I was up last night--purposefully--until 4 PM. As we get up at 4:50 AM, I almost went to bed when I was about to get up. I served as MJagger's designated driver for her going away party, so I had to wait until she was done partying before I got to go home. I envisioned 2 AM, not 4 AM. She and a bunch of party-goers decided breakfast was a must after a night of drinking. Tacos. They wanted tacos, so tacos they got. I feel like I got hit by a truck. I cannot imagine how all the party-goers feel this morning. More about this in a dot.
Freckles is unknowingly dropping little poops around the house. She still barks to go outside when a "real" poop on is on the way, but for some reason, little milk duds fall out now and then. It's happening on a more frequent basis, so I'm thinking this is not a good sign. I had a talk with her three years ago (when she could still hear) and told her when she started peeing and pooping in the house, it was curtains for her. I explained that I would not be spending thousands of dollars to keep her alive, as I had already done that once. I reminded her that she had had a great life and that she lived better than most humans. I assured her that I would not rush the process and that one poop in the house was not an issue. Now that marbles are falling out on a more frequent basis, I am keeping a closer eye. I'm hoping this is not a case of "I don't know what's going on back there and so I'm pooping." She still eats like a pig, is a fat sausage, gets around despite being basically blind and deaf and is a champion in the happiness department. Oh sure, she needs eye drops five times a day and she smells like a dirty vacuum and she has all these awful growths on her skin. She's old. We all get growths and smell and need things like eye drops. But, pooping. Pooping little marbles around the house is not part of the deal. (She also peed on the wood floor last week. You can imagine how happy the wife was about that.)
As for Lucy, she gets wibbly-er and wobbly-er with each passing day. Her legs on on their own mission. She too remains seemingly happy and the tumor hasn't grown much, so we focus on the positive and enjoy each passing day. She has found her way into sleeping in our bed, which is something the wife assured me would NEVER happen. Lucy sleeps like a baby when she's in the bed. It's a whole lot better when she stays up licking all night--for some reason, she doesn't lick when she's allowed in the human place of sleeping. If she sleeps, I sleep because the wife sleeps. When Lucy is licking, the wife is always whacking me to tell Lucy to stop it. No wonder I wake up exhausted some days. I'm up all night yelling at the dog because the wife is yelling at me.
Back to the reason I was up until 4 AM. MJagger's going away party was event to remember. Well, I will remember it, as I was sober. I'm not sure who will remember what because a lot of alcohol was involved. It started out innocently enough but kept getting a little rowdier, louder, naughtier and drunker as time went on. At one point, I got punched in the face with some guy's elbow. It was totally an accident but it hurt like a biscuit. My glasses got smooshed and I was seeing stars. It took the breath out of me. I was so glad he didn't punch me in the teeth. I like my teeth. Anyway, the guy was very apologetic but I couldn't see who it was because (1) my glasses were smooshed, and, (2) my eyes were watering so badly that I couldn't have seen even if I had my glasses on. Some of the friends in our party thought I got punched on purpose, which was problematic because they were looking for a fight. Dear god, I am way too old to be around drunk people who want to get into a fight. It took a lot of repeated insistence that the guy didn't do it on purpose at all.
Then, MJagger decided that it was time....for no known reason, she decided she needed to stick her face in a now-ex-co-worker's cleavage. MJagger is mighty straight, so this is very confusing to me. She had been talking about doing it, but I thought she was kidding. I mean, she's never done anything like that so why she would start now? I did a pretty good job of keeping an eye on her all night--after all, that was my assigned task--but, I was unable to intervene when she decided to plow ahead and nestle her entire face in the large, voluptuous ta-tas that were in front of her. There was no warning. BAM! Face in cleavage. She got a hold of those puppies and gave a champion-level motor boat.
I must admit that it was the hit of the party. Straight girl gone wild. What more could anyone want in a party?
Looking for a fight, slurring words, hanging on each other, bad ideas and ta-ta diving. Affirms why I don't drink. I'm glad MJagger is a happy drunk. There was only one incident that I thought might lead to an issue for me--she decided she was going to walk home. At 3 AM, By herself. In a dress. While in a drunken ta-ta fueled funk. Thankfully, she acquiesced and let me drive her home as planned, but only after she had eaten tacos with the last of the party goers. I won't even try to explain what transpired at the restaurant. Suffice it to say, the F word was included in every sentence.
