Of Comics, Drafts and Bricks

TODAY IS THE DAY! The 12th Doctor makes his appearance this evening, as it's the day "Doctor Who" returns to the telly. As they say across the pond, "oh, the feels!" The DVR is set and ready for action.

In the waaaaaay-too-much information department, I would like to formally announce that I find myself this fine morning kicking off another round of menstruation. Being that I am 52 years old and have yet to miss a month, I find this to be some form of travesty. My eggs remain indestructible, my uterus in its glory, my cycle commencing on the exact day as anticipated. Somehow, I would think FORTY years of this nonsense would be enough, but I must be mistaken. Perhaps the baby Jesus is waiting for me to shoot out a baby before snuffing the menstrual fires. 

Tonight is my fantasy football league's live draft. I am not prepared. I did not watch one lick of the pre-season. I haven't read even a sentence of a football article and I'm not even sure my kicker's jersey is clean and pressed. Hell, I don't even know what the heck dish-to-pass I'm gonna bring. I'm trying to decide if it's genius or madness to go to a draft completely uninformed. Whichever, I know it will be entertaining. Maybe I'll take a kicker in the first round and REALLY throw people off. Pray for my uterus and my picks.

As for my trip to Chicago Comic-Con yesterday, I must say it was much more entertaining than studying for the draft. I walked around the convention with a stupid grin on my face the entire time I was there, as I was in my glory, surrounded by thousands of nerdy "friends." At first, I was too afraid to take photos, as some of the costumed attendees (or, better called "those engaged in cos play) looked too intensely intense to approach. I mean these people were hard core. Once I figured out they wanted photos taken, I started pointing and clicking. There are no words to fully and accurately describe Comic Con--it must be experienced. Upon my return home, someone asked me if I minded going without anyone. I didn't understand the question as I was with thousands of friends, many of who understood my stupid Doctor Who references. Where else can you walk by someone wearing a fez (or even find someone wearing a fez) and say, "I wear a fez now. Fezzes are cool." Upon hearing this, they give you props for both the recognition AND using the quote. It was nerd nirvana. 

Here's a blurry photo of me with the tenth Doctor. 

My ultimate goal is to get to Comic-Con in San Diego as THAT is the mecca. You mark my words--I'll get there.  

Switching gears: the college of which I attended is tearing down the dorm I lived in for three of the four years I was at the school. I served as an RA in that dorm. I went to parties in that dorm. I played my drum set in that dorm. I threw parachuted army men out the top window in that dorm. I met the wife when I lived in that dorm. (Heck, I met my husband when I lived in that dorm.) I can't really write a whole lot of what went on in that dorm (that's classified information)....suffice it to say, it is beloved to me and the people who resided there over the years. (Perhaps some college dorm stories in a future blog. Perhaps. Perhaps not.)

Side note: The dorm is in such disrepair that I cannot find even one shred of an argument about why the school would revamp the place. No one has lived in it for years and years, it does not even come close to meeting today's codes and it's not the kind of housing students seek today. It needs to be blown off the map. I think we were too hard on it. I have no angst over the demolition of this building. No one can ever take away the memories of all the fun and friendship found there. Who needs the actual building? Just give me a brick and call it a day.

Once I learned they were demolishing the building, I decided I needed to own a few of the bricks--have a piece of history. The wife agreed to go with me on a covert brick-finding mission, which is intriguing, as one my construe the removal of bricks from private property as somehow less than legal. 

If I had been approached by legal authorities during this endeavor, I would have yelled, "My parents paid for part of this building and I'm getting some of their money back!"

I had many a fun memory while standing in front of that decaying building. I snapped a few photos to share with those out of town and then circled the building to take it all in. I spoke aloud as we meanders the perimeter, recalling who lived where, who worked the front desk, how many trip had been taken down that path to the cafeteria. No angst--just smiles and happiness. 

I must admit it is shocking to see how quickly something can fall into complete disrepair--even the pavement around the building was crumbling. 

We had to be careful when seeking a souvenir brick, as I didn't want either of us to have a brick plummet on top of our heads. (That would be an amazing story, but I think I'll pass.) The demolition has yet to begin, so bricks were not in plenty. Thankfully, a few full bricks were lying on the ground near the building. They called to me and thus I felt obliged to take them home. 

There is an excellent fund raiser waiting to be had via the selling of these bricks. Homecoming is just a few short weeks away. I know there are at least two dozen alums who would love to own an official dorm brick. The postage would suck but the memories would be worth it. I wrote to the school and asked if I could have some bricks and pointed out that I knew of many people who wanted one, too. I suppose if the school doesn't answer or declines, I will have to go on covert mission and secure bricks to mail to alums. I'd gladly do that. I'm sure they'd like tangible evidence that they got their money's worth--having a brick is one way to have a bit of that.

Just call me "The Ovulating Black Wolf Brick Ninja." 

Photos are SURE to follow.......

Move and Zap, one two three

This morning while walking the dogs, I thought of a great topic of which to blog. Too bad I can't remember what it was about. Alas, it will come to me once I finish posting this one.

I have a new job at work...which means I once again had to move offices. I hold the agency record for most office moves at an unbelievable 18.

Who has time to blog when zapped with a new job and another pending office move?

Now, moving can have benefits. After all, the more you move, the less junk you want to haul along. Although I still have plenty of crap filling the corners of any office I inhabit, I've "lost" some volume along the way. It also affords me the opportunity to find lost objects, clean dust-covered trinkets and re-arrange my files and folders. I've found money, lost phone cords, paperwork I swore I had turned in, even lost clothing. (From changing clothes after walking during lunch--not from anything fun, you naughty tidbits.) Thankfully, I do not usually find spoiled food, confidential files or unpaid personal bills. I'm pretty flexible when it comes to moving and I can't say I've ever really minded the chance for new scenery. I am probably one of the only employees who is fine with such nonsense.

I did not enjoy this most recent move as I had only been in office move #17 for two months; in fact, I'm not sure I ever did finish unpacking. When I took the new job, I asked to stay in the current office; after all, I had just moved there, it had kick ass furniture, it was the biggest office I had every been assigned and I had installed my plant light. My boss gave me a scowl and an emphatic "NO." Even though the new office is only three doors down from office move #17, I was told I had to move. I didn't understand but my boss seemed to be in a pissy mood about the whole thing so I scowled back but didn't argue.

I'm sure she knows what my thoughts were on the decision that I had to move. I don't exactly have a poker face.

Imagine my intense displeasure when I was later told by HR I could choose to stay in office #17. This after moving half of my belongings from #17 to #18.  It was not a pretty moment in the Addiverse.

