Sharing a fan favorite post: 22 hours, 5 states, an over-affectionate hockey fan, and finally finding the perfect restroom.

 

(This is a repost from a couple years ago because I'm in the final stages of #Nanowrimo and I can't find the will to write a new blog!  Enjoy!)

Hello all!

If you are celebrating Thanksgiving this week then Happy Thanksgiving!  

In the US this is the official kick off to the holiday season and we've gotten a bit crazy with the shopping. I mean, Black Friday should mean...you know...FRIDAY.  I give stores that are normally open 24 hours a pass because that's their regular schedule, but for the rest of the stores (I'm looking at YOU, Kohl's) there is no reason to make your employees miss a holiday with their families just so the rest of us can buy a discounted sweater and/or holiday ornament ten hours earlier than we would have anyway.  Black Friday should mean getting up in the dead of night, like 3 AM, grabbing a hot breakfast at your local 24 hour diner, and heading out to the stores around 4 or 5 AM on FRIDAY.  That's the way God intended it.  LOL

As for our family, we just got done last week celebrating my birthday and Skippy's with a quick trip to Detroit to see my beloved Redwings take on Skippy's beloved Tampa Bay Lightning at the historic Joe Louis Arena.  (Which they are tearing down at the end of the season.)

It was not going to be a long trip. Hubby and I, being old, planned on driving to the game Tuesday, watching the game Tuesday night, and coming home on Wednesday.  But...then Skippy said this:

"You know, we could just drive home after the game. Then you'd have a whole vacation day off instead of being in the car.  I do that drive all the time. It's a piece of cake."

Now, that might seem like a crazy idea, but after thinking about it and doing the math, we realized that yes, if the game got out at 10:30 Detroit time and we hit the road right away, we'd be home really no later than 4:30 Wisconsin time, allowing for stops and what not.  Skippy could do the bulk of the night driving and I would sleep in the back seat.

With this brilliant plan in place, we left for Detroit.  (Peaches opted to stay home with the cats.)

A rare picture of me...and two of my favorite humans.
(I'm in the middle.)

The trip there was uneventful, as expected. We stopped once for food and made it to the Joe without incident. Well, okay, we missed the turn into the parking garage, but other than that, no problem.  We'd driven through part of four states:  Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, and Michigan.  The plan was to take the same route back. It was a route we all know very, very well.

Take that, Avs fans!

Being at the Joe Louis Arena, "The Joe," is a pretty awesome experience. I mean, it's really not that much to look at. It's old.  The seats are not comfortable. There are no cup holders. And there's no leg room.

But then you look up in the rafters, where the championship banners are. There's almost no ceiling space left.  The Redwings have a long and beautiful history of championship wins and retired greats of the game.  

The game itself was a good one.  Maybe not for the guys sitting behind us, who were true Detroit fans in that every word out of their mouths was unrepeatable and they had little good to say about the home team.  Until the home team started winning at the end of the second period.

It was during the second intermission that I decided I should break one of my rules and find a bathroom.  Now, have I mentioned The Joe is old?  how old?  Let's just say that the bathroom facilities for women were not...ample.

I got at the end of a line that stretched a hundred feet into the back end of the other line for the other ladies room.  As I stepped into the line, there was a little tap on my shoulder and a blonde woman with a smoky voice said, "Don't go there, I know a better place."

Now, I realize that this is the start to many different types of fantasies and believe me, I was skeptical.  However, if I stayed in the line I would miss a good portion of the third period and I had not ridden in a car driven by someone else for six hours to stand in a line and not see the game.  So I followed the blonde.  She wove her way through the crowd to a staircase and then she vanished.  I looked at the staircase. Yes, there was a restroom at the top, but in line were probably 200 men.  I saw no women in line.

Wait...

There were no women in line.

For a restroom.  At a sporting even.

I watched as a couple women sprinted up the stairs and vanished through a concrete arch.  What did I have to lose?  So I, well I didn't sprint, but I moved pretty quickly up the stairs and at the top was a man who pointed me to a door where there were no women...

Inside...