I woke up this morning with a god-awful headache. As I write this, I feel like I am hung over, which is awful as I hadn't been drinking. How unfair is that? Between getting punched in the face, being up so late, having sinus issues and not getting much sleep, I feel pretty rough. I can't wait to talk to MJagger later today and see how she's doing. Knowing her, she's probably fine. Heck, she might still be drunk.
The wife just walked up to me, holding a small marble of poop in a napkin. Sigh. Another errant poop. Oh, this does not bode well......perhaps I should check out doggie diapers.....
....at least MJagger did not poop or puke on me. That's saying something. I had a barf bag in the car, just in case. She didn't present as a vomit risk, but one never knows. I wasn't prepared for pooping--how does one prepare for that?--so, I'm glad that was not an issue. She didn't pass out so I didn't have to carry her. She agreed to not walk home without too much argument. She was a happy drunk so I didn't have to deal with the ickiness that sometimes arises when alcohol is involved.
MJagger is facing a tremendous amount of stress at this time. Life-straining stress. Drinking doesn't solve anything but it gave her a reprieve for a few hours. She would have celebrated her change of jobs in the same manner had she no stress, but I'm glad things weren't wilder than they were due to the level of stress involved. I put out good thoughts for her and her family. I hope you will, too.
Today, I'm on call. We'll see how that goes. God help me if I have to go out in the middle of the night. I pity the fool that has to see me. I'm sure I'll be a crabby patty beyond compare by that time. Heck, I'm teetering on crabby-patty-ness at this very moment. I think chocolate, ibuprofen and a nap will put my world back in order.
....if you come to our house and find a Milk Dud on the floor, DO NOT EAT IT. I can guarantee it is not a Milk Dud. You have been warned.
************************************************
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Thursday, September 18, 2014
On the Fifty
The wife's fiftieth birthday has swooped down upon us. I can't say she is very thrilled with this; in fact, she is downright not pleased about this event. She's been muttering things like, "I'm past middle age now" and "in twenty years, I'll be 70. We won't even live here by then." Geez, talk about a Debbie Downer. I find 50 to be the new 40. Who has time to calculate ages when there is fun to be had right here, right now?
Thankfully, Master Pastor Reiki (MPR) and Blue Eyes (BE) had the right idea to help the wife start her fifth decade a bit more palatable manner. They gave her the most distracting surprise of her life.
MPR and Blue Eyes asked us months ago (actually, on my birthday in June) to "save" the weekend before the wife's birthday. They said they had a gift for the two of us but we wouldn't get it until the Fall. We did as told and left the details to them. We didn't know what we were doing, if we were going somewhere, what to expect, as very few details--okay, none--were shared. While I didn't think about this twice, the poor wife fretted about it. How was she to prepare if she didn't know what we were doing or where we were going? She had all sorts of questions and worries and distractions going on in that brain of hers. They reassured her that it was nothing big, just "putzy" stuff around town. We'd start with breakfast and go from there. They almost seemed disappointed in whatever was planned, as if they had originally planned something "big" and now it had been watered down. We started to feel bad and assured them that we didn't have to do anything special. It would be fine to putz around town. They reiterated numerous times that the events were "putzy" in nature. They were agreeable to figuring out a way for the wife to watch the Packer Game, as this seemed to be the wife's biggest concern. When asked, they said they didn't think we'd need a dog sitter.
Sunday morning, MPR and BE show up at our door, 15 minutes early, as always--they are always early. The are wearing casual clothing (good), windbreakers zipped up, blue jeans and gym shoes rounding out the outfits.
MPR: walks in, a very serious look on her face. BE is somewhere behind her.
Me: Confused, thinking, "oh no, something's come up, something's wrong."
MPR: grabs my hand. "Now, come here. We have something to tell you."
Me: Uh-oh. My brows furl.
The wife and eye glance at each other. She is thinking something is wrong, too.
The four of us are standing in some weird circle, holding hands.
MPR/BE: unzip jackets.
MPR/BE (together): "WE'RE GOING TO THE PACKERS GAME!"
MPR/BE: Screaming and jumping up and down. They are wearing their Packer Gear under their coats.
Me: Deer in headlights. Huh?
MPR/BE: waving four Packer tickets in our faces, spinning in circles, still screaming.
Me: Still frozen.
The Wife: "SHUT UP!"
