hear that sound? It's me knocking--pounding--on wood. Thank you, Universe for my continued health and happiness!
For the record, I've been taking pink-eye meds, too--preventative measure so I don't get the dreaded eyeball issue. The doctor gets bonus-bonus points for thinking of me and my eye balls. That kind of makes up for the fact that the doctor wouldn't prescribe pink eye medication without seeing her, despite having seen her just 24 hours earlier.
Humorously enough--well, humorously enough to be--we are going to see PINK in concert tomorrow night.
Pinky will be with Pink.
Wait--is that Pink Cubed? Two eyes + one Pink = Three pinks. Pink Cubed.
I hear that pink eye isn't contagious after a certain amount of time and after the initiation of medication. Here's hoping. After all....
...Pink doesn't need pink. Hell, I don't need pink. Come to think of it, no one needs pink unless it's Pink. We all could use a little Pink in our lives.
We are supposed to go to a birthday party later today. I don't think we're going lest we "pink up" the party. This is a super-drag as it's a very beloved good friend's surprise party (hope she's not reading this yet... Um. Surprise?). I don't think the wife's eyes are contagious any more but how can we chance it? I told her she could wear sunglasses and no one would be the wiser. She could stay far away from people and not touch anything. Still....
Pink cubed is bad enough. Exponential pink eye growing, expanding, invading... not good. Not good at all.
It's time... Dear Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes: Please swoop down upon the wife and free her from her ailments and pinky ways. Keep her from pinking up a party or concert. Pinkify those at concerts but not in our home. Pinkify yourself but pinkify us not. Help her unclog her ear, feel her hand and not look totally stoned. Take her pink eye and keep her yeast. May her cheeks be pink but not her eyes. In this we pray in your hopeless way, The Addiverse.
A pink St. Jude. Seriously. I am feeling hopeful. Amen.
Friday, June 23, 2017
Soft-Resetting and Necking
Ahem.
This is why I blog, perhaps in a much less profound manner. You should try it, too... even if it's in an old school journal, on a phone notes app or work newsletter. You'll be all the better for it.
Of course, if you are writing for the work newsletter, you might want to weigh the truth. Bosses sometimes frown upon memories of that last hot date you went on or your feelings about your last performance review.
I love Anne Lamott. If you haven't read any of her stuff, you might want to give it a try. If you hate it, consider yourself better for trying.
The wife has a pinched nerve or a bad wing or neck stigmata--er, I mean stenosis. She is an absolute hot mess. No matter what she does, she can't get comfortable. I haven't seen her like this since she had... lower back spinal stenosis, which led to surgery and permanent numbing in her foot. I'm hoping this is an injury from too much lawn mowing or lawn bag tossing or doing push ups when I'm not looking. From the looks on her face, it doesn't matter what caused it--it's misery. Ideas welcome. Ice, heat, that freezy stuff you rub into your skin, ibuprofen, tylenol don't touch the uncomfortableness in which she is currently swimming.
Going to the doctor is a novel idea, but that didn't help her with her spinal stenosis until it was almost too late--they kept pushing pills and telling her to rest. They didn't believe her...probably put her in a category of "another ass with back pain looking for meds." I told her if she goes to the doctor for her neck, she should take the MRI of her back and remind them how much they screwed up last time.
I'd post a photo so you could see I am not exaggerating one bit, but I'm on my Chromebook and don't have access to my photos. I'll post that photo as soon as I get to my "real" computer. (No offense to the Chromebook. I love it.)
It is a very helpless feeling to know someone is miserable and there is nothing you can truly do about it. Oh, I can take out the garbage and carry things and try not to leave a trail in the house and bring home take-out and pump out Reiki, but that doesn't really address the problem. I'm not kidding when I say ideas welcome. Chocolate and Norco don't touch the angst.
The body has a mind of its own. (That's a profound thought. Chew on that, please.) Her body's mind is definitely pissed off.
As for me, I have nary a complaint. Thank you, Universe! I pooped today, my legs are shaved and my phone is fixed. Dang, I forgot about the phone.... it gave me fits this week. I took it to the phone store and held it up, exclaiming, "I HATE THIS PHONE! (This is not an exaggeration. I really did this.) While holding it up in the customer service guy's face, I pointed out, "SEE? NOTHING! NOTHING ON THE SCREEN!" He looked a wee bit terrified. I have to say, they found me someone to help immediately. No waiting behind all those other people. He found me a 12 year old to help me.
Me: "This phone is only six months old! Look at it!"
12 year old phone lady: Looks at phone.
Me: "It's fully charged! I haven't dropped it. It's in an Otter Box. It's never been in water. I can't even power it off."
12 year old phone lady: Looks at me.
Me: "I HATE THIS PHONE! I SHOULD HAVE KEPT MY ANDROID!"
12 year old: politely takes the phone from me.
Me: glaring.
12 year old: politely hands the phone back to me.
Me: Look at screen. Everything is okay. WTF????
12 year old: "This is a common problem. It's happened all the time. I just did a soft reset."
Me: Blank stare.
12 year old: "Hold down the volume-down button, this button and the power button at the same time. Hold it down until the phone powers up."
Me: Blank stare.
12 year old: "It's a common problem."
Me: "I still hate this phone."
I turn around to leave and see the Customer Service guy. He'd been watching from afar. Chicken. He looks a quite relieved to see my phone is just fine and that I am no longer growling hate. He points out my Chromebook (I carry it everywhere--seriously) and asks what it is. I tell him, adding that I love it. Despite hearing me bitch about how much I hate my phone, he says, "We're having a sale on iPads today...."