The most glorious of all restrooms!  There were 50 stalls. I know this because they were numbered. They were clean!  The restroom smelled GREAT.  There wasn't a speck of dirt or a drop of water on the floor.  I saw steam rising out of the sinks, the promise of actual hot water!

Friends, most of you know my trials and tribulations when it comes to public restrooms. I'm here to tell you, I've found it!  I've found the absolute MECCA of ladies' rooms. It's the pinnacle of peeing!  I was in and out of there in under five minutes and there was no back up on the stairs, why?  Because there was a second door and stairs to go down.

At the bottom of this second flight of stairs I bumped into the blonde who recognized me (pink hair stands out in most crowds) and she said, "I was right, wasn't I?"  I nodded. I had no words for the magnificent loveliness she'd shared with me.

But back to the game.  

It was a good game, but the Redwings lost.  I was happy for Skippy because the Lightning won. I guess that's all part of being a mom. Anyway, as we walked out of the arena, the Hubby and Skippy decided they had to use the facilities. I would have shown them the staircase, but it would not have been as magical for them.  I told them I would park it next to the pillar next to the statue of Gordy Howe.

And now, for an "It can only happen to Sarah moment":

I stood there smiling, watching fans filter out of the building. I didn't feel crowded at all.  I was happy. This had been a great night!  And, we'd decided to take a short jaunt down to Toledo, OH, and hit a Waffle House on the way home. It wouldn't increase our drive by more than twenty minutes, the guys decided, so why not?

As I was thinking about the Waffle House menu a very, very tall Redwings fan and his buddy walked up to me.  I didn't think much of them, a lot of people brushed past me.  But this guy stopped.  He stopped and he leaned down to my face level.  Which, since he was so tall, meant all of my viewing space was full of him.

He put his arm around me like he was going in for a kiss or something.  Instead, he leaned a bit closer to my ear and said in a tender, moderately inebriated tone, "We lost.  It's a sad f---ing night."

"We did. But we're going to be okay," I responded.  I mean, what else are you going to say to that?

He seemed satisfied that we'd comforted each other and he and his buddy went on their way.

Okay then.

We drove down to Toledo (Thereby hitting our fifth state of the day) and had a lovely meal at Waffle house. I had a grits and eggs bowl.  It was fantastic. I have friends who think I'm nuts, but I love Waffle House.  

By this point it was one AM  Eastern Time.  (Game ran long, it had taken longer to walk out of the Joe than expected, and we lounged a bit at Waffle House.)

We did the math. We still thought we'd be home around 5:30 Central time.  Confident the guys had it in hand, I curled up in the back seat and tried to sleep.

And then we hit the death fog.

Death fog like I've never seen it.  We'd drive along for a couple miles at 70 and then BAM.  A while wall of no visibility for several miles.  This went on through half of Ohio and all of Indiana.  We had to stop twice in Indiana (Once at a gas station that wasn't open, but thanks to some GUY who just happened to be driving around at 3 AM, he informed us the station wasn't open and neither were the pumps, but that if we "drive up the road there a piece" we'd find all manner of open gas stations.)  We did, and by this time I was FREEZING in the back seat. Hubby and Skippy, in an effort to stay awake, had turned off the heat.  We didn't have a blanket in the car.

I'm now the proud owner of one of those silver plastic sheets, the kind they wrap accident victims up in. They sell those for $3.99 at the gas stations in Indiana.  Wrapped up in that I was warmer, and I also resembled a baked potato...or Jiffy Pop Popcorn.

By the time we hit the Illinois border, Skippy was asleep and the sun was starting to come up.  I had to be the co pilot through that last leg home.  

We pulled into our driveway and it was nearly 8 AM Central time.  the Hubs and Skippy went directly to bed.  I needed to thaw off my feet, so I took a hot shower, checked in on the conference call at my job, and then hit the couch and spent that whole lovely full vacation day...sleeping.

And so my friends, here ends my story.  The moral of the story is that I'm too old to stay up most of the night and it's going to be a long time before Hubby and I drive across Indiana and Ohio again.