With the start of the new job, I've had no time to organize my new office or even move all my stuff out of the old office. I had to hit the floor running, so I am basically living half-assed between two places, each appearing to have been hit by an F5 tornado. I figure I'll have time to finish the move in about a month; until then, my old office will remain my half-office. No one dare say anything about my failure to move fully from office #17.

The new office has a window, so that's a bonus. I'm the only person on the lower level who has a window, so I am special in that capacity. It doesn't open but I can see the weather, making me a rock star--I know if a tornado is on the way, if it's snowing, if hail is damaging cars. It's a funny window, as it's on the ground level. All I see are feet and legs walk by. Distracting but fun.

The biggest issue I've had in the past week has been the onslaught of house flies in the office areas. No, they are not from lost food products in office #17. No one knows exactly where they are coming from but they are there in full force. They are so bad that I actually went out and purchased a bug zapper.

I got the racket kind--it looks like a badminton racket, only it has batteries in it so you can electrify flies. That means you can swat the flies on the fly or you can wait to zap them while they are unsuspectingly perched on the office window. I got it at the evil conglomerate of Wally World. Only $6.88. How can you beat spending less that $7 to have fun and enjoyment while making a difference in the world?

Oh.My.GOD! I never knew how much fun it could be to zap flies!!! Now, I'm usually a pacifist when it comes to killing things, but those flies have been dive-bombing my head and I'd had enough. I had no idea that a popping, sparking fly could make me so happy. It is quite satisfying, especially after spending three days dodging and weaving from flies zipping at your head.

Did you know that flies SPARK when you electrocute them? Oh, so divine. I am ashamed of myself for enjoying it so much. I do so love it.

Everyone in the area knows I'm zapping flies by several tell-tale signs:
(1) the popping. The flies pop LOUDLY when they are electrocuted--it's a sound unto its own. Sometimes, the flies POP loudly two times....if they don't die with the first electrocution, I have to fry them a second time.
(2) the laughing. I laugh as I fry these buggers.
(3) the swearing. Sometimes they get away, which leads to disdain.
(4) the moving of furniture, especially the sound of dragging chairs on tile flooring. After all, I have to stand on something to fry those who have perched on the ceiling lights.
(5) the smell. I'd be lying if I said a pack of electrocuted flies don't smell like somethings burning.
(6) the sound of victory. I'm not quiet in my success--I cheer, cajole, yell, I laugh. I laugh a lot. Take that, you maggot-making infestation.

Having a bug zapper has made my transition to office move #18 a little more palatable. It's distracting, if nothing else. It's fun and just plain wrong. I like just plain wrong.

Just know that if my boss tells me within the next year that I have to move offices again, I'll be zapping her and I'll zap her right in the ass.....

....and, I will laugh loudly when her butt sparks and pops.

Duty to warn, flies and boss. Duty to warn.

Warrior of Mud

Last weekend, I crossed off a "bucket list" item by running--er, I mean walking, crawling, jogging, praying, surviving--a local Warrior Dash. It was loads of fun, even thought I didn't dash very much. Dashing is for athletes. Surviving is for folks like me.

For those of you who are not in the know, the Warrior Dash is for morons like me who think it would be fun to run through an adult-sized obstacle course which features lots of mud.

Yes, that is real mud on my bib and finisher's medal. I didn't put that mud there. It found its way onto (and into) my being. No, I am not going to clean it off. I earned that mud. Yes, I'm going to proudly display this in my office for the rest of my life. Yes, I might wear my medal all this week at work to show my warrior-ness.

Did I mention that's real mud?

Before I talk about the mud, here are some tidbits to consider before taking part in a Warrior Dash:
**When deciding to take part in such an event, it is advisable to train prior to the event.
**When deciding to take part in such an event even though there has not been any training, it is advisable to have at least some form of upper body strength.
**When decided to take part in such an event without training or upper body strength, a good sense of humor and a love for mud will go far.

It was LOTS of fun. I suppose it's because I like mud. I love mud. It's a free mud bath. It reminds me of ceramics class back in the 1980's. It's childhood, come back to life. What's not to like about mud?

Well, okay--there are a few things not to like about mud: 

(1) It doesn't taste very good. You can't avoid getting mud in your mouth at one time or another during a Warrior Dash. I got some in my mouth and it ended up in my gum. My gum crunched for the remainder of my tenure on the course.
(2) It gets in every orifice and crevice. There is no avoiding it. I have resigned myself to finding mud in my ears for the next month. Yesterday at work, a co-worker pointed out some mud on the side of my glasses.
(3) It's cold. We dashed earlier than not, which means the mud had no time to warm; hence, we oozed our way through cold mud. Takes your breath away.
(4) It's dark. You can't see what is underneath the surface. A lot of the mud obstacles were knee deep (or more) with lots of dark, murky water on top. A surprise log scared the bejesus out of me as I slogged my way through one particular mud lake. There were thoughts of snakes. At one point, I wondered how I was going to find my shoe if I had to pull my stuck foot out of the shoe to escape the grasp of the mud. Because it's dark, you can't see how deep it is. Some mud obstacles were shallow (think calf deep) and some obstacles were waist or more deep. That's a lot of darkness.
(5) It has a grip like a vice. See #4. I'm not kidding. I got stuck calf-deep in a deeper than not in a murky pool of mud. Somehow, I got my foot free but it was not without effort. I don't remember having this issue with mud as a kid. Maybe that's because mud puddles of childhood tend not to be several feet deep.
(6) It's heavy. Once the mud got in, on and stuck to my shoes, they were like bricks. No matter how hard I tried to get the mud off the bottom of my shoes, the mud hung on. That left me to walking/jogging/climbing/ crawling with weights on my feet. Having wet shoes is hard enough. Having 10 pounds of mud on each shoe is much harder.
(7) It's impossible to wash off in a pond. The "Warrior Wash" at the end of the race was not, as I had been informed, a fire hose. Instead, this course featured a pond in which you could wade. Let's face it--ponds are just big mud puddles. It was rather pointless. I used my time to pry my shoes and socks off instead of wading in a mud pond.

I'd be remiss if I didn't tell you I was terrified a few times as I traversed the grasslands and cornfields of the Cheddarlands. At one point, I was on top of an obstacle saying aloud, "Don't look down, don't look down, don't look down." I had to say it out loud because just thinking it wasn't enough. I had to convince myself I could do this as long as I didn't look down.

Finishers get medals. Here I am taking a bite of my medal. Not only is the medal cool, it serves as a bottle opener. I kid you not. Warriors must need to be able to open a beer at any given moment.

For the record, I threw my socks out and donated my shoes. I didn't feel like carrying five pound socks home, only to have the wife freak out upon seeing them. Those socks would never have found their way into the house. As for the shoes, the pond didn't get them very clean and they still weighed ten pounds each, so I donated them. I loved those shoes but they had to go. I know they will find a good home, as the race organizers clean them up and donate them to those without shoes. I've never seen such a big pile of muddy shoes in my life. (Actually, I've never seen a pile of muddy shoes in my life, so that's not saying much. Suffice it to say, the pile was taller than me. That's a lot of muddy shoes.)