MPR and BE: STILL jumping up and down, screaming in delight.
Me/The wife: Our brains have stopped working. We are stunned into stupor by the events unfolding before us.
BE: "You need to pack some clothes and get ready to go to the game. We've got snacks and sodas and waters in the car. We'll go to breakfast, and then we'll go shopping and then we'll get some ice cream and then we'll go to the game!"
More hopping up and down.
Me/The wife: Begin running around like idiots.
For the record, it's tough to pack for a Packers Game without warning. You have to take into consideration the actual weather, the game time weather, in the sun or in the shade weather. It takes the wife a week to plan an outfit for a Packer Game, so asking her to do it within minutes was a pretty big stretch.
MPR: Grab whatever you want and we'll put it in the car.
BE: You can decide when we get there! Just bring a lot of clothes.
Since I've never been to a "warm" Packer game, I envisioned being cold--I made a pile which included my flannel jeans, long underwear and boots. I grabbed my winter fleece and put that on the pile, too. When I looked at the wife, she was fretting over which of four Packer coats to wear. Neither of us could put a coherent sentence together. For some reason, we were yelling at each other during much of the time, but it wasn't in sentences. (Yelling is always oh-so-helpful, don't you think?)
The Wife: (points at my feet as I'm standing in front of the closet) You have your shoes on! Why do you have your shoes on in the house?
Me: Who cares? Why are you worried about my shoes? Just figure out what to wear!
I put on my orange sweatshirt. I pick it because (1) it is hunter orange; and, (2) it is the warmest sweatshirt I own.
The Wife: YOU CAN'T WEAR THAT!
Me: It's hunter orange! There are tons of hunters at the game.
The Wife: Why don't you wear this green-and-gold sweatshirt?
Me: Because it's not warm.
The Wife: You can't wear that!
Me: Well, I'm gonna!
I think about changing sweatshirts but I hate being cold, so orange wins out. I decide to wear my green-and-gold gym shoes, kind of an effort to negate my orange sweatshirt.
The pile of clothing is ridiculous. I don't even bring this many clothes when I go somewhere for a week. MPR and BE encourage us to not worry about it, just put it in the car. All my clothes, the wife's clothes and the four coats (five, if you count my winter fleece) are piled into the vehicle.
As we are getting ready--trying to figure out who can let the dogs out and what else we need to bring--it occurs to me that there is no way possible to squeeze in all the thing they have listed. I check the map app for directions and time of route. It will take us between 3.5 and four hours to get there.
Me: We don't have time to do all those things. I don't even know if we have time for breakfast!
I point out that it will take four hours and that the wife will want to be there by 2:30 at the absolute latest. We'd have to leave town by 10:30 to do that and it's already 9:30 AM. I do some final calculations in my head and announce we can do breakfast as long as we're on the road by 10:30 AM. I point out that the restaurant is right by the tollway, so that will save us about ten minutes--which, at this point, is a very needed thing. It's a really busy restaurant, so I am a bit skeptical. I pray to the Gods of the Grid Iron that the restaurant won't be so busy that it makes us late for the determined schedule.
I shouldn't have worried. Once they learned we were on our way to the Packers Game (BE tells everyone everything), the restaurant people ensured we were seated quickly, served super-fast and that the bill was on the table before we were even done with half our breakfast. We were on the road with time to spare.
The rest of the day, as you can imagine, was sheer delight. The ride was uneventful, the sancks were ridiculous (who includes "Pixies" as a snack for the car?), the weather was perfect (around 60 degrees, a bit cooler in the shade), a free parking spot was secured, brats were consumed and the Packers were victorious. We even got out of town without getting lost (a feat in itself). As is always the case, time zipped by way too quickly.
It's tough (if not impossible) to truly convey the depth of gratitude we feel for this most wonderful surprise; thus, I wrote this blog. I figure publicly stating my thanks has to be a good start. Everyone should experience a surprise like this at least once in a lifetime.
The wife, who HATES surprises, didn't seem to mind this one too much! I think she might be over her hatred for surprises.I hope this amazing event will help convince her that fifty isn't so bad. I find 50 to be fabulous. This year, I'm as fabulous a certain long-haired defense man--my age is his number and I'm all good with that. Come to think of it, the wife's age is another defense guy's number...how can this not be a great year?
Feel free to refer to us as Hawk and Matthews this year. I'm the one with the long flowing locks.