With that, I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving and remember if you are making the dessert for dinner: 

Five for Friday; Things I'm going to need during NANOWRIMO

 

Well friends, here we are. I have no idea how we got to the last week of October already and I've blogged so little this year. Well, I mean, sure, Covid hassles stopped being funny a long time ago, and let's be honest, I never did get back into my real life groove after being in lock down. I mean, who would want to go back to a rigorous schedule of exercise and writing in the afternoons where there is SO MUCH TO WATCH on streaming services?

So yeah, I'm lazy. Completely lazy.

But it's the dawn of a new November. A new stab at National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo).  Last year I managed to complete the 50,000 word challenge and the end result was publishing "Deal With a Devil." This year, I'm way behind where I wanted to be with my next work in progress, a fantasy-dark comedy-romance-internet thriller I have lovingly called "Suburban Princess" for almost twenty years when the idea of it first came into my head.  If I can get over myself and actually write the darn thing, it might be the best thing I've ever come up with.  Certainly the cover is cool!

But soon I will be locked into another Nano challenge and I've already promised this book will be published next year.  So obviously I'm going to need some stuff from you, my readers, if I'm going to really be able to buckle down and get this book out!   

5)   COFFEE, COFFEE, and MORE COFFEE.

I don't eat while I'm writing, but I do drink. A lot. And much of it is coffee!  (Okay I drink coffee a lot anyway, but when I'm planning to sit up into the wee hours of the day, I need more coffee. 

4)  WINE!

Okay, a wise person once said (or maybe it was one of my refrigerator magnets, I get those two things confused) "Write drunk. Edit sober." Friends, I am in the meat of the writing part.  Traditionally, writers have drinking problems, this we know. And the chic writer beverage has been, historically, absinthe.  However, You can only drink so much absinthe before that green fairy becomes a bit too real.  (Which is hard to do since in the US all the fun stuff that's in old timey absinthe that made one hallucinate the green fairy  is taken out!  ((stupid FDA, harshing my fun)) . So my writing adult bevvy of choice is pinot noir. I'm not fussy. Only only cheap bottle will do. Or pricey bottles.  Did I mention I'm writing a dark-comedy-romantic-fantasy-thriller?  Hot tea is NOT going to cut it!

3)  CLEANING and COOKING services.  (OR...mystery food just delivered to my door!)

Hubby is great and all, but let's face it, he works too.  And Skippy isn't one to cook or clean just for funsies.  So, the Bradley manse is going to be a big old mess since I'm planning on ignoring housekeeping duties more than I do now.  So...you know...if you're not afraid of dirty dishes or dirty bathrooms or dirty...you get the picture.  It's going to be dirty.  And the guys are going to be hungry.  ('Cuz I'm going to COOK less than I do now...which is saying something.)  Basically, you can pretend my family 's on the prayer list at church and the guys are going to need casseroles. LOL

2) 5 star Amazon reviews for my other books!

Friends, I have 16 other books of various genres. I've always said I'm not in the writing business for the money. I don't think any author gets up in the morning (or stays up late at night) because there's a big payday at the end of a novel. There typically isn't. Unless your last name is King, Grisham, Roberts, you know, something like that.  

The authors I know get up and write because they have to.  They have stories to tell. Yes, there's a business component to everything we do, but at the end of the day, it's about the art of it. Every writer and author I know has a day job.  Every writer and author I know wishes they could make just enough money at their craft to quit their day job and write full time.  We authors, we don't dream of yachts and summer homes.  We dream of long stretches of time building worlds for others to enjoy.

A storyteller needs an audience and in this digital/internet world, the audience for book lovers is Amazon.  Amazon tracks the number of reviews a book gets and every book needs X reviews to gain visibility on Amazon so that other readers can find the book.  

I've been selling books now for more than a decade, to people who across the board have told me they love my writing.  (Not a brag, I'm just saying.) And I've been pounding away every November for the last ten years, laying the groundwork for a new book.  My reviews on amazon, while generally great, are very few and far between. So I'm putting out this plea, PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW.  

You don't need to be a best selling author to leave a book review on Amazon.  Simply click the 5 stars.  That's literally all you need. If you want to leave a comment, all you have to say is, "I really enjoyed this book."  Every review gets me closer to visibility on Amazon, closer to other readers reading my story. As a storyteller, this is the dream. Getting my stories to the biggest market possible.

