So, I was the “responsible adult” who accompanied my husband to his colonoscopy on Monday. Unfortunately, my husband’s appointment was at 2 in the afternoon. This was tough for him because he could only “eat” clear liquids for two days. It was tough for me because I am not an afternoon person. If I lived a life of riches and leisure, I would nap every day at 2:00. That is when my brain naturally just SLOWS down.
When my husband’s procedure was completed, I met him in the consultation room to talk to the doctor. The doctor explained the results and that we would hear from him when the “pathology comes back.” So, we shook hands and began our walk to the door. As we were walking, the doctor was walking behind us and asked us what I thought was a really strange question.
“Did you two make another album?”
Um. My afternoon brain was confused by this question. I answered, “Oh, you don’t want to hear us sing.”
My husband immediately agreed with me, stating we could not sing at all. Now, he was recently shot up with a big dose of Fentanyl. I had no such excuse.
The doctor then pointed to my husband’s U2 sweatshirt, the same one he had been wearing ALL DAY. I looked at him with my need a nap eyes, and said, “OH! You didn’t mean us! I thought you had us confused with another couple.”
Honestly, I’m surprised they didn’t give me a sobriety test right there. I certainly was a confused “responsible adult.”
On our drive home, my husband and I agreed that we are way more a Captain and Tennille singing couple than a Sonny and Cher type.
I turn on the Today show at 7 every morning. I do this right after spoon feeding my old Maltese and making coffee. It has been a part of my morning routine for over 12 years, ever since I began working from home. When I turned on the TV today, the first thing I saw was Matt Lauer’s picture with the word “fired” under it. There were other words, but “fired” was the one that caught my eye. I smiled. This had to be a joke. I checked my calendar to see if maybe I had finally hibernated through the cold, gray winter and it was now April 1.
Nope. I knew it was real when Savannah and Hoda reported the news with held back tears in their eyes. I stared in shock.
Some friends of mine said they were not shocked at all. I was. How did I miss Matt’s creep factor? As a card-carrying member of the sexual abuse survivors club, I pride myself on being able to spot sickos. I usually notice these things. It’s in their eyes. For example, Charley Rose has “I sit on park benches with my fly open” eyes. It was just obvious to me. I never saw that in Matt Lauer.
I posted on my personal Facebook page about it, asking, “Did he have an affair or was he grabbing boobs and butts?” One of my friends replied that it shouldn’t matter what he did because it was inappropriate either way. True. Both are inappropriate activities for the workplace, but in my ever so humble opinion, a consensual affair is a divorceable offense, not a fireable one. My father was fired from a TV station in the 70’s for having an affair with a co-worker. It’s not the 70’s anymore. On the other hand, if Matt was groping co-workers, it is good that he was fired. If he was offering some sort of gain for having sex with him, then it is great that he is gone. If he was telling dirty jokes, viewing pornography or doing anything else to create a hostile and uncomfortable work environment, then good riddance. I just hope that NBC actually investigated this claim before just letting him go.
No matter the reason, I will miss seeing Matt Lauer every morning. I loved his interviews. I always said that if I did something wrong and Matt Lauer wanted to interview me, I would go into hiding. That man did not accept any BS responses from people. I about fell off my chair laughing with glee when he interviewed Vice President Pence about the violent protest in Charlottesville and how there were “good people on both sides.”
Now, people may interview Matt in the same way he interviewed others. They will put him on the spot, make him uncomfortable, try to trip him up. I will be watching when this happens. I want to see what Matt has to say.
What do you think about Matt Lauer? Are you a Lauer lover like I was, or are you on team saw this coming a mile away? Let me hear from you in the comments.
Since I work from home, I eat lunch with my son almost every day. Yesterday, we were sitting at the kitchen table having sandwiches and chips when I decided to ask him about something I heard recently that had me confused.
Me: Hey, have you ever heard of a prayer team?
Son: Prayer TEAM?
Me: Yep. She said team.
Me: I have a lot of questions about a prayer team.
Me: What kind of jerseys do they wear? Do they have cheerleaders? Are there referees?