**************************************************************************
Thank you, MPR and BE!
Thankfully, Master Pastor Reiki (MPR) and Blue Eyes (BE) had the right idea to help the wife start her fifth decade a bit more palatable manner. They gave her the most distracting surprise of her life.
MPR and Blue Eyes asked us months ago (actually, on my birthday in June) to "save" the weekend before the wife's birthday. They said they had a gift for the two of us but we wouldn't get it until the Fall. We did as told and left the details to them. We didn't know what we were doing, if we were going somewhere, what to expect, as very few details--okay, none--were shared. While I didn't think about this twice, the poor wife fretted about it. How was she to prepare if she didn't know what we were doing or where we were going? She had all sorts of questions and worries and distractions going on in that brain of hers. They reassured her that it was nothing big, just "putzy" stuff around town. We'd start with breakfast and go from there. They almost seemed disappointed in whatever was planned, as if they had originally planned something "big" and now it had been watered down. We started to feel bad and assured them that we didn't have to do anything special. It would be fine to putz around town. They reiterated numerous times that the events were "putzy" in nature. They were agreeable to figuring out a way for the wife to watch the Packer Game, as this seemed to be the wife's biggest concern. When asked, they said they didn't think we'd need a dog sitter.
Sunday morning, MPR and BE show up at our door, 15 minutes early, as always--they are always early. The are wearing casual clothing (good), windbreakers zipped up, blue jeans and gym shoes rounding out the outfits.
MPR: walks in, a very serious look on her face. BE is somewhere behind her.
Me: Confused, thinking, "oh no, something's come up, something's wrong."
MPR: grabs my hand. "Now, come here. We have something to tell you."
Me: Uh-oh. My brows furl.
The wife and eye glance at each other. She is thinking something is wrong, too.
The four of us are standing in some weird circle, holding hands.
MPR/BE: unzip jackets.
MPR/BE (together): "WE'RE GOING TO THE PACKERS GAME!"
MPR/BE: Screaming and jumping up and down. They are wearing their Packer Gear under their coats.
Me: Deer in headlights. Huh?
MPR/BE: waving four Packer tickets in our faces, spinning in circles, still screaming.
Me: Still frozen.
The Wife: "SHUT UP!"
MPR and BE: STILL jumping up and down, screaming in delight.
Me/The wife: Our brains have stopped working. We are stunned into stupor by the events unfolding before us.
BE: "You need to pack some clothes and get ready to go to the game. We've got snacks and sodas and waters in the car. We'll go to breakfast, and then we'll go shopping and then we'll get some ice cream and then we'll go to the game!"
More hopping up and down.
Me/The wife: Begin running around like idiots.
For the record, it's tough to pack for a Packers Game without warning. You have to take into consideration the actual weather, the game time weather, in the sun or in the shade weather. It takes the wife a week to plan an outfit for a Packer Game, so asking her to do it within minutes was a pretty big stretch.
MPR: Grab whatever you want and we'll put it in the car.
BE: You can decide when we get there! Just bring a lot of clothes.
Since I've never been to a "warm" Packer game, I envisioned being cold--I made a pile which included my flannel jeans, long underwear and boots. I grabbed my winter fleece and put that on the pile, too. When I looked at the wife, she was fretting over which of four Packer coats to wear. Neither of us could put a coherent sentence together. For some reason, we were yelling at each other during much of the time, but it wasn't in sentences. (Yelling is always oh-so-helpful, don't you think?)
The Wife: (points at my feet as I'm standing in front of the closet) You have your shoes on! Why do you have your shoes on in the house?
Me: Who cares? Why are you worried about my shoes? Just figure out what to wear!
I put on my orange sweatshirt. I pick it because (1) it is hunter orange; and, (2) it is the warmest sweatshirt I own.
The Wife: YOU CAN'T WEAR THAT!
Me: It's hunter orange! There are tons of hunters at the game.
The Wife: Why don't you wear this green-and-gold sweatshirt?
Me: Because it's not warm.
The Wife: You can't wear that!
Me: Well, I'm gonna!
I think about changing sweatshirts but I hate being cold, so orange wins out. I decide to wear my green-and-gold gym shoes, kind of an effort to negate my orange sweatshirt.