And during Nano, seeing reviews for my books goes a long way to boosting me and reminding me that there is a point to what I do. People are reading my stories. They are loving my characters. I have a reason to go on!

1) Don't judge! Just send me encouragement! (But NOT on my phone!)

November is not only Nanowrimo, it's also the beginning of the holiday season. People laugh when I say I'm just about done gift shopping, but I have to be. November is all about the work.  There is nothing else.  In other years I've cut my Nano time short because of Thanksgiving, because I have to spend time with family and whatnot.

Not. This. Year.

That's how serious I am about this book.  It's going to be good. But not if I can't focus. So yes, I'm going to do some mildly social-family-holiday stuff, but I'm not planning on spending any kind of heavy duty quality time ooh-ing and ah-ing over my mom's turkey (I mean, it's not going to be good anyway, but this year I'm not even going to try and lie about it. That just takes up time. LOL)  I'm going to avoid social gatherings (more than I do now!) and I'm going to turn down invitations. Please don't judge. Just understand.

And send me messages, but not by phone. Cheer me on via Facebook or Sarah's Twitter.  Give me funny memes about writing, coffee, encouragement. Just say you wish me well.

This blog might sound like I'm going off to do something difficult and draining. I am. But it's something I love and this year...this year I'm going to put everything I have into it. And I'll be able to do it.

With a little help from my friends!

On a side note, it's NOT TOO LATE to sign up for Nanowrimo if you want to give it a go. It's FREE.  (Well, no money is involved.)  And I'll be your buddy!

Five for Friday: Here's a challenge!

 Hello and Happy October everyone!  (Yes, I realize we're halfway through October...whatever.)

There are a lot of other things I'm not doing this month either. But, I AM doing this thing:  

If you're in the New Berlin, WI, area TOMORROW, 10-16-21, come on down, check out my titles including my NEWEST:  Deal with a Devil

Okay, anyway, today's Five for Friday was inspired by a bunch of stuff I've managed to try (and fail) to do recently.  Yes, you are going to be tempted to try this stuff too.  Go ahead, do it. Especially if you're at work. Really give this stuff the good old college try.  Your co-workers will thank you!

5)  You can't put your elbow in your ear.

This is an old one, I think I got it from a TV commercial talking about cleaning your ears (clearly it was ANTI-Q TIP)  but recently I thought of it and had to give it go. Fail.  Give it a try.  See if you, like me, manage to 

4)  You can't tickle yourself.

I had ridiculously ticklish feet.  Just ask the few brave women who have given me pedicures over the years.  BUT, I can do whatever I want to my feet without nary a giggle.

3) You can't snap your toes.

Actually, I can do this.  It freaks Hubby out.  Go ahead. Try snapping your toes like you would your fingers.  I can...but I bet you CAN'T.

2) You can't smell or taste something disgusting without needing to share it.

It's not that we want to cause our loved ones discomfort. Or maybe we do. Humans are weird. But we've all been there, right? We've all opened that container in the fridge that smells like it came out of a Vincent Price movie and we say, "Oh wow, this is gross. Here smell this!

Did you taste something horrible?  I know, just like I know my own waist size, that you've turned to the person closest to you at the table and said, "This is so awful, you have to taste this!"

We can't help ourselves. Misery loves company.  If your pet barfs or craps in the house, you know, YOU KNOW, you're narrating everything as you clean it up, so everyone within 50 feet of you knows just how horrible the smell and texture are.  

"OH WOW, that cat vomit is REALLY juicy this time! It must be fresh!  CAT, what on earth are we feeding you that this smells so bad?  Did you eat rotting fruit? What is this?"

My challenge: The next time you come across something that smells or tastes terrible...keep it to yourself. Don't try to get your loved ones in on the fun. You'll fail, we all do, but try.

1)  You can't measure your own inseam.

This is actually the reason for this whole blog. You know that lovely, dreamy in between time in the morning when you're not really awake, but not asleep anymore?  Most people enjoy the remnant of a nice dream or, if you're my mother and it's the 1980's, you wake up wondering what you're going to defrost for dinner.  Not me. Nope. Couple days ago I drifted awake and realized I was bent in a weird way, as if trying to...measure my inseam.