Son: [shaking his head no]
Me: Is there a championship where prayer teams battle it out for God’s response? Does the winning team get a trophy? Do they pour Gatorade over the prayer coach’s head? There would have to be a coach, right?
Son: No, mom. You’ve got it all wrong.
Me: No coach?
Son: No. A prayer team is not an athletic team.
Son: You know how your husband always refers to his coworkers as his team? A prayer team works in an office.
[He gets up and points to an imaginary PowerPoint presentation on the wall.]
Son: [using his best corporate manager voice] TEAM! As you can see, our prayers are down 30% this quarter. Now, I want everyone on their knees the rest of the week. We need to get these numbers up.
I laughed and took a sip of my Diet Coke.
Son: [sitting down at the table] Then, I’d probably get sued for sexual harassment for telling my coworkers to get on their knees.
I’m still recovering from shooting Diet Coke out of my nose.
A lot of people place themselves in little political or religious boxes. They don’t research to find the facts of a situation. They simply take a strong stand based on the ideologies they have learned throughout their lives. It’s like an entire world of Cuban mothers-in-law and Italian fathers. My way is right! Believe me; I know from experience.
I became a Democrat in fourth grade. That is when President Reagan wanted to make ketchup count as a vegetable in the school lunch program. As a kid who relied on reduced priced lunches, I was floored. I couldn’t understand how a grown up could care so little about kids. Then my family told me that all Republicans were like that. They wanted to spend money on war but not on poor people like us. So, I thought that all Republicans were horrible, cold people. I put myself in the Democrat box.
And I’m still not a Republican. I’ve been an official, voting, card-carrying Democrat since 1992. I’ve only voted for one Republican and that’s because I knew her personally. Lately though, I feel like I don’t fit in the liberal box 100% with certain issues. Here are a few examples.
Tearing Down Statues
We could burn down every Confederate flag, statue, grave yard, Dukes of Hazzard General Lee car and it still wouldn’t take away the cold fact that slavery existed in this country. I get that the REMINDERS will be taken away, but the actual acts are there forever. Instead of spending time and money on tearing down the artifacts of this horrible time in our country, why don’t we take the money we would spend on removing statues and donate it to the NAACP, the National Urban League, the United Negro College Fund, or a number of other organizations that specifically help African Americans. It still wouldn’t make up for slavery or the inequalities that African Americans still deal with, nothing will, but it would be more helpful than simply taking down mementos.
Taking a knee during the National Anthem
Colin Kaepernick began this trend in 2016 and now other athletes are doing the same. Personally, I’ve never been a fan of patriotism as I see it as the root of a lot of hatred for people of other cultures. It gives people that whole my country and my culture are better feeling. So, I don’t care who stands, sits, kneels, or does cartwheels during the national anthem. My only question is what is this actually doing? For real. I know it is “raising awareness for how African Americans are treated”, but is it helping? Can anyone point me to a time when a police officer or other gun-toting individual was about to shoot an African American and said, “You know what? I was going to kill you, but since all these athletic fellers is protesting, I just aint gonna do it.” Yes. That is how racists talk in my mind.
Protests after Inauguration
A bunch of really brave women protested after the inauguration in January. They are far braver than I am because I would not have protested outside in Florida in January, much less Washington D.C. or other places, even with a nice, warm, knitted kitty-cat hat. So, kudos to those women. Again, though, I have to ask, what did this actually do? Yes, it enabled people to join together and feel empowered and hug it out because we have a toddleresque tyrant as president, but what actually changed? It’s not like Trump saw all of the protests and said, “Melania, pack my rhinoceros skin luggage that the boys had made for me. I’m not going to do this president thing. I’m firing myself. The people have spoken.”
