First The Cat...
ISED8U, the Spouse Thingy's new blog, is now online. It's supposed to relate anesthesia tales, but I suspect it's really for retaliation against the cat and myself. Peek often for his rebuttals to the the thingsi day about him ;)
Wednesday
Sunday
Saturday
God Shoot The Queen
A few weeks back (could have been a few months or even a year) I read a blurb in the paper about a study that linked music lyrics getting stuck in one’s head with an increased risk of stroke. And now I’m pretty sure I know why.
It’s the body’s defense mechanism; it keeps you from going stark raving insane.
My moment of enlightenment? After the 5th night in a row of falling to sleep with Freddy Mercury belting out “I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike…I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like” over and over and over…
Someone make it stop!
A few weeks back (could have been a few months or even a year) I read a blurb in the paper about a study that linked music lyrics getting stuck in one’s head with an increased risk of stroke. And now I’m pretty sure I know why.
It’s the body’s defense mechanism; it keeps you from going stark raving insane.
My moment of enlightenment? After the 5th night in a row of falling to sleep with Freddy Mercury belting out “I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike…I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like” over and over and over…
Someone make it stop!
Wednesday
Y oh Y
Since we’re paying for the Y membership, we decided to actually use it, more than the couple times a week I go dunk my head under water. The Y has tons of classes available, everything from aerobics to karate to Yoga.
So what did we decide to do?
We decided to go dunk our heads under water… All right, we actually kept our heads above water, but we were still in the pool. The pool in which the water is, IMNSHO, a little too cold. I get all goose-bumpy in the water, and I don’t enjoy that in the least.
Two nights a week there’s a water aerobics class. We went on Monday night, the Spouse Thingy with his spiffy new glasses-free-face, and me with my spiffy new contacts—so hey, we could actually see where we were, all the crud floating in the water, and the people with whom we shared the pool. The lap lanes were all taken, mostly by some swim team, but the shallow end was reserved just for us.
Us and the six or seven older women who also showed up for the class. Well, and the skinny little thing who was leading the class. She seemed very nice, but I have to hate her on principle. No one should be that trim and fit. Kind of like Shania Twain…she has a nice voice, but I’m obligated to hate anyone who can give birth and still fit into those tiny little leather pants.
Anyway.
The skinny little thing started us out by “jogging” around the shallow end of the pool. Jogging evidently mean “meandering around for five minutes” until the real work begins. It was a line of old women, me, and the Spouse Thingy going in circles, with the Spouse Thingy and me lapping them on a regular basis.
The class itself was all right—a little less than an hour of jumping up and down, kicking, waving our arms manically, and generally just moving around in the water. By the time we were done, I didn’t feel like I’d done much. It definitely felt like less of a workout than I normally get just swimming laps for an hour.
Then I got up yesterday morning, and my calves screamed at me “what the hell did you do to us?!?!” And as the day wore on, they screamed louder and louder, and today when I got up they both simply seethed “we’re not cooperating today…you’ll have to walk down the stairs sideways, because we’re not about to so much as flex for you.”
Yep, I didn’t work out very hard, but evidently my calves did.
There’s another class tonight, and we’re going back. Not because it’s a great workout. Nope. We’re going back because I get a perverse pleasure out of lapping all the little old ladies.
Whatever works, right?
Since we’re paying for the Y membership, we decided to actually use it, more than the couple times a week I go dunk my head under water. The Y has tons of classes available, everything from aerobics to karate to Yoga.
So what did we decide to do?
We decided to go dunk our heads under water… All right, we actually kept our heads above water, but we were still in the pool. The pool in which the water is, IMNSHO, a little too cold. I get all goose-bumpy in the water, and I don’t enjoy that in the least.
Two nights a week there’s a water aerobics class. We went on Monday night, the Spouse Thingy with his spiffy new glasses-free-face, and me with my spiffy new contacts—so hey, we could actually see where we were, all the crud floating in the water, and the people with whom we shared the pool. The lap lanes were all taken, mostly by some swim team, but the shallow end was reserved just for us.