I give him a "you have GOT to be kidding me" look, roll my eyes and walk out the door.
So, if you have an iPhone 7 and you get this blank, dark blue-ish looking screen, do a "soft reset." You'll be glad you did AND you'll save a trip to the phone store. You'll also lower the intensity of your hate for electronic devices.
If only I could take the wife to the phone store and get a "soft reset" for her neck issue.
Sale on iPads, my ass. Thank god for 12 year old sales people who have never lived a moment without cell phones and computers.
Prayers for the wife and prayers for that ass. I'll be eternally grateful.
This is why I blog, perhaps in a much less profound manner. You should try it, too... even if it's in an old school journal, on a phone notes app or work newsletter. You'll be all the better for it.
Of course, if you are writing for the work newsletter, you might want to weigh the truth. Bosses sometimes frown upon memories of that last hot date you went on or your feelings about your last performance review.
I love Anne Lamott. If you haven't read any of her stuff, you might want to give it a try. If you hate it, consider yourself better for trying.
The wife has a pinched nerve or a bad wing or neck stigmata--er, I mean stenosis. She is an absolute hot mess. No matter what she does, she can't get comfortable. I haven't seen her like this since she had... lower back spinal stenosis, which led to surgery and permanent numbing in her foot. I'm hoping this is an injury from too much lawn mowing or lawn bag tossing or doing push ups when I'm not looking. From the looks on her face, it doesn't matter what caused it--it's misery. Ideas welcome. Ice, heat, that freezy stuff you rub into your skin, ibuprofen, tylenol don't touch the uncomfortableness in which she is currently swimming.
Going to the doctor is a novel idea, but that didn't help her with her spinal stenosis until it was almost too late--they kept pushing pills and telling her to rest. They didn't believe her...probably put her in a category of "another ass with back pain looking for meds." I told her if she goes to the doctor for her neck, she should take the MRI of her back and remind them how much they screwed up last time.
I'd post a photo so you could see I am not exaggerating one bit, but I'm on my Chromebook and don't have access to my photos. I'll post that photo as soon as I get to my "real" computer. (No offense to the Chromebook. I love it.)
It is a very helpless feeling to know someone is miserable and there is nothing you can truly do about it. Oh, I can take out the garbage and carry things and try not to leave a trail in the house and bring home take-out and pump out Reiki, but that doesn't really address the problem. I'm not kidding when I say ideas welcome. Chocolate and Norco don't touch the angst.
The body has a mind of its own. (That's a profound thought. Chew on that, please.) Her body's mind is definitely pissed off.
As for me, I have nary a complaint. Thank you, Universe! I pooped today, my legs are shaved and my phone is fixed. Dang, I forgot about the phone.... it gave me fits this week. I took it to the phone store and held it up, exclaiming, "I HATE THIS PHONE! (This is not an exaggeration. I really did this.) While holding it up in the customer service guy's face, I pointed out, "SEE? NOTHING! NOTHING ON THE SCREEN!" He looked a wee bit terrified. I have to say, they found me someone to help immediately. No waiting behind all those other people. He found me a 12 year old to help me.
Me: "This phone is only six months old! Look at it!"
12 year old phone lady: Looks at phone.
Me: "It's fully charged! I haven't dropped it. It's in an Otter Box. It's never been in water. I can't even power it off."
12 year old phone lady: Looks at me.
Me: "I HATE THIS PHONE! I SHOULD HAVE KEPT MY ANDROID!"
12 year old: politely takes the phone from me.
Me: glaring.
12 year old: politely hands the phone back to me.
Me: Look at screen. Everything is okay. WTF????
12 year old: "This is a common problem. It's happened all the time. I just did a soft reset."
Me: Blank stare.
12 year old: "Hold down the volume-down button, this button and the power button at the same time. Hold it down until the phone powers up."
Me: Blank stare.
12 year old: "It's a common problem."
Me: "I still hate this phone."
I turn around to leave and see the Customer Service guy. He'd been watching from afar. Chicken. He looks a quite relieved to see my phone is just fine and that I am no longer growling hate. He points out my Chromebook (I carry it everywhere--seriously) and asks what it is. I tell him, adding that I love it. Despite hearing me bitch about how much I hate my phone, he says, "We're having a sale on iPads today...."
I give him a "you have GOT to be kidding me" look, roll my eyes and walk out the door.
So, if you have an iPhone 7 and you get this blank, dark blue-ish looking screen, do a "soft reset." You'll be glad you did AND you'll save a trip to the phone store. You'll also lower the intensity of your hate for electronic devices.
If only I could take the wife to the phone store and get a "soft reset" for her neck issue.
Sale on iPads, my ass. Thank god for 12 year old sales people who have never lived a moment without cell phones and computers.
Prayers for the wife and prayers for that ass. I'll be eternally grateful.
Saturday, June 17, 2017
Fits & Sticks
My Steetch Feeks arrived as scheduled. (I hate to use the actual name of any company, as it is possible unsuspecting people will arrive in the Addiverse and wonder what the hell just happened.) As promised, I took photos during the unboxing (that's what it's officially called) and shall share them as promised.Before we go any further, I have to make a confession: I'm kind of disappointed. The pricing was funny (did they think I'd ever pay $98.00 for a pair of pants?) but there wasn't as much hilarity as anticipated. I only hooted and hollered once or twice. I planned on peeing on myself with laughter. Suffice it to say: no piddling ensued. Dang.
The first surprise? How small the box was. I mean, there are five articles of clothing in there. I couldn't figure out how five items could be smooshed in there.