Dress Code Hoopla
I’ve been in many arguments with my fellow Liberals over this one. In July, there was a big to-do over the Speaker’s Lobby dress code. A reporter was not allowed to enter while wearing a sleeveless dress. My liberal friends went to Facebook and Twitter with flames coming out of their ears. How dare Paul Ryan and his buddies tell us we can’t wear sleeveless dresses? [insert dragon roar of your choice here] Well, if you READ the history of this dress code you would notice a couple of things. 1. Paul Ryan did not create it. (Yes, I think he looks like Eddie Muenster, too, and I really don’t like him, but totally not his fault) and 2. It is HARSHER on the men than the women. Men have to wear a full suit and tie. With a jacket. I’d rather wear a dress with sleeves, which I would rather do anyway as I am one of five women in the world who doesn’t equate showing every ounce of skin with “fashion”.
A lot of people also get upset about school dress codes because they are different for boys and girls. The reason why there are different rules for girls is that boys don’t show up in booty shorts. I’m pretty sure the school would send a boy home if he were wearing a micro mini skirt. If you want to blame someone, blame the fashion industry for making labia bearing shorts for girls and NORMAL shorts for boys.
I’m quite sure that some of my readers will not be a fan of this blog. That’s OK. For some reason, these are divisive issues, as are most issues now. In my ever so humble opinion, the only way to bring our country back together, or as together as it can get, is to jump out of our partisan boxes. Let’s talk to each other as human beings rather than enemies. Let’s get to know each other as people, not political candidates. Do a little more logical research rather than emotional thinking. Above all, everyone needs to vote for the candidate that represents them best.
I wasn’t looking for a cat the day I met Andre. I think I was looking for a car charger for my Blackberry in Best Buy. My husband, Chris, was next door at Petsmart buying dog bones, or at least that is what he was supposed to be doing. Instead, he came into Best Buy with a big smile on his face and no bag in his hands and said, “You have to see the kittens!” Kittens? It was odd that my husband was excited about baby cats as he was the dog person in our relationship.
“We have a cat already, and she’s old,” was my reply. Our cross-eyed Siamese, Kidder, was about fifteen at that time. I knew she would not appreciate a youngster.
“But they’re so cute!” It was like my husband had been drugged with some cat-loving potion. I just shook my head and followed him next door to Petsmart.
A lot of Petsmarts have cat adoption rooms, and this was the case in Indiana. The local ASPCA had several cats who needed homes. This room had a row of windows and was located right next to the dog food and treats. There were three levels of cats in cages. Chris led me to his favorite, all the way at the end of the row in a bottom cage.
My husband was interested in Andre’s brother, a much shyer version of the cat we would eventually adopt. Like Andre, he was a long-haired gray and white beauty, with a beautiful mane. Unlike Andre, he was incredibly shy. I crouched down to peer in this kitten’s bottom level cage. He scurried to the back corner. My husband wanted to pet him and get to know him, so the Petsmart person took him out. The kitten immediately ran under the cages.
I sat on the cold floor and tried to lure the cat out. He moved farther away from me. I looked up at my husband, who was standing next to Andre’s cage, and said, “This cat will never make it in our house. We have two dogs and an old cranky cat.”
That’s when Andre, one level up from his brother and a couple of cages over, started grabbing my husband’s shirt. My husband moved a little, but Andre kept pushing his paw out and trying to grab my husband. It was like he was saying, “Forget about my brother; take me!”
“Now that one stands a chance. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything,” I said, and I was right.
When Chris and I got Andre home, we set him up in the guest bathroom with a baby gate. This way the dogs could see him and he could see them, but they were still apart. I figured that Andre wouldn’t want to jump the gate, and that our old cat Kidder would not jump in. I was wrong on the first part.
We were barely home for ten minutes when Andre jumped the gate and walked right up to our Pit Bull/Black Lab, Mario. Mario was used to cats, but the only time he had ever seen a fluffy tail like Andre’s was on a squirrel. Mario hated squirrels. So, he lunged at Andre. Andre was not impressed or afraid. He got on his hind feet and directed eight pounds of kitten fury in Mario’s face. Andre boxed Mario’s face until he winced and backed away. From that moment on, Andre was the boss.
Chris and I soon learned that Andre hated medical interventions more than he hated large dogs. Andre’s first vet visit at 8 months old went great. Everyone in the vet’s office loved him. After all, he was a handsome boy with smooth, fluffy fur. He was a lover, just like he was at home. Andre snuggled with the vet, the assistants, and even the receptionist. He seemed to love people. For some reason, his loveable behavior at the vet’s office changed the next year when we brought him in for a checkup.