Now that I've survived and I've removed 90+ percent off the mud from my being, I ask myself: Would I do this again? After all, I did it once, so it's off the bucket list.

The answer is.........

Yes. Of course I would! Next time I might train.....or, at least wear a costume. But, I'll only do another Warrior Dash if they have something better than a pond in which to wash.....and if MJagger will come along...

.....and, if I have duct tape. I'd duct tape my ears shut so there would be no mud in them. Silver duct tape. The real kind of duct tape. Warriors don't wear any of that new-fangled hot pink or patterned duct tape.
***********************************************

Going...going....

Gone.

The past weekend, the wife and I helped with an auction out in the middle of the cornfields. Now, we don't usually hang out in cornfields, but on this day, we were surrounded by some of the tallest corn I've ever seen. That's probably not saying much as there wasn't exactly a lot of corn growing on the streets of the industrial suburb of my youth. For all I know corn is supposed to be nine feet tall at the end of July. A few of the farmers mentioned how tall the corn was, so it must've been at least semi-impressive.

Here's a photo of said corn. I found a strong urge to take photos of the corn. Perhaps it was seeing cobs on the stalk that intrigued me, even more than the height of the stalks.

They are called stalks, aren't they?

It was really talk, really green and really powerful looking. I don't know how corn can look powerful, but it did. It was rather amazing. I even took selfies in front of the corn.

Back to why we were standing in a place surrounded by corn. We didn't exactly decide, "hey, let's hang out in cornfields today." We had a mission.

Our friend was in the midst of having her family home auctioned off to the highest bidder. Being from the Chicago suburbs many a decade ago, I was unfamiliar with the idea that one would auction off anything, let alone a house. It was so foreign of a concept to me that I really didn't grasp the idea until I actually witnessed the process. I've heard of auctioning off houses that had gone into foreclosure, but never an auction "on purpose."

For the record, I would bet dollars to donuts that watching your childhood home--the only home you've ever known--be auctioned off would suck.

Suck royally.

Not only did she watch her house be auctioned off, she watched every item from in that house get sold. From furniture to cleaning supplies, it was up for grabs, often for ridiculously low prices.

It bothered me. A lot. If it bothered me, I can't imagine what she felt.

Just because this is a foreign concept to me does not mean it is a foreign concept at all; in fact, everyone at the auction seemed quite used to the approach. Some people have garage sales... some people use eBay.... some people have auctions.

In the midst of the pre-auction waiting (I was supposed to be guarding the Precious Moments collection), I found a lot of cool things; for instance, this canister set took me right back to the 1970's. I'm sure my mom will recall owning this canister set, complete with mushroom salt and pepper shakers, in the days of Bread, The Carpenters and Blood, Sweat and Tears. I do believe she had the mushroom clock hanging over the kitchen sink.

I wanted to bid on these not because I actually wanted them but because of nostalgia. I have to say, nostalgia is a very powerful thing. Thankfully, I was slapped back into the 21st century when I realized the wife would not have let me bring these in the house. Who can blame her?

It would have been fun for the Christmas White Elephant, though.

I loved the 'old' stuff. I don't know what qualifies as antique, so I'm going to call it "old," no offense to actual antiques. I loved the tarnished silver this-or-that, the history of found on the covers of old newspapers, the trinkets that must have filled the drawers. I was stunned to find an old key chain that had the name of my childhood town on it; after all, we were NOWHERE near the place of my youth. I mean, why was there a car wash key chain from Franklin Park in the middle of a corn field? I wanted to buy that but then I remembered the wife's words to take photos instead of buying items. So boring but true.

I didn't end up bidding on anything. I left the auction so I could go do a scheduled baptism. (Yes, I do baptisms. I'm branching out.) I left behind the wife and the corn without nary a raise of an auction number (no paddles-- just card stock with large numbers).

I've never seen so many farmers in one place at the same time. How do I know they were farmers? They were all wearing pants despite the 90 degree heat. I've decided that farmers do not own shorts.

The farmers were very nice. Friendly. Older than not. I didn't see any young farmers. I take that as a bad sign. Maybe the young farmers were out tending the tall corn.

This newspaper is from 1872. Wow! That's 100 years older than the mushroom canister set. Oh, how I wanted to bid on this. No reason--I just thought it was amazingly cool to see something from 1872. (Click on the photo if you want to see the details on the newspaper.)

In the end, the house, land and belongings sold for less than I would have thought...which is a weird statement, as I have no idea how much things should actually sell for in the middle of what this city slicker would call "the middle of nowhere." I would assume our friend sobbed at the end of the auction. I know I would have. Selling something is one thing but, like I said, watching everything fade away in front of you seems like a whole 'nother thing.

In the end, I have my photos of old newspapers, key chains and corn. I have my chuckles over the key chain and the corn. Our friend has photos and a few trinkets. She certainly has memories. Lots of memories. Lots of happy childhood memories. Lots of growing up on a farm stories. But, having to watch your home become a thing auctioned off to a stranger? I can't imagine that makes for a very happy memory.

For that reason, I am sending her happy thoughts for the rest of the week. I hope you will, too. Send out a happy shout to the universe in her honor. If nothing else, please think of her when you eat your next serving of corn on the cob. I know the farmers and our friend would appreciate it.

Oh no you didn't

During recent dinner conversation with two friends, one of them mentioned a radio interview in regards what not to talk about during a dinner party. After determining this was NOT her polite ways of saying she wished I'd stop talking about various things, we hooted and hollered about what the list actually included. Our dinner companion couldn't remember all of the interview details or the interviewee's name but remembered just enough to know that the list lady found dull and self-indulgent behavior inappropriate for the dinner party. This concerned me, as I'm mundane, gauche, inappropriate and self-indulgent every day of my life. 

My take on inappropriate, gauche dinner discussion is either embrace it....or, get new friends!! Why not talk about subjects that are deemed not appropriate as subject matter for ANY conversation? What if none of us talked about poop? How would we know what was good or bad, normal or not, terrifying or mundane? What if there is corn in your poop? Don't you want to tell someone? I want to tell someone, especially if I haven't eaten corn in months. What if you made the perfect morning swirly? If you can't take a camera phone photo (to post on Facebook, of course), at least tell someone. What if you poop and when you look down there is nothing there? I always want to hear a good "ghost poop" story.

Here's a semi-sorta list of topics of which not to speak when at a dinner gathering, along with my thoughts about said list. It does not include all the topics off-topic but you get the idea. By the time you are done reading, I KNOW you will want to invite me to all your parties.