Us and the six or seven older women who also showed up for the class. Well, and the skinny little thing who was leading the class. She seemed very nice, but I have to hate her on principle. No one should be that trim and fit. Kind of like Shania Twain…she has a nice voice, but I’m obligated to hate anyone who can give birth and still fit into those tiny little leather pants.
Anyway.
The skinny little thing started us out by “jogging” around the shallow end of the pool. Jogging evidently mean “meandering around for five minutes” until the real work begins. It was a line of old women, me, and the Spouse Thingy going in circles, with the Spouse Thingy and me lapping them on a regular basis.
The class itself was all right—a little less than an hour of jumping up and down, kicking, waving our arms manically, and generally just moving around in the water. By the time we were done, I didn’t feel like I’d done much. It definitely felt like less of a workout than I normally get just swimming laps for an hour.
Then I got up yesterday morning, and my calves screamed at me “what the hell did you do to us?!?!” And as the day wore on, they screamed louder and louder, and today when I got up they both simply seethed “we’re not cooperating today…you’ll have to walk down the stairs sideways, because we’re not about to so much as flex for you.”
Yep, I didn’t work out very hard, but evidently my calves did.
There’s another class tonight, and we’re going back. Not because it’s a great workout. Nope. We’re going back because I get a perverse pleasure out of lapping all the little old ladies.
Whatever works, right?
Monday
Thanks to some evil people, I am totally hooked on this online game, BeSpelled. I looked at it out of a sense of curiosity—why were all these people talking about playing this game? What could possibly be so interesting?
Holy crap. It’s an online version of the word game Boggle, for lack of anything better to compare it to. And I know a lot of words, it should be easy. Right? Right! The first time I played I hit almost 250,000 points, and figured, “Hey, this is cool.”
So, of course, I had to beat my high score. So I kept playing. And hit 396,000 points. And figured “I can do better than that.” So I kept playing.
Last night, probably around 8 p.m. I started a game, figuring I’d be done before 10 o’clock. But 10 p.m. came and I was still playing the same game, doing fairly well. Then came 11, then midnight…
I lost at around 12:45 a.m. Tripped up by a hot tile on the bottom line, an “A” surrounded by nothing but other vowels, and for some reason the game would not accept AOOUI as a legitimate word.
But I had a new high score! 648,150 points.
And I had a sore wrist from holding the mouse so long.
But I had a new high score!
Yeah, I know. I need a life…
Holy crap. It’s an online version of the word game Boggle, for lack of anything better to compare it to. And I know a lot of words, it should be easy. Right? Right! The first time I played I hit almost 250,000 points, and figured, “Hey, this is cool.”
So, of course, I had to beat my high score. So I kept playing. And hit 396,000 points. And figured “I can do better than that.” So I kept playing.
Last night, probably around 8 p.m. I started a game, figuring I’d be done before 10 o’clock. But 10 p.m. came and I was still playing the same game, doing fairly well. Then came 11, then midnight…
I lost at around 12:45 a.m. Tripped up by a hot tile on the bottom line, an “A” surrounded by nothing but other vowels, and for some reason the game would not accept AOOUI as a legitimate word.
But I had a new high score! 648,150 points.
And I had a sore wrist from holding the mouse so long.
But I had a new high score!
Yeah, I know. I need a life…
Friday
The Thing About Public Nekkidity…
Here’s the thing.
If I’m standing there in the locker room, naked, I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to hear about your bad knees, your saccharine-sweet grandkids, the weather, your job, your husband, or anything else. I do not want to be your new best friend.
I don’t want to be looked at, stared at, commented to or about. Leave me alone until I have my clothes on. Then you can tell me about the outreach program you’ve started for “those poor kids, even the white ones,” or how your grandson learned to belch the alphabet and how you think it’s so cute. Once I’m dressed, I’m perfectly receptive to idle chatter about how cold the pool water is, how scummy the hot tub is, how horrible getting snow this time of year is, or even complaints about the crick in your back.
But if I’m naked, dripping wet and trying to dry off and get my clothes on, I am not a social animal. I do not want to acknowledge that there is anyone in the locker room other than myself.
Thank you.
Here’s the thing.
If I’m standing there in the locker room, naked, I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to hear about your bad knees, your saccharine-sweet grandkids, the weather, your job, your husband, or anything else. I do not want to be your new best friend.