As soon as I put his carrier on the examining table and opened the door, Andre hissed and opened his mouth like a snake with unhinged jaws. Every time the doctor laid a hand on him, he tried to bite the doctor or the assistant who was holding him. Finally, I helped two vet assistants hold him down. Andre was insane, and totally not the sweet boy he was at home. Every annual visit was worse than the last. I decided that since Andre was an indoor only cat, he would only see the vet if he was sick. So, of course this is the cat that developed colon issues at age five.
When I first noticed Andre straining in the litter box, I thought he had the dreaded urinary blockage that male cats are prone to. After a few vet visits, it was discovered that he was constipated. Because of his behavior, Andre had to be sedated for every visit. He would not tolerate a simple physical exam, never mind the ultrasounds and x-rays needed to diagnose his severe constipation. And let’s not even talk about the enemas. A few times, my husband, my son and I had to give Andre glycerin suppositories at home when the Miralax and Cisapride, the go to regimen for this level of constipation, was not working. We learned to cover him with a beach towel and work quickly so we could avoid battle scars.
When Andre turned eight, his megacolon was formally diagnosed. During this time, Andre could no longer defecate on his own. The medication was simply not working. The only thing that would work was the glycerin suppositories, and even they didn’t work all of the time. Our only other choice was major colon surgery. This would involve multiple visits to the specialist, in addition to the surgery itself. As I may have mentioned, Andre did not tolerate medical procedures well. The recovery from this surgery would be brutal, and being sedated multiple times in a short amount of time would be hard on him. Chris and I made the very tough decision to end Andre’s suffering.
My husband was with Andre in the end. I preferred to keep my last memory of hugging Andre in the dining room before putting him in the crate for his final trip to the vet. I told him how much I loved him, and how sorry I was to be sending him off to the place he hated most. Andre snuggled me, like he had his whole life. He put his paws around my neck and squeezed. According to Chris, Andre fought the vet and his staff up until his last breath. He fought the injection that was supposed to calm him down, and he fought the final injection that ended his life. Andre came into our lives like a lion, and he went out the same way.
I grew up in South Florida, where the weather is warm and the people are weird. When you can run around half nude most of the year, I guess it can make you a bit odd. I know, not only because I’m still recovering from living there, but because I had to interact with catcallers and creeps whenever I left my apartment.
The apartment building we lived in when I was a teen was on a circle. So, traffic would exit the circle and onto the street I lived on, and then another street intersected with all of that. It was a busy intersection and an all-around clusterfuck of traffic. This was where the dumpster for our building was located. Guess who’s job it was to take out the trash?
I felt like I was on stage whenever I did that walk of shame to the big, green, rusty dumpster. I hated the fact that I had to live in an apartment when all my friends lived in normal houses as the universe intended. So, I was always afraid someone would see me carrying out my meager apartment trash. I was also a bit tired of the occasional honking and yelling from the cars that would whiz around the circle.
One day, when I was 15 and at the height of my trash anxiety, the granddaddy of all catcall creep episodes happened. The garbage man took a fancy to my sweaty shorts, tank top, and shiny acne-faced look. He started yelling and whistling at me from the back of the truck. Lucky for me, they didn’t stop for the contents of my dumpster. So, I wasn’t forced to run for my life in flip-flops. The truck kept going around the circle, with the truck riding creep yelling at me. Honestly, what did he really think would happen? Did he think I would run after the truck, jump on the back with him, and ride off into the next South Florida thunderstorm while inhaling dirty diapers and Budweiser cans? I shook my head over that one for a while, until I met a creepier man at the beach.
A few weeks later, while still only 15, I was at the beach with my friends. Hollywood beach has a great broadwalk. (No, it is not a boardwalk, as autocorrect is trying to tell me. Look it up.) It’s not one of those boring full of only nature without any indoor plumbing beaches. I hate those. If I want to see nature, I will turn on the National Geographic channel. Hollywood Beach has a nice, paved walkway where you can walk or attempt to run into nice, innocent walkers on your bike by ignoring all bike lane rules. It also has stores, restaurants, and assorted ice cream places. Our next creep was seated on a patio in one of the bar/restaurants.