The pile of clothing is ridiculous. I don't even bring this many clothes when I go somewhere for a week. MPR and BE encourage us to not worry about it, just put it in the car. All my clothes, the wife's clothes and the four coats (five, if you count my winter fleece) are piled into the vehicle.
As we are getting ready--trying to figure out who can let the dogs out and what else we need to bring--it occurs to me that there is no way possible to squeeze in all the thing they have listed. I check the map app for directions and time of route. It will take us between 3.5 and four hours to get there.
Me: We don't have time to do all those things. I don't even know if we have time for breakfast!
I point out that it will take four hours and that the wife will want to be there by 2:30 at the absolute latest. We'd have to leave town by 10:30 to do that and it's already 9:30 AM. I do some final calculations in my head and announce we can do breakfast as long as we're on the road by 10:30 AM. I point out that the restaurant is right by the tollway, so that will save us about ten minutes--which, at this point, is a very needed thing. It's a really busy restaurant, so I am a bit skeptical. I pray to the Gods of the Grid Iron that the restaurant won't be so busy that it makes us late for the determined schedule.
I shouldn't have worried. Once they learned we were on our way to the Packers Game (BE tells everyone everything), the restaurant people ensured we were seated quickly, served super-fast and that the bill was on the table before we were even done with half our breakfast. We were on the road with time to spare.The rest of the day, as you can imagine, was sheer delight. The ride was uneventful, the sancks were ridiculous (who includes "Pixies" as a snack for the car?), the weather was perfect (around 60 degrees, a bit cooler in the shade), a free parking spot was secured, brats were consumed and the Packers were victorious. We even got out of town without getting lost (a feat in itself). As is always the case, time zipped by way too quickly.
It's tough (if not impossible) to truly convey the depth of gratitude we feel for this most wonderful surprise; thus, I wrote this blog. I figure publicly stating my thanks has to be a good start. Everyone should experience a surprise like this at least once in a lifetime.The wife, who HATES surprises, didn't seem to mind this one too much! I think she might be over her hatred for surprises.I hope this amazing event will help convince her that fifty isn't so bad. I find 50 to be fabulous. This year, I'm as fabulous a certain long-haired defense man--my age is his number and I'm all good with that. Come to think of it, the wife's age is another defense guy's number...how can this not be a great year?
Feel free to refer to us as Hawk and Matthews this year. I'm the one with the long flowing locks.
**************************************************************************
Thank you, MPR and BE!
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Ode to MJagger
Someone said to me yesterday that people who say they are busy are actually not as busy as they think they are; when they look at the data (read: someone sits around and figures out what you do in a day), they actually find out that they aren't busy....I spit on their data. We've been getting up at 4:45 AM in an effort to squeeze 15 more minutes into the day. More Facebook time!
Two big events are approaching: the wife turns 50 in a few weeks and MJagger is leaving our place of employment. The wife will need medication to get through the birthday festivities; I'll need medication to deal with MJagger's resignation.
MJagger secured a new job in a different field, something that she's talked about for quite some time. Whatever the reason, she didn't take the leap until now. I am very proud of her for deciding to do something completely out of her comfort zone. It's a tough thing to do, but she's doing it and she's gonna rock it, by God. It's a new beginning for her. How can you not love that?
Of course, this means the of "training selfies." How disappointing. For the past year, we've taken a selfie at every training we were forced--er, I mean asked to endure. That was the one big thing to look forward to when trudging toward the conference room. No matter the topic, I always knew there would be a selfie and a laugh. I'm taking applications for someone to replace her, but it just won't be the same.
It's been quite the ride, these past 15 years. She shot out two babies while at this job, She got married during the first weeks with the agency. She was there when there were goats in the building, busy peeing on the floor. She threw Freckles a puppy shower and was there when I picked out Lucy. I was there when she picked out her German Shepard puppy from a cardboard box. After Prom 2000 she was seen dancing in the cage (while wearing a dress, I might add). She's slapped me around in the football pool. We've eaten more pizza during work hours than should be legal. She served as my Straight of Honor. She was there when I purchased the wife's first "real" ring (and was also there to watch me throw it at the wife in a nervous frenzy--so romantic). We balanced chakras, ate at Rosas, wore pajamas to work, Who can forget the Professional wrestling, movies with the clients, seeing Wicked with work friends & spouses and....the infamous baseball game of which MJagger does not speak. For one birthday, she gave me a gift certificate to get a tattoo. THAT'S a true friend.