Guess what, I couldn't. And neither can you!

Okay, so there we go.  5 things you absolutely cannot do. As an observer of humanity, I think I can confidently predict that you're going to spend at least five minutes today trying all five of them.  At the very least I will have distracted you from whatever you're supposed to be doing.

My work here is done.

In our defense, it was 4:45 in the morning...

 

 WARNING:  Today's blog includes a video that may contain salty language. Also, there might be  just a little touch of sacrilege.  YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!

A second blog on the same weekend? Well, sure. Extra long weekend means, extra weird stuff happening at the Bradley manse.  Or, in the case, in the Mighty Cube on the way to the airport.

Hubby's annual trip to the mountains begins today. Many of you know that means last night was the "Don't stress your mother out" speech to Peaches and Skippy.  (Honestly, after last week, I'm REALLY hoping we all just take a lot of naps and eat ice cream for the next two weeks. Or something like that.)  Anyway the kick off to his trip out west is the airport drop off.  Since his flight left at 6-something-AM, we had to be on the road to the airport in the middle of the night. 

Seriously.  I really miss the days of getting to the airport at the last minute and just running onto the plane. 

Okay, that never happened in my real life, or probably anyone else's, but this whole having to get to the airport ages before takeoff, it's just...annoying.

Fortunately, the coffee is generally hot and almost always fresh at Casa Bradley.  And, since it's 2021 and a holiday weekend, the local radio station was playing a massive "party block" of songs, all of which were upbeat, and familiar, and fun.

That's when Gwen Stefani's "Hollaback Girl came on the radio.

I'll admit it, I enjoy that song. And while it was playing, I got to thinking...out loud..."Where is THIS generation's cheerleader song?"

I mean, come on. My generation had "Mickey."  Remember "Mickey?"

And Peaches' generation had the much saltier, slightly less innocent, "Hollaback Girl." 

But where is the cheerleader song today?  

To which, Hubby said, "There probably is one.  They just don't play it on the radio stations we listen to."

True. I listen to the local ROCK station in the mornings, you know, for Bob and Brian. On Saturdays, when I'm not at the farmers' market, I listen to the call in request show on 88nine radio Milwaukee (For reasons that have nothing to do with today's blog). On the way to church on Sundays, we tune in to K-Love (Contemporary Christian Hits, for those of you not familiar.)  And that's it for me for radio.

"Yes," says I.  "They wouldn't have a cheerleading song on K-Love. I mean, what would that even sound like?"

And then my brain, my sleepy, coffee-soaked brain, started working the way it does sometimes and I started singing, not with the radio, no, with the tune to "Micky."  And this is what came out of my mouth...

"Oh Jesus, you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind! Hey Jesus, hey hey Jesus!"

In case anyone out there is pondering this, Hubby suggested the video could also be just like "Micky." Just put a big "J" on the cheerleaders' sweaters, and you're good to go.

So there's that. 

BOOM goes the fluffy girl!

Okay, you don't NEED to watch the video below to enjoy this blog...but it's hilarious in a cringy sort of way, so why not?

 

Hello everyone!

If you are friends with me on Facebook...and seriously, why aren't you...then you already know I fell down this week.

People of my age...and weight class...spend a lot of time and energy trying to NOT fall down.  When you're little and cute and you fall, everyone says, "Aww, did you fall down. Let me help you up."

That changes DRASTICALLY, when you reach your 50's and you're no longer what anyone would call, "little" or "cute."  

Here's the story:

As with most things in my life, this story takes place at Sam's, where I'm about to pick up a prescription for Skippy.  (This was a winning week at the Bradley house.  Four trips to the pharmacy in three days...yeah, there's nothing wrong with the state of mental health care in America.  Anyway, this was trip number four, and the second of day (actually, the second of the HOUR) Hubby had already been three times in the week, so Peaches and I said we'd go, pick up the newest meds and maybe some other fun stuff.  

We got there, grabbed a cart, picked up a few items and were about to head to the pharmacy where they know me so well that I can check out a few more than "one or two" items right there.  I think we had five items in the cart as we passed the big open coolers where they sell berries and grapes. I decided we needed some raspberries so I turned (without saying anything to Peaches) to my right. 