Now, I will say that OBVIOUSLY this guy had partaken in the bar portion of the establishment quite a bit. This is the only explanation for his behavior. Well, I suppose he could have had the eyesight of Mr. Magoo since he didn’t notice that I was 15 going on 12. The gentleman in question, and I do use this term very loosely, was a middle-aged French-Canadian (We got LOTS of French Canadian visitors in Hollywood.) wearing a bikini bottom bathing suit and a desperate lack of soap or deodorant. He was red, smelly, and creepy.
“Can I buy you zee drink?” He asked me, as I walked by, barely filling out my newly shoplifted blue bikini.
I wanted to reply with, “Can I buy you zee mirror or zee working nostrils?” Instead, I said, “no thank you.”
He answered in a way that only someone who is truly drunk and or impaired from the smell of their own body odor can. “Iz your loss.”
Yep. That is what this lobster red, smelly, scantily clad, OLD man told me. That is was MY loss. YES. He was right. I’m still kicking myself, 30 years later, that I didn’t get drunk and have stinky old man sex right there on Hollywood Beach. What was I thinking?
I still look back to my time in South Florida and imagine what could have happened if I had been a more adventurous girl. I could have married the trash man, or moved to Canada, or been murdered and dismembered. One or the other. Now, I live up north where people cannot run around half naked most of the year unless they really want to freeze to death. I’m also 45 now, so I don’t get catcalled as often. I’m OK with all of this.
I always hear about how annoying morning people are. People talk about how they’re not really awake until noon. They complain about overly energetic or talkative people in the morning. Well, guess what? You AM Eeyores irritate the chirpiness right out if me. Here’s why.
You act like the sun is your enemy. You squint at it when a sensible morning person opens the blinds to get rid of the dungeon atmosphere that is a house with all blinds closed. The sun is what allows you and everyone else to live on this planet. Put on some shades and stop being a wimp.
You mope around after getting up like someone died. Be glad you even woke up. Be glad you can walk. Be glad you don’t live in Iraq. Wimp!
You’re so unproductive in the morning. I get the bulk of my work done before noon. That’s because I actually do stuff instead of sit around and bitch about the fact that “It’s toooooo EARRRRLY!”
You make stupidass Facebook memes like this:
So, thank you for reading this coffee-induced rant, originally drafted at 8:00AM on a Saturday morning after cleaning the house. Are you a morning person, or a non-morning person? Let me hear from you in the comment section.
There are games you play when you have five pets. They’re probably similar to the games you play when you have small children, or live on a farm, or roam the streets of third world countries. They involve identifying and avoiding stepping in excrement. Here’s a small sample of the fun and exciting ways we pass the time at Chez Petty:
Poop or Puke?
Well, the name says it all, doesn’t it? I can’t tell you how many times a week, or sometimes a day, I nearly step in something that is both runny like puke and brownish like poop. It’s generally tough to identify. Sometimes, if I’m brave, I bend down and take a quick sniff. Then, I remember that I’m not Detective Columbo and I don’t really need to know what the stuff is. I just need to get some paper towels, supersonic cleaning fluid, and possibly some rubber gloves.
What’s that wet spot?
This game is best when you have carpet, like we do on 85.7% of our floors (yep, I made the number up). This is because if it’s not a colorful liquid, it catches you by surprise, especially if you are wearing socks. This way, you are not only disgusted by the mystery fluid, but you take it with you for a couple of steps until you rip your socks off. I’m not going to lie; I sniffed my socks once. It was dog pee.
Poop or Toy Debris
One of our dogs is a huge Lab/Great Dane mix. She LOVES to destroy toys. A morning is not complete without the cotton-filled guts of a destroyed sock monkey spread all over the living room. So, every once in a while, like daily, there are mysterious tiny pieces of something on the rug. I usually grab a paper towel before picking anything up, but usually it’s only a piece of felt or rope.