I don’t want to be looked at, stared at, commented to or about. Leave me alone until I have my clothes on. Then you can tell me about the outreach program you’ve started for “those poor kids, even the white ones,” or how your grandson learned to belch the alphabet and how you think it’s so cute. Once I’m dressed, I’m perfectly receptive to idle chatter about how cold the pool water is, how scummy the hot tub is, how horrible getting snow this time of year is, or even complaints about the crick in your back.
But if I’m naked, dripping wet and trying to dry off and get my clothes on, I am not a social animal. I do not want to acknowledge that there is anyone in the locker room other than myself.
Thank you.
Tuesday
My Opinion On Snow Rhymes with Sucks…
It’s the middle of march, for Pete’s sake. Spring should be springing. The birds should be dropping little birdy land mines on the cars. They neighborhood kids should be outside screaming their little heads off. We should not be getting 6 inches of this:
The only good thing about it, I suppose, is that the Spouse Thingy got a surprise day off. We did our major grocery shopping a couple of days ago, so there was no where we had to go, and someone cleared off the driveway for us before we convinced ourselves to venture outside.
Since it did snow, and it doesn’t seem to be going away, I declared myself the Snow Queen, and sat outside on my throne.
My tail is now frozen.
It’s the middle of march, for Pete’s sake. Spring should be springing. The birds should be dropping little birdy land mines on the cars. They neighborhood kids should be outside screaming their little heads off. We should not be getting 6 inches of this:
The only good thing about it, I suppose, is that the Spouse Thingy got a surprise day off. We did our major grocery shopping a couple of days ago, so there was no where we had to go, and someone cleared off the driveway for us before we convinced ourselves to venture outside.
Since it did snow, and it doesn’t seem to be going away, I declared myself the Snow Queen, and sat outside on my throne.
My tail is now frozen.
Sunday
And The Oscar For Best Blog Goes To…
One of the best blogs I've come across in a long time: The Squeaky Weasel Gets the Grease. I stumbled on it yesterday while surfing blogs, looking for something interesting to read...it's funny and smart, and worth taking the time to read back through the archives (which I started, and will probably chew up most of this evening doing.)
Just thought I'd share.. :)
One of the best blogs I've come across in a long time: The Squeaky Weasel Gets the Grease. I stumbled on it yesterday while surfing blogs, looking for something interesting to read...it's funny and smart, and worth taking the time to read back through the archives (which I started, and will probably chew up most of this evening doing.)
Just thought I'd share.. :)
Friday
When We’re Retirees…
…I swear, I am not going to act like half the military retirees I see. I promise. Really, really, really promise. I will act like the mature half, the ones who might block the commissary aisle, but have full control of their tempers and attitudes. Blocking the aisle is a ritual, a right earned by sucking it up through 20+ years of moving every 2-3 years, never knowing if the Active Duty Person in the family is going to go play in a land mine filled sandbox for 3 months, or 6 months, or a year. Or two. It’s expected.
But temper tantrums…I somehow don’t think those are a right of passage, not something one should do, no matter how many years of service were given to the country. Especially not when vented upon another Retiree doing volunteer service in the base refill pharmacy.
It was something to see, to be sure.
There, at the front of the line, was a guy about 75 years old, trying to get a refill on some scrip—like we all were. The elderly volunteer (and I say elderly not because he’s a Retiree, but because he looks about 90 years old) had to tell him the refill was flagged on the computer as invalid, and couldn’t be filled.
Holy crap, you’d have thought he’d said that they weren’t going to fill it just because they wanted to see his heart explode, right there in the pharmacy. This guy went off in a major way, yelling until his face was beet red, veins standing up in rapt attention and throbbing, and I’m sure little globs of spit were flying from his lips, though I couldn’t see well enough to be sure.
The poor volunteer had to keep his composure through the whole thing, all the while trying to explain that the computer showed this guy’s doc had written a new scrip just two days ago—which had been filled—so the refill on the old scrip was canceled. He couldn’t get the same med twice.
It kind of made me wonder if this wasn’t a scrip for a pain medication, or something potentially addicting, he wanted it so badly.