Apologies to the list lady and the broadcasting radio station. I have no idea about either topic, I think I won't talk about not knowing any of this as not knowing this sounds like something off-topic for a dinner party. Whoever she is, I bet her facebook status updates are REALLY boring....nothing like this: 

As I am here to educate readers and save all from certain embarrassment at the next dinner party, I suggest you ignore this list lady and listen to me.

Sleep: What's wrong with talking about a bad night's sleep? Or, a really good night's sleep? It is important to know if someone slept well or not. First of all, it might explain those giant black bags under their eyes. Secondly, maybe you know a good drug or liquor that will help people sleep. What if someone needs a new mattress? Maybe you are an expert on that "number" mattress. Maybe you are looking to sell your bed frame. Perhaps you have information on bed bugs--everyone needs to know about bed bugs. The only time I don't speak about sleeping is when one of the dinner guests is sleeping. No need to talk about anything to someone who is sleeping. I find it a whole lot worse to be sleeping at the dinner party than talking about your bad night's sleep due to unrelenting hot flashes. 

Dreams: Oh, to have everyone talk about dreams. As a therapist, I wish everyone would talk about their dreams so I could secretly diagnose them...Crazy or not so crazy? I'll be the judge of that.

Diets: If we're inviting you over (which will almost never happen for dinner as we don't cook unless forced at gunpoint) or going to dinner with you, it is important I know if the guests are lacto-intolerant, gluten-free, paleo-tonic, kosher, semi-kosher, pretend-to-be kosher, vegan, peanut-restricted, raw-diet-only and/or diabetic-laden persons. What if they don't like chocolate? If I talk about it and they disclose they don't like or eat chocolate, I will know to un-invite them. As for talking about weight loss or other non-dinner-party-invitation-diet topics, I say we honor such discussion. I want to know if someone found the secret to youth via a nutri-blended concoction which includes berries from a third-world country, is currently in the bulimic stage of their eating disorder or knows how to include ice cream at every meal.

Also, I find it imperative that all dinner guests recognize the importance of NOT putting ketchup on their hot dogs. As one who was raised in the land of no ketchup, I daresay this is VERY important dinner conversation. And, for god's sake, get rid of that stupid brown mustard. Although not half as gauche as ketchup on a hot dog, brown mustard is wrong. If you are in Illinois, you eat yellow mustard. If you are a Cheesehead living in Illinois, you eat yellow mustard or you go back to north of the Cheddar Curtain Yellow mustard, not ketchup. Take that, dinner list lady.

Health: Okay, you know where I stand on this one. EVERYONE should share stories about their first colonoscopy. Everyone. Issues/questions/concerns/ideas/stories about poop and general health conditions must be honored, especially if the conversation is held by persons over the age of 45. Photos of procedures are encouraged. What fun is this lady making this list? She must be a really boring attendee at dinner parties. If Oprah can talk about her "va-jay-jay" on national TV, we can talk about our bunions.

Periods: Why on earth was this lady thinking about her period? Probably because she was having hers. I vote we talk about menstruation, peri-menopause and menopause at any given moment, provided squeamish men are in attendance and/or a hot flash is in progress.

Money: I suppose it is best not to talk about money, religion or politics but that really leaves topics like bad TV sit-coms and your favorite car wax to contemplate. I say, If you have it, flaunt it. If you don't, get some. If you have money to share, share it with me because I'm willing to talk about it. So not gauche.

Routes: The list lady finds that talking about the route you took to the dinner party to be inappropriate fodder for the party. Why would that be? It's the perfect ice breaker. Other guests might have endured the same construction, detour, blinding weather. They might have experienced the loss of GPS signal, just like you, leaving them terrified. What if you are a rich and famous star who had trouble finding the party? I'd love to hear about that. You put your pants on one leg at a time, just like me. Who doesn't want to know someone rich and famous got lost along the way to your gauche dinner party? I'd like it even better if a map or a photo of the GPS-induced route is included as part of the discussion. If you have an actual map (you know, old school Rand-McNally map), I will probably ask your hand in marriage, as there is nothing better than a "real" map.  Nothing.

If I had it my way, all dinner parties would include discussion about chocolate, bodily functions, Netflix shows and mystery hair sprouting as time goes on. I would encourage talking about the next meal while eating the current meal. I would encourage anything that makes people laugh, cry, argue. I would love to talk about the pros & cons of Madonna going on another world tour. As long as they keep eating and have a great time, who cares what they are talking about? 

My final thoughts are this: We live in America, home of the proud, free and brave. We have freedom of speech, so speak of what you will at dinner parties, no matter the location, no matter the meal. Whether you are in a progressive city or a backwater swamp, speak as you will. 

Of course, if you are in doubt about this, just remember:

Ooze Joy, Choose Joy

Last week, I had to give a talk at church. I know, I know--that ruins my reputation just saying that. Well, someone has to talk when the master pastor is away. Anyway, I decided to talk about "joy." Not a person named Joy; rather, the feeling/being of joy. (I do know a woman named Joy, who actually fits her name quite nicely. Funny how that happens.)

I thought I'd share some excerpts with you, mainly because I want you to have some joy. 

Everyone should have some joy.

[Side note to the Not-so-joyous-folk: I'd venture to say you are thinking this blog is going to suck if you are not feeling at least a wee bit of joy at this particular moment. Fear not. We all have joy hiding deep down inside. It may be on vacation or furlow or in a different time zone right now but I promise joy is still within the depths of your very being. Don't be skipping this blog if you are in a bad mood or grieving or so sad you can't see straight. You can read this and keep scowling, crying, shaking, lamenting. It's okay. Joy will wait for you.]

...Joy is defined as a feeling of great happiness, of great delight. To rejoice, be elated, be filled with jubilation. It is a source or cause of great delight. We speak of glee, of an underlying truth, a feeling from the soul. Most of us can think of things that have brought us great joy or of a time we experienced joy. Even at the darkest of times, joy hangs around the corner and waits for us to count the smallest of our blessings.

Joy is not frivolous. It is a need.

(I love that.)

Joy lives and moves within our very being.  

Joy is both a state of mind and orientation of the heart.

Mother Teresa said, "Joy is prayer. Joy is strength. Joy is love. Joy is a net of love by which you can catch souls."

Joy is about passion and enthusiasm. One of my favorite authors is Jack Canfield. In his book, The Success Principles, he notes “no doubt you have known or have met people who are passionate about life and enthusiastic about their work. They can’t wait to get up in the morning and get started. They are eager and energetic. They are filled with purpose and totally committed to their mission. This passion comes from loving and enjoying work. It comes from doing what you were born to do. It comes from following your heart and trusting your joy as a guide.”

Joy, to me, is about doing things, about events, about people, about feelings. Joy is not about material things.  Joy is not in getting a bigger or better or house. Joy is alive—it is celebrating, communicating, sharing and giving.