Poop or Mud
Since it is FINALLY becoming spring, sort of, the backyard is wet and warm. The Lab/Dane loves to dig. So, she ends up coming back inside with half of my husband’s garden under her nails (yes, it’s just HIS garden, just like she’s just HIS dog). I’m going to be overly honest again and tell you all that I LOST at “Poop or Mud” this morning. I reached down and picked up a tiny ball of poop with my bare hands. I know it was poop because I smelled it. Thank the universe for Bath and Body Works Kitchen Lemon hand soap. I scrubbed.
Not all animal games are excrement related. Since we have three cats and two dogs, we also get a variety of noise related games. Here are two:
Fighting or playing
This game usually starts when our two male cats run across the house chasing each other. There are usually a couple of ninja summersault moves that make the two resemble some sort of multi-colored furry ball. Once I see the fur tumbleweeds coming out of the ball, I know the correct answer is fighting.
Is someone puking, choking, or is the neighbor hammering something?
It never fails. My husband and I will be on the couch, watching Bates Motel, or some other super cool show, when that noise will start. You know the one. So we both get up, and look around for the upchucking cat or dog. Usually, it’s a cat with a wicked hairball. Sometimes, though, it’s our neighbor hammering or shoveling something. I’m not sure why the sounds are identical.
So, what about you? What kind of shenanigans go on in your house? What kind of cleaning fluid do you use?
A couple of weeks ago, I left the comfort zone and went on a scary trip to Bath and Body Works during one of their sales. It was terrifying and I blogged about it here. A kind soul named Olivia saw my Tweet about the blog and reached out to me for my mailing address. Now, I don’t normally just give my address to strangers, but she was offering beauty product samples, DELIVERED to my home. I would not have to pay for them or leave the house to get them. Win-win.
Olivia sent Perfectly Posh samples, along with detailed instructions on how to use them. Before trying them, I read more about the products, and I was thrilled to learn that they are all cruelty-free and as hypoallergenic as you can get. While people can be allergic to just about anything, Perfectly Posh really tries to use gentle ingredients. So, since is a Sunday, a typical shower and put on different pajamas day for me, I decided to try everything.
Here’s what I thought of the products I tried:
Best Friend Forever Face Wash (BFF): I usually shy away from scrubs, as they tend to irritate my Irish girl pasty skin. This one did not. It left my skin feeling super clean, and better than when I paid $95 for a facial at the spa. Yes, I was dumb enough to do that.
The Stripper D-Tox Body Mud Mask: My skin tends to be sensitive, as you may have gathered from my pasty Irish skin comment. Olivia told me The Stripper would “tingle” and feel “slightly warm.” She also told me “Don’t panic.” It’s like she knows me. I’m glad she prepared me because the first 10 seconds were more HOLY MOTHER OF GOD than tingle. After that, I was fine. I even painted my toenails while waiting for the mask to dry. This mask can be used on your entire body, but I would only put it on my face. I can’t imagine having my whole body “tingle” for 10 seconds.
Sweet Young Thing: This is a creamy serum. It’s light; I didn’t feel like my face was suffocating, like I do when I use the carrot oil stuff I paid $35 for at the spa. Since a little goes a long way, I still have enough serum to use for at least 4 days.
Moisturizer 911: This is a great face moisturizer. It’s light enough to use morning and night. It can be used alone, or with Sweet Young Thing.
Sugar Fix: I’m not really a body scrub kind of girl due to that whole sensitive skin thing I have going on. Sugar Fix is really gentle, though. I used it in the shower, and I even washed my face with it.
You Can Call My Candy: This is a body lotion. Posh calls it a Slather. I only had a little sample, so I just did my legs. It was light, and natural. It didn’t make my legs itch like some other products.
Hey Honey Hand Creme: This is by far my favorite Perfectly Posh product. Hey Honey Hand Creme instantly takes away that winter, skin splitting, dry feeling. It even made my hands look smoother, and therefore younger. It lasts through a few hand washings, too. So, I wasn’t constantly reapplying it like with Bath and Body Works products.