Still…the volunteers have no control over the scrips, and they can’t dispense anything without a valid prescription. Screaming at them doesn’t help; it just makes them feel bad, and makes the screamer look stupid.
Ten minutes later I was up at the old guy’s window to get a refill on my HGH; he went to the back to get it, and returned with a pharmacy supervisor, looking a little pale.
They were out of the HGH and needed to order it; it’d be in by Monday.
Well, that’s fine. I have 8 days worth left, and I’m used to them needing to order it. It’s a high cost prescription that they don’t keep much of on hand. I’m not the only one who needs it, so they run out. No big deal. So I said “No problem, I’ll come back Monday.”
Being reasonable shouldn’t bring such relief to someone’s face. Being reasonable shouldn’t be the reason why the supervisor also looks relived, and asks someone to wait while they make a call “just to be sure” there’s none available.
But, I suppose being reasonable is reason enough for a 90 year old Retiree to try to flirt with a 42 year old married woman. Within 5 minutes I knew he’d served 40 years (40!!!) and that I have “sparkly green eyes.” I didn’t tell him they were only sparkly because of the contacts.
So, I go back on Monday to get my scrip, where I will wait in a long line again, and where I will remind myself that it’s not going to kill me to wait for 20 minutes, and that most of the people manning the windows spend a lot of time in the military, and have seen horrors enough that they don’t need to see a fully grown person have a three-year-old’s type meltdown. And I’ll remind myself that if I ever volunteer at the pharmacy, that it’s not acceptable to reach over the counter and bitch slap the percentage of Retirees who seem to think that anyone lowering themselves to manning the refill pharmacy is open to such behavior.
Maybe I should take them a few Super Soakers. There’s nothing wrong with dousing a particularly rude person.
Is there?
…I swear, I am not going to act like half the military retirees I see. I promise. Really, really, really promise. I will act like the mature half, the ones who might block the commissary aisle, but have full control of their tempers and attitudes. Blocking the aisle is a ritual, a right earned by sucking it up through 20+ years of moving every 2-3 years, never knowing if the Active Duty Person in the family is going to go play in a land mine filled sandbox for 3 months, or 6 months, or a year. Or two. It’s expected.
But temper tantrums…I somehow don’t think those are a right of passage, not something one should do, no matter how many years of service were given to the country. Especially not when vented upon another Retiree doing volunteer service in the base refill pharmacy.
It was something to see, to be sure.
There, at the front of the line, was a guy about 75 years old, trying to get a refill on some scrip—like we all were. The elderly volunteer (and I say elderly not because he’s a Retiree, but because he looks about 90 years old) had to tell him the refill was flagged on the computer as invalid, and couldn’t be filled.
Holy crap, you’d have thought he’d said that they weren’t going to fill it just because they wanted to see his heart explode, right there in the pharmacy. This guy went off in a major way, yelling until his face was beet red, veins standing up in rapt attention and throbbing, and I’m sure little globs of spit were flying from his lips, though I couldn’t see well enough to be sure.
The poor volunteer had to keep his composure through the whole thing, all the while trying to explain that the computer showed this guy’s doc had written a new scrip just two days ago—which had been filled—so the refill on the old scrip was canceled. He couldn’t get the same med twice.
It kind of made me wonder if this wasn’t a scrip for a pain medication, or something potentially addicting, he wanted it so badly.
Still…the volunteers have no control over the scrips, and they can’t dispense anything without a valid prescription. Screaming at them doesn’t help; it just makes them feel bad, and makes the screamer look stupid.
Ten minutes later I was up at the old guy’s window to get a refill on my HGH; he went to the back to get it, and returned with a pharmacy supervisor, looking a little pale.
They were out of the HGH and needed to order it; it’d be in by Monday.
Well, that’s fine. I have 8 days worth left, and I’m used to them needing to order it. It’s a high cost prescription that they don’t keep much of on hand. I’m not the only one who needs it, so they run out. No big deal. So I said “No problem, I’ll come back Monday.”
Being reasonable shouldn’t bring such relief to someone’s face. Being reasonable shouldn’t be the reason why the supervisor also looks relived, and asks someone to wait while they make a call “just to be sure” there’s none available.