The second surprise? Everything actually fit in the box. Secure, unwrinkled, waiting. Not smooshed. It was packed cute as a button.
The third surprise? Everything fit me. I'm getting ahead of myself telling you this so early in the game but it's only fair to acknowledge my surprise. Fit in the box and fit on me. Big points for the company
The fourth surprise? Everything was machine washable. You may not care about this but I sure do.
My first complaint? I said NO JEWELRY. So, what did they send me? A necklace. A necklace I would never wear unless paid large sums of money and told specifically when I should wear such an item. I've seen friends with style wear this type of necklace and they look amazing on my friends but I'm certainly NOT gonna wear such decoration. People would burst into laughter or flames if I were to put this thing on. I'm sure I would have been more fashionable the moment I donned such a trinket but not today. If I'm going to wear jewelry, it's going to be made of precious metal, it's going to be understated and it's not going to dangle to my belly button. For the record, the wife liked the necklace a lot but agreed it was not for me. So, lose points for sending the necklace. Score: 0-1.
My second complaint? NO ANKLE LENGTH PANTS. So, what did they send? Ankle length pants. To be fair, they were awesome pants, albeit linen. I should NOT ever wear anything linen. All I become is a wrinkled mess. (It's my fault about the material. I never said I don't wear linen. I apologize to my stylist for that oversight.) The pants were well made, were very comfortable and of a color I loved. I know "what not to wear" would approve. But, ankle length! I don't do toes, I don't wear sandals very often at all and I am not a fan of this length on anyone. So, lose points for sending ankle length anything. Score: 0-2.Side note: I am disappointed they didn't send me capris. I indicated several times on my profile that I wanted capris. SEND ME SOME CAPRIS!
Then came the tops. My stylist obviously listened to my need for loose-fitting tops. He got the colors right. The clothes were very comfortable. I wanted something different because I need some new stuff to wear and I need to have a few items that aren't made of t-shirt or sport-themed material. I hate shopping so having clothes come to me is the perfect way to go. But...
....let's face it. You can't picture me in these clothes, can you? I loved the color of the blue top. LOVED. Big points for the color. But, a sheer flowing top? The wife said, "when would you EVER wear that?" Okay, so she answered the question if I should keep it. (Ignore the fact that I put the blue flowing blouse over my T-shirt. We can't all be fashionistas.)
The next top--a sleeveless diddy with a fun print--was an acceptable "match" with my profile. (I would have preferred blue or a dark brown but what do I know? I'm not a fashion consultant.) I would have kept this summer item had I kept the other four products. I liked it a lot but....
....I already knew I wasn't keeping the first two items, which meant I'd be paying full price for anything I kept and I didn't think the price of this shirt was acceptable. (That's part of the game: keep all five items and get 25% off the cost of the order. Makes the cost much more palatable.) I couldn't justify paying full prices for something I'd never wear it more than twice a year. (I think the wife gave this one a "thumb's down." I can't verify this but I'm pretty sure it was rejected by my fashion consulting wife.) Since I would have considered keeping it, I have to say the score is 1-4..
The wife's favorite pick was a striped shirt. Very loose. Some unknown material that was comfortable, not scratchy although it looked like it would be scratchy. Here's a photo of said shirt. (Ignore the checkered pants with the striped shorts, although I don't mind the look.) The wife wasn't very thrilled with the "peeking tattoos" but not much I can do about that besides wear a shirt under the shirt and that defeats the purpose of wearing the shirt. This was probably the "closest" to something I'd wear. It didn't do much for my girlish figure but it sure was comfy and "normal" and a good color. The stylist suggested pairing this with some casual jeans and a sweater or coat or something like that, which made sense. But........I decided not to keep this one, either. Since this would have potentially made the cut, the final score: 2-5.
I'm glad to say returning things is super easy. Big points for that. They provide a pre-paid, pre-addressed mailing bag. I stuffed the clothes in the bag and sent everything back.
You're probably thinking this experiment is over. I'm pleased to report it is not. I'm giving them one more chance. Heck, they earned the opportunity. I'm a tough cookie. It's hard for me to consider such clothing. They have the right idea. In a month, I will receive Round Two of the Feeks. Of courses I will take photos and I'll review the items. For Round Two, I won't count on hilarity. I'll expect a small box. I'll expect things that fit. I'll expect not to find jewelry or ankle pants. I'll expect surprises. I'll expect to be steeched and feeks. I'll expect to like something enough to buy it...
...AND, I'LL EXPECT SOME CAPRIS. There better be some capris in that tiny box.
T-shirts, beware. T-shirts, be warned. A steech and a feeks might dull your full glory.....
******************************************************************
Monday, June 12, 2017
How DOES Your Garden Grow?
I was hoping my "clothes in a box" would have arrived by now, as the fodder for this blog will be OFF.THE.CHARTS! Yes, I am awaiting my first order from a company that takes your measurements, asks you about your style and then sends you five articles of clothing that you will supposedly love. Well, I want YOU to be part of this fun... I guarantee we will be hooting and hollering about what is in that box. It's called "unboxing" and I plan on documenting the entire thing. I told them no skinny jeans, no high waist jeans, no foo-foo jeans. I warned them not to send me shoes, jewelry or accessories. I was clear that I am not the dress clothes wearing type.
On-line-probably-a-computer-program Stylist: Heeled Shoes?
Me: No.
Stylist: Sun Dress?
Me: No.
Stylist: Dangling earrings?
Me: No.
Stylist: How about a brown peasant blouse?
Me: How about no?
Stylist: Is it the brown or the peasant part that is wrong?
Me: Yes.