And, there was Madonna: Madonna posters, photos, albums, t-shirts and concerts...Drowned World Tour, Reinvention Tour, The Confessions on a Dance Floor Tour. Hard Candy Tour, MDNA, Madonna, Madonna, Madonna. We missed meetings at work just to have a chance to buy Madonna tickets on line. I can no longer think of a Madonna concert without thinking of MJagger.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention the Lady Gaga concert. That was a happening in itself. I have to say it was one of the greatest concerts I have ever attended. There were other concerts, too--Black Eyed Peas comes quickly to mind. MJagger loves music as much as I do. That's saying something. I know she wishes I would stop listening to bad country music. I told her that's what happens when you get old--you start listening to country. BTW, she's a HUGE Rolling Stones fan and has even done a 'sassy dance' with THE Mick Jagger. I've never danced with Madonna, so I am a bit bitter about this. Dammit, Madge!
In true friendship fashion, we've had some doozies of disagreements. That's what real friends are for. I don't need someone giving me lip service. I appreciate the blunt honesty she affords. We didn't agree on things at work and that was okay.We certainly didn't agree on the infamous baseball outing. I embrace her strong opinions and her passion for what she believes.
Some days, I know she wanted to punch me in the throat. Some days, I wanted to punch her in the throat. In true friendship form, no throats were punched.
I have been walking around in a grumpy funk at work. My partner in crime will no longer be my partner in crime. Oh, I'll still see her, just not at any time during the work day. For that, I am sad. I'm not sure who will have the harder time adjusting.
Good news is that Madonna still has two more tours to do in order to complete her contract, so we'll have that for which to look forward. The football pool is just getting started and there will always be a walk or two as time goes by. I am confident that more pizza will be consumed, although it might need to be after work or on a school holiday. The wife and her husband get along handsomely and we adore their kids, so I'm sure an outing or two will happen now and again. We may have to do a little geo-caching--nerds in the great outdoors--and god knows the wife won't go see a super-hero movie with me, so I'll give MJagger a call.
I look forward to hearing about her adventures...and, adventures she will have!
I'll try not to whine and pout too much as she walks out the door.... but, I'll only remain composed if she promises to dance in the cage on her last day of work....
....and takes a selfie with me while in the cage.
***********************************************************************
Two big events are approaching: the wife turns 50 in a few weeks and MJagger is leaving our place of employment. The wife will need medication to get through the birthday festivities; I'll need medication to deal with MJagger's resignation.
MJagger secured a new job in a different field, something that she's talked about for quite some time. Whatever the reason, she didn't take the leap until now. I am very proud of her for deciding to do something completely out of her comfort zone. It's a tough thing to do, but she's doing it and she's gonna rock it, by God. It's a new beginning for her. How can you not love that?Of course, this means the of "training selfies." How disappointing. For the past year, we've taken a selfie at every training we were forced--er, I mean asked to endure. That was the one big thing to look forward to when trudging toward the conference room. No matter the topic, I always knew there would be a selfie and a laugh. I'm taking applications for someone to replace her, but it just won't be the same.
It's been quite the ride, these past 15 years. She shot out two babies while at this job, She got married during the first weeks with the agency. She was there when there were goats in the building, busy peeing on the floor. She threw Freckles a puppy shower and was there when I picked out Lucy. I was there when she picked out her German Shepard puppy from a cardboard box. After Prom 2000 she was seen dancing in the cage (while wearing a dress, I might add). She's slapped me around in the football pool. We've eaten more pizza during work hours than should be legal. She served as my Straight of Honor. She was there when I purchased the wife's first "real" ring (and was also there to watch me throw it at the wife in a nervous frenzy--so romantic). We balanced chakras, ate at Rosas, wore pajamas to work, Who can forget the Professional wrestling, movies with the clients, seeing Wicked with work friends & spouses and....the infamous baseball game of which MJagger does not speak. For one birthday, she gave me a gift certificate to get a tattoo. THAT'S a true friend.I would be remiss if I didn't mention the Lady Gaga concert. That was a happening in itself. I have to say it was one of the greatest concerts I have ever attended. There were other concerts, too--Black Eyed Peas comes quickly to mind. MJagger loves music as much as I do. That's saying something. I know she wishes I would stop listening to bad country music. I told her that's what happens when you get old--you start listening to country. BTW, she's a HUGE Rolling Stones fan and has even done a 'sassy dance' with THE Mick Jagger. I've never danced with Madonna, so I am a bit bitter about this. Dammit, Madge!