Joy is an event.  

It is the little things in everyday life—little things which are really the big things—that bring me joy. The wife always says that I’m a simple girl and perhaps that I find the most joy in the simplest of things. Actually, I seem to find the most joy via food.  Chick-a-hello’s Fruit fluff brings me unimaginable joy. While on vacation last week, I ate the most delicious, most amazing, by far the best-ever veggie burger—it was so good that I did not speak one word during that meal nor did I share one bite. It was a happening, not a meal.

The wife's Lemon Cornmeal Cake brings tears to my eyes. 

Weeding uninterrupted for an hour brings me profound joy. Going to work so I may serve those in need or doing something—even the simplest of things—for someone who is unable to do so--reiterates how much giving leads to a most wonderful ignition of joy. It borders on ridiculous how much I love what I do for a living. It brings me great joy to work with the people who cross my path. All this brings joy bubbling up to the surface. 

Joy may be found in using your good china for a weekend carry-out dinner or when talking to a five year old about why the sky is blue instead of some other color. I invite all of us to contemplate what joy means—AND BRINGS—to you.

Personally, I can’t watch Ellen DeGeneres dance without experiencing ridiculous amounts of joy.

James Dillet Freeman wrote “to enjoy things is not to possess them or to be possessed by them but to USE them. The joy of anything is in the use of it.” He writes, “The joy is not to have a beautiful dress in your closet, but to wear the dress to make the day or evening colorful and bright and interesting to you and your friends or to even give it away when you will not wear it. The joy is not to have a book upon a shelf, neat and perfect in its shining clean dust jacket, but to read the book and rejoice in its information or its inspiration, even to scribble in its margin, or lend to friends to read, even friends who never return it. Things are made for life, not life made for things.”

I invite you to consider what brings you great joy and then go do it, find it be it. Don’t wait to use it, to find it, to be it.

Give thanks for everything, for Gratitude and joy go hand in hand.

And, thus ended my spiritually-inspired excerpts. See? Not so bad, not too preachy.

Writing this blog brings me joy. Thinking of all you hanging out in the Addiverse brings me joy. My dogs bring me profound joy. The wife is a ball of joy. Chocolate IS joy. The birds in the back yard bring joy on wings.

Make your own ode to Joy today.

Hot Dog, We're On the Road

Update, Addiverse friends: the alphabet soup presentation went swimmingly. If you've ever given a presentation or taught a class, you know that some days are better than others--the wife calls it "being off your game" when it doesn't go as well as previous lessons/lectures/presentations. I can confidently say that I was on my game that day. Thank you, baby Jesus--I love when that happens.

Before my head gets too big and explodes all over the Addiverse, I best move on to the topic at hand: being on the road. The wife and I have been traveling, taking two road trips as part of our summer antics. I love June. It is by far my favorite month of the year. As far as I'm concerned, it's the perfect time to travel--the days are super-long, the bugs aren't as big as airplanes yet, the height of the summer season hasn't crashed upon us yet, things are still green and pretty and lush.

Our first trip was to the north woods of the Cheddarlands for a wedding. We made a two-car convoy and made sure eight people and their luggage got to the church on time. We stayed in a cabin on a little lake, safely tucked in what I attest was the middle of nowhere.

It was so nowhere that I thought we were in Minnesota but later learned we were in Wisconsin. Now, THAT's nowhere!

As the wife and I do not stay anywhere without indoor plumbing, it is safe for you to assume that there was indoor plumbing. It is also safe to assume that we did not stay somewhere rustic. We don't do rustic. Rustic is a three star hotel.

It was beautiful, fun was had by all and the brides looked stunning.....although, I must say that offering to stay in the bunk beds so others could have the full sized beds was a bad idea--note to self: before acting selflessly, consult with the wife.

I will offer that the food truck was amazing. You know I am all about the food. I liked that the tapas-spewing truck featured a masked wrestler. How could I resist doing an imitation?

Okay, so that's a napkin on my face. This was a spontaneous happening. One does what one must do.

The second leg of our trip consisted of jumping in the Gaybors' car and heading to Kansas City. No food truck was featured but I can attest that much food was consumed.

If you've never been to Kansas City, I say: go. I have never been to a friendlier place....and, it was mighty tasty to boot. The friendliness bordered on being over-the-top ridiculous. Everyone smiles at you, says hi, is polite. Cars stop on a dime when you step off the curb. People let each other "in" when leaving a parking lot after a big event. People said, "excuse me" and "thank you" and "after you." It was kind of freaky at times. Try as we might, we really couldn't find anyone blatantly mean, grumpy or rude.

It was kinda like being at Disneyworld, where all the workers are fun and friendly and smiley and helpful and drinking the Mickey kool-aid. Well, maybe more like two Disneyworlds at one time--after all, there are TWO Kansas Cities. (I'll stick to the one in Missouri, no offense to Kansas.)

I'm sure everything is not sunshine and rainbows in KC but they did a good job hiding the yuckies while we were there. For instance, there were a whole lot of homeless people in Kansas City but even they looked pretty happy and certainly didn't interfere with our fun.

The food. Oh, the food. You may think Kansas City is all about meat products. Vegetarians, do not be afraid to enter the land of carnivores! I had the best, and I mean THE BEST veggie burger I've ever had in my entire life while in Kansas City.

The wife asked for a bite. She did not get a bite. I was not sharing this work of art.

I cannot describe what makes something the best. It is something that must be experienced. It cannot be put into words. The gaybors were stunned--I did not utter one word during dinner as I was too busy being enveloped in this most delicious culinary orgasm.

If that wasn't enough....the next day, I enjoyed what was BY FAR the best veggie dog I've ever had in my life. I dare not exaggerate. One does not exaggerate about a veggie dog, as those things aren't exactly tasty tidbits of healthy living. We were at a Royals game (front row, behind the dug out, baby!) and I thought it'd be worth a gander to see if they had veggie dogs. There's nothing like a hot dog at a ball game, so I was mighty happy to see they were selling veggie dogs AND there was YELLOW mustard, not that stupid brown mustard. (Dang cheeseheads, always using brown mustard. What is wrong with you?) There was no one ever in line at the concession stand, so there was never any waiting. It was like having your very own concession worker. I'm telling ya, it was weirdly wonderful.

When I ordered the veggie dog, I saw a bit of concern cross the cashier's face. "It'll take 15 minutes for a veggie dog." Since I wasn't in a hurry and I wasn't starving and as I was in a good mood from all this friendliness, I had no issue waiting. For the record, it only took 10 minutes. Usually, people nuke a veggie dog and call it a day. Not this place. They carefully placed it on a grill (most definitely tainted by some meat-by-product-laden sausage of one type or another) and cooked it the old fashioned way. It was bigger than your standard "are you kidding" small, chemical-looking veggie dog--in fact, it spilled over both sides of the bun--so, that made it even MORE worth the wait. I smothered that puppy in yellow mustard, took a bite and....