Stylist: What do you usually wear?
Me: Jeans and a t-shirt.
Stylist: What do you wear to work?
Me: Jeans and a t-shirt.
Stylist: What do you wear when you are out on the town?
Me: Jeans and a t-shirt.
Stylist: Why are you using our service?
Me: Because it'll get my sister-in-law 25% off her next order.
Stylist: What on earth do you actually want?
Me: Some of those short pants.
Stylist: Short pants?
Me: Yeah. Jean kind.
Stylist: You mean capris?
Me: Yeah! That's what I'm talking about.
Stylist: What kind of top would you like with your capris?
Me: A t-shirt?
Stylist: [blank stare]
Me: Maybe I should've ordered from the men's department.
Stylist: I'll add a little lace to the...
Me: No lace. No frill. No nothing.
Stylist: Sparkles on the pockets?
Me: No sparkles.
Stylist: Glitter?
Me: NOW YOU'RE TALKING!
The clothes are supposed to arrive in two days. I'm following the package... right now it is in Indiana. I'm warming up the camera and am ready to share the fun with YOU.
*********************************************************************
Summer is here, as evidenced by the 90+ degree weather and the long days. June is by far my favorite month of the year. The lawn is still lush and green (as opposed to brown and straw-like in August), the days are long, the allergies are settling down, the winds are warm and the lightening bugs are sure to surface. The yucca plants are busy yucca-ing. The bugs aren't too buggy. The weather gives me opportunity to share my tattoos with the world. June can also be cold and soggy but this year we're off to a warm, sunny start. Bring on the tattoos.
I spend a whole lot of time outside in June. Yesterday, I broke every single fingernail I had while digging in the dirt and creating a "new" area for some ground cover. (No, I don't wear gardening gloves. What is the point of that? I want to feel the dirt--experience the earth. Broken finger nails are a small price to pay when gardening.) I thought the wife might not agree with my vision of filling the "grass isn't going to grow here" area with some mulch and ground cover, but she found it appropriate and the project was approved. Score!
Okay, maybe I employed the "better to ask for forgiveness than permission" mode of being during this project. I started digging when she wasn't looking and by the time she got out there to ask what I was up to, I had already laid out the design. Since she has difficulty picturing things, this illustration of the plan worked to my advantage. Not a peep of dissension.
She did poo-poo my idea of putting hostas in that area but she did go along with the pachysandra idea. The wife tends not to be a hosta person. I don't understand this, as they are perfect for the shady areas of the lawn. Maybe they are too boring for her taste. Maybe she's sick of them. Maybe it's because the bunnies keep eating them and they end up looking like green sticks instead of plants. Maybe she was killed by a hosta in a previous life. Hard to say.
Pachysandra rocks because it's low maintenance, it spreads like wildfire, it doesn't need a whole lot of sun, it doesn't need maintenance and it looks great once it takes root. I'm sure the newbie sprigs will look like poop this year but that's okay. They will be out of control by the time next summer arrives. (I did some research on this ground cover... who knew it was Japanese and that there are different types? I thought pachysandra was pachysandra was pachysandra. Bad gardener.)
The wife spends oodles of time outside because she is watering all the hanging baskets and planters she has strategically placed around the yard. Everywhere you look, there are hanging baskets. That's a lot of watering, especially when it's so warm and sunny out. If I can't find her, I just look at the planters. Or, I listen for the squishing sound of her Crocs. All that water gets her shoes squishy and they make a very distinct sound as she walks. I can hear her anywhere on the property. Her goal, besides being aesthetically pleasing, is to attract hummingbirds. (Oh sure, my obsession with Baltimore Orioles is ridiculous but her hunt for hummingbirds is just fine.) She's already been successful, as a hummingbird was flitting around the back yard yesterday. Bitter, party of one.
There is one big difference in my gardening efforts in comparison to my gardening prowess of ten years ago: now I stay in the shade whenever possible. When I have areas of which need to be weeded that are always in the sun, I do those areas before or after the sun is at its full glory. Before, I would have used that as an opportunity to get a tan. Now, I'd rather poke my eyes out than weed in the full blast of the sun. It's not that I don't like being tan... it's because I don't like being miserable and weeding in the full heat tends to be miserable. I'm done with misery. I can get a tan when I'm not working like a dog, thank you very much.
I hear it's supposed to be in the high 90's today. That's a bit much for being so early in the year, not that I mind. I will gladly sit out side when it's that warm, just not in the sun. It's been windy the past few days, so sitting outside borders on overwhelmingly delightful....
....maybe there will be some shorts in that "clothes in a box." Even some of those "short pants." That'd brighten my day, keep me cool and certainly fancy up my wardrobe game. But if I see one frill, one piece of lace, one accessory... that stylist of mine is gonna hear from me and you.
...She COULD make it up by sending me some glitter on a t-shirt.....
...or, by sending me something from the men's department. I do wish I could just wear the manly man's obligatory blue shirt with khakis and call it a day. Maybe she'll send me a blue t-shirt with khaki pants.
Oh, the fun we are about to have........
**************************************************************************
On-line-probably-a-computer-program Stylist: Heeled Shoes?
Me: No.
Stylist: Sun Dress?
Me: No.
Stylist: Dangling earrings?
Me: No.
Stylist: How about a brown peasant blouse?
Me: How about no?
Stylist: Is it the brown or the peasant part that is wrong?
Me: Yes.
Stylist: What do you usually wear?
Me: Jeans and a t-shirt.
Stylist: What do you wear to work?
Me: Jeans and a t-shirt.
Stylist: What do you wear when you are out on the town?