In true friendship fashion, we've had some doozies of disagreements. That's what real friends are for. I don't need someone giving me lip service. I appreciate the blunt honesty she affords. We didn't agree on things at work and that was okay.We certainly didn't agree on the infamous baseball outing. I embrace her strong opinions and her passion for what she believes.Some days, I know she wanted to punch me in the throat. Some days, I wanted to punch her in the throat. In true friendship form, no throats were punched.
I have been walking around in a grumpy funk at work. My partner in crime will no longer be my partner in crime. Oh, I'll still see her, just not at any time during the work day. For that, I am sad. I'm not sure who will have the harder time adjusting.
Good news is that Madonna still has two more tours to do in order to complete her contract, so we'll have that for which to look forward. The football pool is just getting started and there will always be a walk or two as time goes by. I am confident that more pizza will be consumed, although it might need to be after work or on a school holiday. The wife and her husband get along handsomely and we adore their kids, so I'm sure an outing or two will happen now and again. We may have to do a little geo-caching--nerds in the great outdoors--and god knows the wife won't go see a super-hero movie with me, so I'll give MJagger a call.
I look forward to hearing about her adventures...and, adventures she will have!
I'll try not to whine and pout too much as she walks out the door.... but, I'll only remain composed if she promises to dance in the cage on her last day of work....
....and takes a selfie with me while in the cage.
***********************************************************************
Monday, September 01, 2014
Belaboring This and That
Happy Labor Day! Or, most cases, Non-Labor Day.
I am laboring, as I am on-call. I am also going to be "riding the lawn" (riding lawn mower while the wife hand mows via the push mower), so that's semi-laboring for me and laboring for her. (She doesn't like the way I mow so I'm let off the hook; besides, I might vomit if I try to push a mower in the next eight hours. See below.O=)
I find it amusing that stores opened early today, considering the day is about having a day off for laboring. Ah, America--where no holiday or day of recognition is safe.
My non-laboring-laboring self hopes to watch a couple of episodes of Doctor Who, read a bit more of "Wild," survive tonight's football draft (on line and in, what I consider, the wee hours of the night) and make a five minute work-training video. In my new job at my old job, I am in charge of training. I have no time for Power-point presentations that feature a bazillion words in tiny print of which the trainer reads word for word. Today's audience has no stomach for such nonsense--they need clips and blips and sound bites and color. I plan on making a five minute video today....and, that's stretching it. Today's youngsters on the job (anyone under 40) aren't going to pay attention longer than five minutes. I'll take fast and use lots of visuals (like the dogs).
We went to breakfast with the Gaybors this morning. The amount of food brought to our table was obscene. Only in America--holidays are no longer sacred AND the portions are bigger than your head. It put the word "gluttony" to shame. I don't understand why we in America find it necessary to super-super size EVERYTHING. I tried to finish my vat of berry-laden oatmeal and the "short stack" of the largest pancakes on earth, but by the time I got half way done, I experienced a food injury and had to stop. It's been thirty minutes and I still feel like I may puke. I think pancakes and oatmeal were a bad combo--both expand in the belly once in there. Thankfully, I have some ice cream in the freezer. I'll have that for dinner. I figure that will fit around the cemented ball of carbohydrates living in my belly.
Like I said. I can't mow or puke.
On the sad-news front, I do believe our Green Ash is beginning to show signs of the dreaded and most hated Green Ash Borer. I've been keeping a close watch on the tree, giving it a hug now and then, talking to it whenever I walk by, surrounding it in a bubble of love. This week, I noticed woodpecker holes and thinning of some branches. Dang. I haven't seen any borer "D" shaped holes but that's usually the last thing you see on the trunk. I can't exactly crawl up the tree and take a gander. Our tree looks the best out of any in the neighborhood, which is good and bad. It kind of prolongs the agony. That tree and I have a love fest going on. I wanted it to survive the plight but it's not looking good. The wife and I have decided to leave it until next year, mainly because it's still looking good, but also because it is going to cost at least $900 to have it cut down. I'm glad to have one more season with it. I shall savor every moment of having that tree alive on our property.
Shout out to my dad who is laboring over the issues with his ear. Van Gogh has nothing on him.