....I swear a tear came to my eye.

Never has a tastier veggie hot dog crossed these lips. I doubt another one ever will.

(One should never think too long about hot dogs, even veggie ones. For the "real" thing: Parts is parts and really no one knows what parts are parts of those parts. For the veggie kind, it's a long list of chemicals used on chemicals to make a fake chemical product. The truth hurts.)

Kansas City offers lots of sight-seeing, plenty of shopping, varied professional-level sporting teams (soccer, football and baseball, just to name a few), a city market and even gambling (if you don't mind hanging out on a smoky river boat). It seemed to be clean for a larger-sized city. We didn't run into any traffic jams and we never had any trouble with parking (a huge bone of contention for me). I suppose I could whine about the hotel staff but why bother?

I sound like a damn commercial. I guess I had a good time.

I'm not sure if it's kid-friendly, as we didn't have any kids with us nor did I pay attention to that kind of thing. They do have Dunkin' Donuts, so that greatly improves its overall score. The wife was impressed that they had a Church's Chicken (a story for a different day) and the gaybors were pleased to see a Jack in the Box. (Obviously, we do not have such places where we live.) The taxes on our purchases kinda sucked (almost 10% on the clothes I scored at the outlet mall), but that's not much to complain about when surrounded by such nice people. We did see some of the "more-poverty-ridden" areas, so it's not all so shiny and bubbly. It was super hot and I'm guessing they have a pretty hot and steamy summer year after year. I can't speak about if it's dog-friendly or not, as we didn't have the dogs along for the trip and we really didn't see that many dogs.....

....well, except for at the ball game, as it was "Bark at the Park" when we were there. There were dogs everywhere. Dogs got to walk the stadium warning track, hang out with their friends and even stay for the game. It was blazing hot (90 degrees at the start of the game, got hotter as the game went on), so I'm thinking there were hot dogs, veggie dogs AND very hot, four-legged dogs.

Any city that has veggie dogs and dog days at the ball park is okay with me.

The icing on the cake? Taking a potty break at the "World's Largest Truck Stop" on the way home." If you see something called the "world's largest," you should ALWAYS stop and take a gander. Always.

It was pretty impressive, especially for a truck stop. I find it hard to believe it is the WORLD'S largest, as it's a pretty big world out there, but who am I to argue? It seemed pretty large. I was able to pee as well as purchase some coffee, oatmeal and other sugar-laden products. I could have purchased a new outfit, a state-themed thimble, a sundae or even a VHS. I admit to being rather giddy while stopping at this place.....

Bottom line: Give me a road trip, the world's largest anything and a yellow mustard-smothered veggie dog and I'm good to go.

Just keep that brown mustard far away from me.....and, don't offer to take the bunk beds without talking first to the wife.

Alphabet Soup

Being the professional queer that I am, I've been asked to do a presentation for a local organization. I'm used to speaking on many a topic and enjoy the opportunity to yip in front of others, so this request wasn't really a surprise. It's been a while since I've spoken on this topic, so I knew some preparation would be needed. In an effort to make sure I'm still at least a wee bit relevant, I decided to ask a younger co-worker for some input. Suffice it to say she is over a quarter of a century younger than me; thus, I thought she might be able to balance my potentially-severely outdated information.

After talking to her for only a few minutes, I realize: hot damn, I'm older than I thought. I'm still swimming through that alphabet soup that youngster poured on top of my head. I'm not sure I know what the hell she was talking about and I'm less confident about speaking in front of the group.

Me: "Hey, can I ask you a few questions? I'm doing a talk for [insert name of organization here] next week on working with the gay and lesbian population in the counseling setting."

[If you are wondering why I chose her to be my reference source, suffice it to say she has made it quite well known that she wants to work with the GLBTIQ-EIEIOetc community and she has a girlfriend. I figured that qualified her in some capacity.]

Alphabet Soup Grrrrl (now to be known as ASG): Looks VERY excited. "Sure!

Me: "I thought I better ask--I don't want to provide outdated information."

ASG: looks at me quizzically.  "Okay." She sits down at the table, all smiles.

Me: "I'm going to talk about provided counseling to the GL...GB....LGB....aw hell, I don't know the letters....you know what I mean."

ASG: "L-G-B-T-I-Q-A?"

Me: "Yeah, that sounds about right." (Long pause)  "I-Q-A?:

ASG: (tips head to side, seemingly to ponder if I'm teasing her or not): "Intersexed, questioning, asexual."

Me: "Oh!"  [I think to myself--I thought the "A" was for "ally." See what I know?"

ASG: "I refer to it as alphabet soup."

Me: "Well, that makes total sense to me. Alphabet soup. And, you? What letter are you in the soup?"

ASG: "I refer to myself as blind."

Me:  (stare at her. This is a new one on me. Please tell me the "B" stands for "bisexual," not blind because I do not know what the hell she is talking about.) "Blind?"

ASG: "I'm blind to all that. I'm blind to sexual orientation, gender, gender identity. I'm blind to labels."

Me: "Blind."

ASG: "Blind."

This leads to an in-depth discussion about things of which I've only seen on various tabloids or Oprah's network...she's babbling about pansexual, pansgendered, Cisgender, asexual, transgendered, omnigendered, omnisexual (which, as far as I can tell is the same or at least really close to meaning the same thing as pansexual), transexual, transvestite, blah blah blah. My head is spinning.

I'm still stuck on the fact that she calls herself blind.

I consider how this is a label to say she doesn't see labels, which is a label in itself. 

It then dawns on me. I can't resist asking: "Do you know who Melissa Etheridge is?"

ASG: "No." (silence as she's thinking) "Melissa who?"

Me: "What about the Indigo Girls?

ASG: (blank stare)

Me: "What kind of lesbian are you?"

As soon as I say this, I remember she is blind and has yet to identify herself to me as a lesbian. Even so, if she is sleeping with a woman, I think it's her obligation to know who Melissa Etheridge is.

Me: "Okay, so how did you meet your--er--the person you're dating?

ASG: "On match.com."

Me:  (Wow. I am old, old, old. Who knew you could find a same-sex date on a website?) "Not on a softball field?"

I crack myself up. She doesn't look quite as amused as I feel. I can tell I'm on the verge of insulting her.

ASG: "I play rugby."

Me: "Huh. Rugby. I've never played rugby.  (pause, consider the alphabet)  "I can't tell who's gay and not gay anymore. It used to be so easy. Now every girl on the planet has long hair and wears pony tails and has those headband things."