Me: Jeans and a t-shirt.
Stylist: Why are you using our service?
Me: Because it'll get my sister-in-law 25% off her next order.
Stylist: What on earth do you actually want?
Me: Some of those short pants.
Stylist: Short pants?
Me: Yeah. Jean kind.
Stylist: You mean capris?
Me: Yeah! That's what I'm talking about.
Stylist: What kind of top would you like with your capris?
Me: A t-shirt?
Stylist: [blank stare]
Me: Maybe I should've ordered from the men's department.
Stylist: I'll add a little lace to the...
Me: No lace. No frill. No nothing.
Stylist: Sparkles on the pockets?
Me: No sparkles.
Stylist: Glitter?
Me: NOW YOU'RE TALKING!
The clothes are supposed to arrive in two days. I'm following the package... right now it is in Indiana. I'm warming up the camera and am ready to share the fun with YOU.
*********************************************************************
Summer is here, as evidenced by the 90+ degree weather and the long days. June is by far my favorite month of the year. The lawn is still lush and green (as opposed to brown and straw-like in August), the days are long, the allergies are settling down, the winds are warm and the lightening bugs are sure to surface. The yucca plants are busy yucca-ing. The bugs aren't too buggy. The weather gives me opportunity to share my tattoos with the world. June can also be cold and soggy but this year we're off to a warm, sunny start. Bring on the tattoos.
I spend a whole lot of time outside in June. Yesterday, I broke every single fingernail I had while digging in the dirt and creating a "new" area for some ground cover. (No, I don't wear gardening gloves. What is the point of that? I want to feel the dirt--experience the earth. Broken finger nails are a small price to pay when gardening.) I thought the wife might not agree with my vision of filling the "grass isn't going to grow here" area with some mulch and ground cover, but she found it appropriate and the project was approved. Score!
Okay, maybe I employed the "better to ask for forgiveness than permission" mode of being during this project. I started digging when she wasn't looking and by the time she got out there to ask what I was up to, I had already laid out the design. Since she has difficulty picturing things, this illustration of the plan worked to my advantage. Not a peep of dissension.
She did poo-poo my idea of putting hostas in that area but she did go along with the pachysandra idea. The wife tends not to be a hosta person. I don't understand this, as they are perfect for the shady areas of the lawn. Maybe they are too boring for her taste. Maybe she's sick of them. Maybe it's because the bunnies keep eating them and they end up looking like green sticks instead of plants. Maybe she was killed by a hosta in a previous life. Hard to say.
Pachysandra rocks because it's low maintenance, it spreads like wildfire, it doesn't need a whole lot of sun, it doesn't need maintenance and it looks great once it takes root. I'm sure the newbie sprigs will look like poop this year but that's okay. They will be out of control by the time next summer arrives. (I did some research on this ground cover... who knew it was Japanese and that there are different types? I thought pachysandra was pachysandra was pachysandra. Bad gardener.)
The wife spends oodles of time outside because she is watering all the hanging baskets and planters she has strategically placed around the yard. Everywhere you look, there are hanging baskets. That's a lot of watering, especially when it's so warm and sunny out. If I can't find her, I just look at the planters. Or, I listen for the squishing sound of her Crocs. All that water gets her shoes squishy and they make a very distinct sound as she walks. I can hear her anywhere on the property. Her goal, besides being aesthetically pleasing, is to attract hummingbirds. (Oh sure, my obsession with Baltimore Orioles is ridiculous but her hunt for hummingbirds is just fine.) She's already been successful, as a hummingbird was flitting around the back yard yesterday. Bitter, party of one.
There is one big difference in my gardening efforts in comparison to my gardening prowess of ten years ago: now I stay in the shade whenever possible. When I have areas of which need to be weeded that are always in the sun, I do those areas before or after the sun is at its full glory. Before, I would have used that as an opportunity to get a tan. Now, I'd rather poke my eyes out than weed in the full blast of the sun. It's not that I don't like being tan... it's because I don't like being miserable and weeding in the full heat tends to be miserable. I'm done with misery. I can get a tan when I'm not working like a dog, thank you very much.
I hear it's supposed to be in the high 90's today. That's a bit much for being so early in the year, not that I mind. I will gladly sit out side when it's that warm, just not in the sun. It's been windy the past few days, so sitting outside borders on overwhelmingly delightful....
....maybe there will be some shorts in that "clothes in a box." Even some of those "short pants." That'd brighten my day, keep me cool and certainly fancy up my wardrobe game. But if I see one frill, one piece of lace, one accessory... that stylist of mine is gonna hear from me and you.
...She COULD make it up by sending me some glitter on a t-shirt.....
...or, by sending me something from the men's department. I do wish I could just wear the manly man's obligatory blue shirt with khakis and call it a day. Maybe she'll send me a blue t-shirt with khaki pants.
Oh, the fun we are about to have........
**************************************************************************
Friday, June 02, 2017
Old Cold, Orioles Bold
Something is messing with my "attract Orioles" set up on the deck. Something is eating the oranges and drinking the grape jelly and it is NOT an Oriole. In fact, something is STEALING the oranges and dragging them out to the middle of the yard.
I noticed something was amiss when I peered out onto the deck and noticed my grape jelly container was gone. I had filled it the day before so I know it was there. My investigation led to me finding a very empty jelly container--like, licked clean empty. I thought this might be the wind or some weird phenomenon... but, the next day, the re-filled jelly container was gone AGAIN. Once found, it was very clearly consumed by some grape-jelly loving being.