But, I suppose being reasonable is reason enough for a 90 year old Retiree to try to flirt with a 42 year old married woman. Within 5 minutes I knew he’d served 40 years (40!!!) and that I have “sparkly green eyes.” I didn’t tell him they were only sparkly because of the contacts.
So, I go back on Monday to get my scrip, where I will wait in a long line again, and where I will remind myself that it’s not going to kill me to wait for 20 minutes, and that most of the people manning the windows spend a lot of time in the military, and have seen horrors enough that they don’t need to see a fully grown person have a three-year-old’s type meltdown. And I’ll remind myself that if I ever volunteer at the pharmacy, that it’s not acceptable to reach over the counter and bitch slap the percentage of Retirees who seem to think that anyone lowering themselves to manning the refill pharmacy is open to such behavior.
Maybe I should take them a few Super Soakers. There’s nothing wrong with dousing a particularly rude person.
Is there?
Wednesday
Monday
Odds & Ends Part 451
You’re never too old to wear Chucks
Some people look better with glasses on, and most days I think I’m one of ‘em.
A label maker can be a fun thing to own.
The cat does not like having a label stuck to his tail.
Some things should never be made into movies, and Starsky & Hutch is one of them.
The cleaning fairy does not appear out of thin air, no matter how much you want her to.
You’re never too old to wear Chucks
Some people look better with glasses on, and most days I think I’m one of ‘em.
A label maker can be a fun thing to own.
The cat does not like having a label stuck to his tail.
Some things should never be made into movies, and Starsky & Hutch is one of them.
The cleaning fairy does not appear out of thin air, no matter how much you want her to.
Thursday
Baby Blues…Well, Grays
So…the Spouse Thingy did not chicken out. He didn’t scream or cry or try to hit and kick his way out of surgery yesterday. He marched in there in his non-Velcro shoes and took it like a man…a man who 25 minutes later had eyes so bloodshot they looked as if they were about to spewt forth a bucket o’blood. His vision was blurry (to be expected) and he was told to go home and sleep as much as possible (closed eyes heal better, I suppose), but to put drops in his eyes every couple of hours.
Today he had his follow up—his vision is at 20/20, and the flaps are settled and healing nicely. He has a bit of a headache, but says it’s like a new-glasses headache, the kind you get when adjusting to a better prescription.
He goes back next week for another follow up, and then in a month for yet another, but it’s all looking good. And his blue-gray eyes are all sparkly :)
Who knows…the whole thing creeps me out, but as well as this is going for him, I might be convinced at some point, when we’re back in CA and he’s making the real money, to do it.
Maybe.
So…the Spouse Thingy did not chicken out. He didn’t scream or cry or try to hit and kick his way out of surgery yesterday. He marched in there in his non-Velcro shoes and took it like a man…a man who 25 minutes later had eyes so bloodshot they looked as if they were about to spewt forth a bucket o’blood. His vision was blurry (to be expected) and he was told to go home and sleep as much as possible (closed eyes heal better, I suppose), but to put drops in his eyes every couple of hours.
Today he had his follow up—his vision is at 20/20, and the flaps are settled and healing nicely. He has a bit of a headache, but says it’s like a new-glasses headache, the kind you get when adjusting to a better prescription.
He goes back next week for another follow up, and then in a month for yet another, but it’s all looking good. And his blue-gray eyes are all sparkly :)
Who knows…the whole thing creeps me out, but as well as this is going for him, I might be convinced at some point, when we’re back in CA and he’s making the real money, to do it.
Maybe.
Tuesday
Eye, Eye
Tomorrow morning, at around 7:30, the Spouse Thingy is having Lasik eye surgery. The whole thing creeps me out (not the idea of seeing clearly, just the idea of my eye being held open and then having part of it sliced) but he’s excited about being able to see without glasses for the first time in practically forever. I don’t think he’s ever clearly seen his own adult face without glasses.
I hope he likes it
Tomorrow morning, at around 7:30, the Spouse Thingy is having Lasik eye surgery. The whole thing creeps me out (not the idea of seeing clearly, just the idea of my eye being held open and then having part of it sliced) but he’s excited about being able to see without glasses for the first time in practically forever. I don’t think he’s ever clearly seen his own adult face without glasses.
I hope he likes it
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