Try to explain this statement to a blind 25 year old. Try to explain stereotypes so they sound like an okay thing, not a horrible thing. I do a lousy job at doing this. The more I talk, the deeper the hole I dig.

Me: I decide to go old school. "Um, so does stone butch mean anything to you? What about bears? Do you know about bears?"

I can tell she is thinking about the Chicago Bears.

ASG: "Well, I have heard of butch and fem."

Me: (sigh. No, no, no. This is not where I was going and this is certainly not what I hope she thinks the old people are thinking about.) "Please tell me you know who Ellen DeGeneres is."

ASG: (gets a big smile--her face lights up) "I love Ellen!"

Thank god we have at least that much in common. I decide this is a very good place to stop.

I'm going to pray that my audience is filled with a bunch of old people, not blind people...unless they are blind-blind, as in really blind (like our dog). I have no prayer if a bunch of youngsters are staring at me.

If nothing else, I can dance like Ellen. Everyone--no matter their place in the alphabet soup--loves Ellen.

*******************************************************************
P.S. I've got to get this girl to listen to Melissa Etheridge. It's my obligation to the community. I must save her from her certain doom.
********************************************************************

Convertulations

Now that the conversion has been completed, I thought I'd share the play-by-play. I dedicate this to anyone who is feeling left out. We had no idea anyone would think twice about this conversion. You didn't miss anything. I swear.

Monday, June 2nd rolled around. I went to work as usual and the wife stayed home to lounge around in her pajamas and fuzzy pink slippers.

Maybe not. I did go to work but the wife does not lounge nor does she own pink slippers. The wife is never one to lounge. I can't even picture her lounging.

Monday, June 2nd rolls=ed around. It was the first weekday that conversions of civil unions can be converted into marriage within the great state of Illinois. The wife and I have yet to decide when we are going to get converted. The wife decided to spend the day cleaning the gutters and I go to work.

While I'm sitting at my desk (and the wife is on a ladder at home, pulling disgusting chunks of unidentified wild life out of the gutters), I began to get antsy. I can't stop thinking about getting married. I'm wondering why we didn't pick a date. I'm wondering why I thought not going today was a good idea. I'm wondering when we are going to go. I'm wondering why we can go at this very moment.

Monday, June 2nd rolled around and I can't work because I'm too busy thinking about getting converted. The more I think about it, the more antsy I get. How the heck am I suppose to listen to people talk about their woes when all I can think of is getting converted?

I decide to go home for lunch; after all, I have to eat some time and I have to make sure the wife hasn't tumbled off the ladder. I zip through the fourteen minute drive and return home to find the wife standing on a ladder, still cleaning the gutters.

It's a big project.

I want to tell her, not ask, about conversion....which is not a good idea--one should ask, not tell, when it comes to converting....but, you know how I roll. I stare at her, smiling. I am a nervous wreck because I can't stand waiting one more minute. She's on the ladder wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

Monday, June 2nd rolled around and I wanted to get converted. I don't want to wait. I'm not sure I can wait. After all, I NEVER thought I'd see the chance for conversion in my lifetime. Never. Why am I going to wait for something like this? What is wrong with right now?

I ask her if she will go get converted. She asks if she can change her clothes. I say "no." Who cares what we're wearing? She protests--after all, she's been cleaning gutters all morning and it's a billion degrees out by now. She's wearing a gutter-blobbed, sweaty t-shirt and some shorts. The wife points this out. I tell her I don't care, as this is the real us. No one is going to see us or take our photo or write an article about our wardrobe choices for the conversion.

I do not give her time to change her clothes.

I drive us to the county clerk's office. There is no one else around--no line of gay people trying to convert, no line of protesters, no line of photographers. We were even able to get a parking space right in front of the door. We enter the building and stare at one of the people behind the desk.

Clerk Minion: "Can I help you?"

Me: "We're here to convert our civil union to marriage."

Clerk Minion: "Are you Maria?"

Me: [confused look]. "Um, no."

Clerk Minion: "Maria?"

Me: "Huh?"

Clerk Minion [looks at wife]: "Are you Maria? The 1:30 appointment?"

The wife: shakes her head in a "no" fashion.

Clerk Minion: "what time is your appointment?"

Me: [internal panic. Appointment? What appointment? Dang it! I called Friday! That's it--I will tell her I called on Friday because I did.] "I called on Friday. They said we didn't need an appointment to convert our civil union in to a marriage."

Two other clerk minions stop working and look up at the three of us. I can tell they are watching to see what our personal clerk minion is going to do. They aren't smiling--they are staring, serious looks etched across their desk-tied beings.

I can tell the Clerk Minion is annoyed but I can't tell if it is because we don't have an appointment or because neither one of us is Maria. (For the record, Maria is late. It's 1:40 PM and her appointment was 1:30 PM. Screw Maria. I can be Maria if that will help.)

I figure she is going to send us on her way.

Clerk Minion: "So, you want to convert your civil union to a marriage. Is that right?"

Me: Yes!

I sense the Clerk Minion is experiencing an internal war--should she help us or tell us to come back? Her peers are still watching.

Clerk Minion: "We're booked through the entire week."

Me: [heart sinks but I refuse to give in that easily. I put our license on the counter.] "I have our civil union license, if that will help."

The skies part, the baby Jesus swoops down upon us and the Clerk Minion decides she will do this. She will convert us, appointment be damned. Thank you, Maria for missing your appointment!

The Clerk Minion looks at civil union license, starts to confirm the information in the computer, starts entering some data, talking aloud the entire way. She's giggling as she reviews this and that. We can't tell if she's laughing because she's nervous, because she's never done this before, if she's enjoying the process, if someone is tickling her from under the counter, if she's been drinking or if she's happy someone is converted.

Clerk Minion: "Let's see--you want to keep your civil union date, right?"

Me: "Right!"

Clerk Minion: [still talking to self, aloud] "June 21, 2012. Okay..."

Me: "Um, 2011."

Clerk Minion looks up, puzzled.

Me: "Our civil union was in 2011."

Clerk Minion:  [looks at me, then looks at the computer screen. She is laughing even more now.] "Thank goodness I'm talking out loud! Let me see if I have the right people!"

Clerk minion realizes she is entering the wrong date. With a few clicks on the keyboard, we are transported to 2011.

She hits the "print" button and wa-la. We are now converted.

She hands us the license, which looks identical to the civil union license except for "civil union" has been replaced with the word "marriage." That's it. That is the only change. Our marriage date is the same as our civil union date.

Although we are standing in front of the Clerk minion on June 2, 2014, we are magically married as of June 21, 2011.

No fanfare. No filling out of forms. No cost. No throwing of rice. No need for a witness. Clerk Minion didn't even look at our driver's licenses. This is the actual license--we don't even have to wait for the thing to arrive in the mail. It's right here, in my hands.