I decided not to put out the grape jelly and but left the oranges, as it appeared an Oriole (or some other bird) was pecking away at it. The first no-jelly-day...the oranges were gone. Stolen right off the bird feeder.
It took me awhile but I finally found the rinds in the yard. Empty, orange rinds.
Now, those are some pretty big oranges I've been using and they were stuck onto these large metal screws, so whatever took those oranges was bigger than an Oriole. Perhaps something raccoon size... although, we haven't seen any raccoons milling about. We have a chipmunk causing havoc but there is no way that little thing could carry an orange. I suppose a bionic squirrel would be close to big enough but I'd think they'd be puking grape jelly after eating a whole bowlful.
Whatever it is, it REALLY seems to like oranges and grape jelly, it is bigger than an Oriole and it is PISSING ME OFF.
Perhaps I'm more pissy about it than usual because I caught a cold and I've been crabby about everything. It's hard not to be crabby when having a snot-filled, throat-scratching, crabby-making hot mess of a time in the Addiverse.
I probably got the cold flying on the plane or from not getting enough sleep on vacation or from drinking out of a tainted hotel glass. No matter. I noticed the scratchy throat the last day of vacation. It hit me hard and without warning. The sore throat is a dead give-a-way that the cold is on the way. I wanted to ignore the scratchiness but it was quickly followed by the low grade fever and the feeling of exhaustion.
I thought I was safe! I thought I had made it through the winter and spring without a cold or flu. I was pretty damn proud of that accomplishment. Then, BAM! End of spring cold.
Never count your colds before the summer hatches.
Now that my eyes aren't watering as much and I'm no longer going through a box of kleenex per hour, I can sit back, reflect and blog.
I've decided that the older you get, the tougher it is to fight a cold. Case in point: thirty five years ago, I wouldn't have even noticed I had a cold besides feeling shitty and sneezy for a bunch of days. I would've sucked down some throat lozenges and been done with it. Twenty five years ago, a cold would slow me down and I'd feel pretty crappy, but it was no reason to miss work or an event. I'd just chug a bunch of cold tablets, carry kleenex at all times and try not to touch anything.
Now.... now a cold kicks my sorry ass from here to eternity. This particular cold left me exhausted to the point I missed two days of work. For me to sleep all day on the couch on a work day is something to write home about. I didn't want to be at home. I wanted to be at work. That said, there was no way in hell I could be at work... unless it was so I could sleep under my desk.
It truly was only a cold--a good, old-fashioned, run of the mill cold. A sneezing, wheezing, coughing, eye watering case of rhinitis. I've had mono and the flu and food poisoning and even"walking" pneumonia (do they even use that diagnosis any more?), so I know what it's like to feel really bad. But, I'm telling ya, this "aging cold: thing...
...It.Kicked. My. Ass. Even my boss commented, and this is a direct quote: "That cold is kicking your ass." At least she knew I was actually sick.
I'm pleased to say that I'm at the point of still being a wee bit snotty but am no worse for the wear. I do have some pretty epic nose-blows and some pain-in-the ass post-nasal drip, but otherwise--I am doing fine. It's allergy season here, so the sneezing might actually be allergy related. No matter. I feel a bazillion percent better and that is what matters....
....No. No, what really matters is what the hell is messing with my Orioles. Now that I'm feeling much better, I may have to stay up all night and stare out the window. Perhaps I should set up a video camera in order to catch the culprit. (Wouldn't it be funny if it were the neighbor playing a joke on me? Stealing my jelly and hollowing out the oranges. THAT would make for a great video.) I've got lots of grape jelly and a whole lot of kleenex. I'm ready to solve the mystery. If I get video or photos, you know I'll post them. If I want to see more Orioles, I need to kick this up a notch.
Kleenex and grape jelly. I'm armed and dangerous. No one messes with my Orioles. Game on, non-bird friend. Game on.
I noticed something was amiss when I peered out onto the deck and noticed my grape jelly container was gone. I had filled it the day before so I know it was there. My investigation led to me finding a very empty jelly container--like, licked clean empty. I thought this might be the wind or some weird phenomenon... but, the next day, the re-filled jelly container was gone AGAIN. Once found, it was very clearly consumed by some grape-jelly loving being.
I decided not to put out the grape jelly and but left the oranges, as it appeared an Oriole (or some other bird) was pecking away at it. The first no-jelly-day...the oranges were gone. Stolen right off the bird feeder.
It took me awhile but I finally found the rinds in the yard. Empty, orange rinds.
Now, those are some pretty big oranges I've been using and they were stuck onto these large metal screws, so whatever took those oranges was bigger than an Oriole. Perhaps something raccoon size... although, we haven't seen any raccoons milling about. We have a chipmunk causing havoc but there is no way that little thing could carry an orange. I suppose a bionic squirrel would be close to big enough but I'd think they'd be puking grape jelly after eating a whole bowlful.
Whatever it is, it REALLY seems to like oranges and grape jelly, it is bigger than an Oriole and it is PISSING ME OFF.
Perhaps I'm more pissy about it than usual because I caught a cold and I've been crabby about everything. It's hard not to be crabby when having a snot-filled, throat-scratching, crabby-making hot mess of a time in the Addiverse.
I probably got the cold flying on the plane or from not getting enough sleep on vacation or from drinking out of a tainted hotel glass. No matter. I noticed the scratchy throat the last day of vacation. It hit me hard and without warning. The sore throat is a dead give-a-way that the cold is on the way. I wanted to ignore the scratchiness but it was quickly followed by the low grade fever and the feeling of exhaustion.
I thought I was safe! I thought I had made it through the winter and spring without a cold or flu. I was pretty damn proud of that accomplishment. Then, BAM! End of spring cold.