As for Labor Day itself, I do thank the Unions for their effort to bring us this fine day. I'm not a big fan of Unions but they certainly did have their day and time and they improved the work world in a bazillion ways. For this, I tip my hat to them. The holiday has unfortunately lost its meaning; it is no longer recognition of the work and sweat of our workers. It is a day of picnics and trips and the end of Summer, the start of school and lots of shopping. Fire up the grill, sit by the lake, finalize your fantasy football line up. I wish no one had to labor today, but those days are gone. Every day is a Labor Day.
So, happy Labor Day. I hope you do not belabor too much on this day. If you are laboring, God love you.
If you are in labor (which has nothing at all to do with today), hope your doctor isn't on a golf course or boat or four-wheeler.
I am laboring, as I am on-call. I am also going to be "riding the lawn" (riding lawn mower while the wife hand mows via the push mower), so that's semi-laboring for me and laboring for her. (She doesn't like the way I mow so I'm let off the hook; besides, I might vomit if I try to push a mower in the next eight hours. See below.O=)
I find it amusing that stores opened early today, considering the day is about having a day off for laboring. Ah, America--where no holiday or day of recognition is safe.
My non-laboring-laboring self hopes to watch a couple of episodes of Doctor Who, read a bit more of "Wild," survive tonight's football draft (on line and in, what I consider, the wee hours of the night) and make a five minute work-training video. In my new job at my old job, I am in charge of training. I have no time for Power-point presentations that feature a bazillion words in tiny print of which the trainer reads word for word. Today's audience has no stomach for such nonsense--they need clips and blips and sound bites and color. I plan on making a five minute video today....and, that's stretching it. Today's youngsters on the job (anyone under 40) aren't going to pay attention longer than five minutes. I'll take fast and use lots of visuals (like the dogs).
We went to breakfast with the Gaybors this morning. The amount of food brought to our table was obscene. Only in America--holidays are no longer sacred AND the portions are bigger than your head. It put the word "gluttony" to shame. I don't understand why we in America find it necessary to super-super size EVERYTHING. I tried to finish my vat of berry-laden oatmeal and the "short stack" of the largest pancakes on earth, but by the time I got half way done, I experienced a food injury and had to stop. It's been thirty minutes and I still feel like I may puke. I think pancakes and oatmeal were a bad combo--both expand in the belly once in there. Thankfully, I have some ice cream in the freezer. I'll have that for dinner. I figure that will fit around the cemented ball of carbohydrates living in my belly.
Like I said. I can't mow or puke.
On the sad-news front, I do believe our Green Ash is beginning to show signs of the dreaded and most hated Green Ash Borer. I've been keeping a close watch on the tree, giving it a hug now and then, talking to it whenever I walk by, surrounding it in a bubble of love. This week, I noticed woodpecker holes and thinning of some branches. Dang. I haven't seen any borer "D" shaped holes but that's usually the last thing you see on the trunk. I can't exactly crawl up the tree and take a gander. Our tree looks the best out of any in the neighborhood, which is good and bad. It kind of prolongs the agony. That tree and I have a love fest going on. I wanted it to survive the plight but it's not looking good. The wife and I have decided to leave it until next year, mainly because it's still looking good, but also because it is going to cost at least $900 to have it cut down. I'm glad to have one more season with it. I shall savor every moment of having that tree alive on our property.
Shout out to my dad who is laboring over the issues with his ear. Van Gogh has nothing on him.
As for Labor Day itself, I do thank the Unions for their effort to bring us this fine day. I'm not a big fan of Unions but they certainly did have their day and time and they improved the work world in a bazillion ways. For this, I tip my hat to them. The holiday has unfortunately lost its meaning; it is no longer recognition of the work and sweat of our workers. It is a day of picnics and trips and the end of Summer, the start of school and lots of shopping. Fire up the grill, sit by the lake, finalize your fantasy football line up. I wish no one had to labor today, but those days are gone. Every day is a Labor Day.
So, happy Labor Day. I hope you do not belabor too much on this day. If you are laboring, God love you.
If you are in labor (which has nothing at all to do with today), hope your doctor isn't on a golf course or boat or four-wheeler.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
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.
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.
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.......
Saturday, August 16, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 05, 2014
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.
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.
***********************************************
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
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.
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 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.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
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-
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/
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:
Saturday, July 05, 2014
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.]
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.
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.
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