I thank her for allowing us to convert without an appointment. She's still giggling.

The wife high five and return home. I decide to take four hours of vacation time so I don't have to work for the rest of the day and the wife returns to cleaning the gutters. We are so romantic, don't you think?

We decide to do what the rest of the world now does to announce the big things in life: We change our status on Facebook.

I'm not kidding.

That's how the real world works these days. Relationship status is not real until it's been posted on Facebook.

We hadn't told a soul about doing this on this day because we hadn't planned on doing it on this day. We hadn't picked a date at all. We hadn't told anyone anything because there was nothing to tell. The wife was cleaning the gutters and I was at work, for Pete's sake. Besides, are we really going to call everyone and say, "Hi, we're getting converted today?" No. We are not going to do this, for many reasons.

The comments and "likes" started flying in. It was magical and very confirming.  This conversion thing is going well. I start to think it's rather pathetic that we are using Facebook to announce such a monumental event but it is a great way to alert the masses. Who has time for calls and texts when there is Facebook?

Hell, even cheerleaders from high school are giving us the hive fives of Facebook. Thank you, allies. We would not be converted if it weren't for people like you.

Suffice it to say some people do not "like" or comment on the relationship status change post. The wife is very saddened to see a particular someone (who shall remain anonymous) has not acknowledged the status change. Volumes is "said" by this. It is not a surprise but it still hurts the wife, nonetheless. We talk about how some people will NOT be happy to hear we are married, as they are opposed to gay marriage. It's ruining the sanctity of their marriage. The person who has not commented would not be in favor of our conversion, so it is telling, this silence of hers.

We decide to ignore her and savor the hundreds of "likes" our relationship status has received in such a short amount of time.  We can't let one or two people poop on our conversion.

Side note: For the record, I did text my parents. There are some people who deserve respect--a text instead of finding out on Facebook.

I know--I'm pathetic.

Side side note: my mother is quite hilarious, as evidenced by her text.

Side side side note: No 52 year old should ever publicly announce the ability of producing a child technically still exists. What can I say? I'm gifted in the egg production department.

Monday, June 2nd rolled around. It's the most important day of our lives that doesn't really exist. Nowhere on our new license does it say June 2, 2014. Nowhere on any legal documents does it say June 2, 2014. This day doesn't really exist as anything in our lives except that it is the most important day. We can't "prove" that we had this conversion on June 2nd, 2014. We can only "prove" we were married on June 21, 2011. We weren't married on June 21, 2011 but now we are. How weird is that? How do I 'prove" to insurance companies that this qualifying event happened on June 2, 2014? I can't. Not really. I'm not sure even the county clerk can prove it. I was there, the wife was there, the clerk minion was there. My four hours of vacation time are documented but how do they know I was getting converted on June 2, 2014? For all they know, I was cleaning gutters with the wife.

I guess I'll have to show the insurance companies my Facebook page. After all, everything is official once it has been confirmed on Facebook.
********************************************************************

Got Conversion?

Tomorrow is the first day gay couples in the land of Lincoln can legally marry. Go figure. I still can't believe it. I will see it and I won't believe it. The whole thing is surreal.

(Remember: No matter your stance on this, the Addiverse loves you. So, feel free to agree, disagree, spew religious hate, do a naked pagan dance, wear a rainbow flag. We honor all in the Addiverse.)

It appears those civilized in Illinois civil unions can "upgrade" their status to marriage with the completion of a form & the presentation of identification. As long as the civilized couple upgrades within the first year, it's free and requires no divorce.

Of course, both parties must be present to win.

It's so surreal and foreign to us that the wife and I have yet to decide when we are going to upgrade. Since the marriage date is retroactive to the civil union date, it doesn't really matter as long as we upgrade within the year.It's not like we're going to be showered with work benefits. Heck, my place of employment isn't sure they are going to honor the marriage. (Don't even get me started about that--I'll fight that fight when it fully and finally surfaces.)

Because I'm skeptical about the whole process (and because I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around this whole concept), I called the county clerk yesterday to confirm if an appointment needs to be set to "upgrade" our civil union:

Me: "Hi! I'm calling to ask if people in civil unions need to set an appointment to upgrade to marriage?"

Clerk-minion: "Are you talking about the conversion?"

Me: Stunned silence.....then, burst into laughter.

Me: "Did you say conversion?"

Clerk-minion: "Yes. (Pause.) Are you asking about the conversion of civil union to marriage?"

Me: Still stunned. Who the hell thought to call this a conversion? "Yes. Do we need an appointment to do this?"

Clerk-minion (sounding a bit irritated, why I do not know): "No, just your ID for the conversion process."

Me: "Do we need to do bring our civil union license?"

Clerk-minion (sounding a bit more irritated): "No, we have that on record."

The clerk-minion was in no mood for small talk or other conversion conversation, so I thanked her and hung up. I then laughed even louder.

Whoever thought to call it a conversion is either a genius, an asshole or someone with a good sense of humor. 

For those of you scratching your head, wondering why it would be weird/funny/sick/genius to consider civil union-to-marriage a "conversion," allow me to explain. When I think of conversion as applied to anything sexual-orientation-related, I think of reparative therapy--convert the gays to straights.

Conversion therapy.

There is no way I can think of anything else beside this. As both a therapist and as queen of the lesbians, I tie conversion to making someone straight. Oh, of course you can convert other things: you can convert metric to English measurements. You can convert various types of currency. You can convert temps from Celsius to Fahrenheit.

This begs the question: when the wife and I walk into the county clerk's office to be converted, will one of us walk out as a heterosexual male? Can you just imagine it:

Me (to the wife, as exit the county clerk's office): "Hey! When did I grow this moustache? When did I get this---oh my god....."

The wife: "She converted you. Don't you remember?"

Me: "What? Converted me? I thought we were converting our civil union to marriage. I'm converted to a heterosexual male? Dang, I would've preferred to be a heterosexual female."

The wife: "No, I was converted into a heterosexual female. YOU'RE the heterosexual male."

Me: "Why do I have to be the guy? YOU be the guy?"

The wife: "You're older. You lost by default."

Me: "Why didn't we both convert into heterosexual females?"

The wife: "Because if that happened, we wouldn't want to get married and thus we'd need a divorce instead of a marriage. That's too expensive."

See? Conversion equals conversion of sexual orientation. I can't help it. I'd much prefer of converting money, measurements, temps, but this is what I think of: be ye converted from sinful queer to god-fearing straight. Praise the baby Jesus, get behind thee, Satan!

We will see what happens when we do actual go get converted. I highly doubt the clerk-minion will offer to take our photo.

Convert-ulations to all Illinois couples who will be converting in the next few months. 

Remember: Home Depot does have a gift registry. Just sayin.'