Never count your colds before the summer hatches.
Now that my eyes aren't watering as much and I'm no longer going through a box of kleenex per hour, I can sit back, reflect and blog.
I've decided that the older you get, the tougher it is to fight a cold. Case in point: thirty five years ago, I wouldn't have even noticed I had a cold besides feeling shitty and sneezy for a bunch of days. I would've sucked down some throat lozenges and been done with it. Twenty five years ago, a cold would slow me down and I'd feel pretty crappy, but it was no reason to miss work or an event. I'd just chug a bunch of cold tablets, carry kleenex at all times and try not to touch anything.
Now.... now a cold kicks my sorry ass from here to eternity. This particular cold left me exhausted to the point I missed two days of work. For me to sleep all day on the couch on a work day is something to write home about. I didn't want to be at home. I wanted to be at work. That said, there was no way in hell I could be at work... unless it was so I could sleep under my desk.
It truly was only a cold--a good, old-fashioned, run of the mill cold. A sneezing, wheezing, coughing, eye watering case of rhinitis. I've had mono and the flu and food poisoning and even"walking" pneumonia (do they even use that diagnosis any more?), so I know what it's like to feel really bad. But, I'm telling ya, this "aging cold: thing...
...It.Kicked. My. Ass. Even my boss commented, and this is a direct quote: "That cold is kicking your ass." At least she knew I was actually sick.
I'm pleased to say that I'm at the point of still being a wee bit snotty but am no worse for the wear. I do have some pretty epic nose-blows and some pain-in-the ass post-nasal drip, but otherwise--I am doing fine. It's allergy season here, so the sneezing might actually be allergy related. No matter. I feel a bazillion percent better and that is what matters....
....No. No, what really matters is what the hell is messing with my Orioles. Now that I'm feeling much better, I may have to stay up all night and stare out the window. Perhaps I should set up a video camera in order to catch the culprit. (Wouldn't it be funny if it were the neighbor playing a joke on me? Stealing my jelly and hollowing out the oranges. THAT would make for a great video.) I've got lots of grape jelly and a whole lot of kleenex. I'm ready to solve the mystery. If I get video or photos, you know I'll post them. If I want to see more Orioles, I need to kick this up a notch.
Kleenex and grape jelly. I'm armed and dangerous. No one messes with my Orioles. Game on, non-bird friend. Game on.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
When in Boston...
The wife and I just finished a whirlwind tour of the Boston area. We had just enough time to do some sight-seeing and then head back to our safe and welcoming Midwest. Since it was raining and as the Red Sox were out of town, we tried to pick some indoor activities to enjoy. (I wasn't motivated enough to walk the Freedom Trail or hang out on the USS Constitution in the cold rain.)
Now, I've driven repeated in Chicago proper in rush hour traffic without issue. I am not one to worry about driving in big cities. I've zipped along the six lane highways in Southern California. I've enjoyed "no left turns in New Jersey" outings. I've survived the Dallas area "Mix Master." That said, I'm no fool--I know driving in Boston is out of my league.
So, I did what all smart spouses would do: I had the wife drive.
I didn't exactly tell her about how driving in Boston was sure to be a terrifying ordeal. I figured the less she knew, the better chance of survival we'd have. Okay--I didn't tell her anything besides Boston streets don't go in a straight line. I showed her a quick view view the cell phone map, so I suppose that kinda-sorta told her something. I didn't tell her about the tunnels or the weird exits from inside the tunnel to outside the tunnel. Thankfully, she was too distracted by the fact our rental car only had 80 miles on it when we got it. She was worried for the car, not for us.
If you get bored, you really should take a look at a map of Boston. You'll see what I mean. It looks like someone puked a bunch of squiggly lines and decided those should be streets.
Having a cell phone map is worthless. Having the lady on the cell phone map telling you what to do is almost as worthless. Perhaps she too vomited up a bunch of directions and decided this would be a good route to take. "In 600 feet, make a slight left. In 400 feet, stay left. In 400 feet, stay right. In a half a mile, make a u-turn and proceed to route." I'm not making that crap up. There wasn't even time to get mad at each other as we were always making turns, avoiding large moving objects and watching out for the infamous "Boston Left."
I cannot do justice to what it's like to drive in Boston as I'm still suffering from PTBD (post traumatic Boston disorder). I found an Internet post that is absolutely, positively PERFECT about this topic. In fact, it's so perfect, I'm posting it here. I believe this may be the most genius thing ever written about Boston driving. I've added a few of my own comments within Mark's comments, as indicated in BRIGHT BLUE. The link is http://www.masshole.com/driving.html
Now, I've driven repeated in Chicago proper in rush hour traffic without issue. I am not one to worry about driving in big cities. I've zipped along the six lane highways in Southern California. I've enjoyed "no left turns in New Jersey" outings. I've survived the Dallas area "Mix Master." That said, I'm no fool--I know driving in Boston is out of my league.
So, I did what all smart spouses would do: I had the wife drive.
I didn't exactly tell her about how driving in Boston was sure to be a terrifying ordeal. I figured the less she knew, the better chance of survival we'd have. Okay--I didn't tell her anything besides Boston streets don't go in a straight line. I showed her a quick view view the cell phone map, so I suppose that kinda-sorta told her something. I didn't tell her about the tunnels or the weird exits from inside the tunnel to outside the tunnel. Thankfully, she was too distracted by the fact our rental car only had 80 miles on it when we got it. She was worried for the car, not for us.
If you get bored, you really should take a look at a map of Boston. You'll see what I mean. It looks like someone puked a bunch of squiggly lines and decided those should be streets.
Having a cell phone map is worthless. Having the lady on the cell phone map telling you what to do is almost as worthless. Perhaps she too vomited up a bunch of directions and decided this would be a good route to take. "In 600 feet, make a slight left. In 400 feet, stay left. In 400 feet, stay right. In a half a mile, make a u-turn and proceed to route." I'm not making that crap up. There wasn't even time to get mad at each other as we were always making turns, avoiding large moving objects and watching out for the infamous "Boston Left."
I cannot do justice to what it's like to drive in Boston as I'm still suffering from PTBD (post traumatic Boston disorder). I found an Internet post that is absolutely, positively PERFECT about this topic. In fact, it's so perfect, I'm posting it here. I believe this may be the most genius thing ever written about Boston driving. I've added a few of my own comments within Mark's comments, as indicated in BRIGHT BLUE. The link is http://www.masshole.com/driving.html
Driving in Boston: Submitted by MahkThe geographical center of Boston is in Roxbury. Due north of the center we find the South End. This is not to be confused with South Boston, which lies directly east from the South End. North of the South End is East Boston and southwest of East Boston is the North End. And, the Back Bay was filled in years ago.
Addiverse: That is the most perfect description of Boston ever written. Ever. I gave up the "which way is north" way of thinking. God love you, Mark. This is genius. And, terrifying. No tourist should read this before going to Boston lest you not go.
Basic Rules for Driving in Boston (subject to change at any time):Mark--er, Mahk--got it right. Or, left. Or, Boston left. I can't put it any better. Give me a Wisconsin-I-always-drive-in-the-left-lane kind of driver any day. I'll never complain about that again.
- Always look right and left before proceeding through a green light. I found this quite odd but agree that it is true. Since cars are shooting out every which-way and as people are turning left in front of you and as the official Rules of the Road as seen as a mere suggestion, we looked as we proceeded into intersections. Who knew you'd have to look left and right when having the right of way via green light?
- When on a one way street, stay to the right to allow for oncoming traffic to pass.
- Never, ever stop for a pedestrian unless he flings himself under the wheels of your car. As a part-time pedestrian, I attest this to be true.
- The first parking space you see will be the last parking space you see. Grab it.
- Learn to swerve abruptly. Boston is the home of slalom driving, thanks to the Department of Transportation, which puts potholes in key locations to test drivers' reflexes and keep them on their toes.
- Never get in the way of a car that needs extensive bodywork.
- Double-park in the North End of Boston and South Boston, unless triple-parking is available. We never did figure out the parking rules. There were parked cars everywhere.
- Always look both ways when running a red light. One would think this not be needed, but it is. Red light running is a sport, perfected by the Bostonian.
- Honk your horn the instant the light changes. We saw no one use their blinkers. We did hear a lot of honking. Blinkers, no. We probably looked like true tourists with all the blinking we did.
- Breakdown lanes are not for breaking down, but for speeding, especially during rush hour. Breakdown lanes may also end without warning causing traffic jams as people merge back in.
- If you should break down, allow your vehicle to come to a stop in the center lane. If road conditions are hazardous, exit your vehicle, without looking, and stand next to it, with your back to oncoming traffic.
- Never use directional signals when changing lanes. They only warn other drivers to speed up and not let you in. Amen.
- To signal a lane change, look in the direction you're about to go, as you do so. Wearing a baseball cap is considered an extra safety measure.
- Making eye contact revokes your right of way.
- Never pass on the left when you can pass on the right.
- Whenever possible, stop in the middle of a crosswalk to ensure inconveniencing as many pedestrians as possible. And if a pedestrian ahead of you steps into the road, speed up loudly and chase them up on the curb. Pedestrians have no rights.
- On a multi-lane highway, always drive in the left lane, even if there are others wanting to pass. Stay in the left lane until the last possible instant before cutting across all lanes to the exit.
- When making a left turn at an intersection with a red light, glare at the oncoming drivers, inch your way into the intersection, and floor it when the green light from the other direction turns yellow. I cannot tell you how often we saw this. Perhaps the infamous Boston Left Turn should be considered sport, too.
- When merging, floor it, as you hit the "on ramp" and proceed immediately to the furthest left hand lane. I cannot tell you how many times I heard the wife exclaim, "These people do not know how to merge!"
- When road conditions are hazardous, swerve in and out of lanes, to pass slower moving vehicles.
- Communicating with other drivers and pedestrians is important. Gesture often.
- The furthest right lane is reserved for passing. The furthest left lane is reserved for slower moving vehicles.
- Always bring your cell phone with you. Highway driving is a perfect time to chat with your friends and loved ones.
- If you miss your exit, stop abruptly and back up.
- When another car pulls up close behind you and "flashes their brights", slam on your breaks.
- When entering a tunnel, always slow down and pause before entering, even if there is no traffic or reason for delay. We wondered about this. The entrances to tunnels were always at a dead stop, but once in, there didn't seem to be reason. Who knew?
- When faced with a lane detour, due to construction, always pass as many complying vehicles as possible, wait until the last possible second, then swerve into the specified lane.
- Be prepared for abundant construction detours.
- Taxi Cab drivers are highly trained professionals. Observe and learn from their masterful techniques and driving skills.
- Only those pedestrians not looking where they're going, head and eyes fixed firmly forward, are allowed to cross in front of traffic. Be sure to "break" hard and stop as close to them as possible.
- Tip: Only pedestrians crossing within "Cross Walks" have legal rights. Pedestrians outside of "Cross Walks" are "fair game".
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