I thought I was fully behind Peaches, who was pushing the cart, but no. I was not.  I stepped on Peaches' flip flop as she was in mid step. Horrified, thinking I'd stepped on her foot, I lifted my foot quickly, stumbled, and went sprawling to the concrete floor.  

 Now, at this point, I'm facing the concrete, so I can't see what's going on behind me and Peaches can't tell if I'm conscious or not.  She looked around, she said, for a strong dude to come help, you know, because there's no way she's strong enough to heft me off the floor.  No one was nearby, except...one...woman.

For a moment.

That woman, according to Peaches, too one look at my daintily splayed body and abandoned her cart, diving quickly into the liquor aisle and out of sight.  Peaches says she's pretty sure the woman left her purse behind, such was her rush to NOT help.

Fortunately, however, I was able to get back to my feet.  My left knee was pretty scraped up, but I seemed to be okay otherwise. Nothing seemed broken.  I was so grateful I could still move on my own, I don't even think I felt all that much embarrassed.  Which is funny because there's no way I shouldn't be completely shamed by this.

Anyway, we got to the pharmacy where Silver, (Not his real name) the young pharma tech commented that this was our family's second trip there...(yeah, dude, we know.) That's when I hobbled up on my soap box briefly about mental health care in this country. I can't yell at Silver too much though.  That dude is actually really helpful.

By the time we got home, however, I realized something was clearly not happy with my knee. Well, I mean, not so much my knee as the knee pit (which is what the kids called it when they were little.) I couldn't bend it.  I couldn't put weight on it.  Getting up from a chair, or, THE THRONE, was unbelievably painful.  

Sleeping was NOT in the cards for me Wednesday night.  Every move and shift was horrible.  

Thursday morning I got up and, with the aid of leaning on all my furniture (I'm never in my LIFE been so thankful I live in a small house) I managed to get around.  Getting dressed was...an event.  I couldn't bend my left leg AT ALL and I couldn't bend at the waist to get something of the floor. So, this is how I put on my shorts:

I set them on the floor and kicked the leg holes open as wide as I could. I stepped into the leg holes (holding myself up with one hand on the dresser and one on the bed) and slipper my toes under the bottom hem of each leg. The I hoisted my right foot up, which brought the shorts up my left leg, and I grabbed the waist band with my right hand before my left leg gave out completely.  

Oh yeah, and thank goodness for slip on shoes.  Because socks, shoelaces, and velcro sandal straps were NOT HAPPENING.

Hubby gave me a round of applause for getting my shorts on without his help. So there's that.

Fortunately for me, Hubby used to make really nice walking sticks.  We still had one in the garage.  I used that to navigate around the house, often "Yoda style," on Thursday and part of Friday.

As long as I was moving, it was stiff and sore, but I could move. The minute I sat down for work for longer than a couple minutes, when I got up...great horrible screams.  Same with getting off the couch.

By Friday morning I was much better and today, while my knee is stiff and there's still a lot of soreness on the back of my leg, I managed to do the Farmer's Market and go grocery shopping.  Hubby, once again, is my knight in shining armor. He did the laundry this week and has helped me stay in motion to loosen up the muscles.  

Here's hoping that's it for drama. Hubby leaves for the mountains this weekend and, readers of this blog know, the big drama usually happens around here when he's away.  But, Skippy is back into his normal routine, Peaches is moving forward again, and I've already had my injury.  We should be good.

Oh yeah. We totally got this.  What else could POSSIBLY go wrong?

5 for Friday! I already knew this...I didn't need any reminders!

Good morning!

Sometimes, just about the time you think you know all the life lessons you're going to need to know, life decides you need a refresher course in the basics of human ridiculousness.  Such was the case recently when I went to the doctor's office to have my itchy ears looked at.  (For those of you not in the know, the inside of my ears have itched for about 3 years now.  Also, my left ear has been clogged in and ringing since March. There. You're caught up.)  Anyway, everything below happened on one day, all within roughly a 60 minute period of time.

5)  Not everyone is funny.

The key to humor is timing, everyone knows this. I'm also going to say that PLACE is a pretty big deal.  For example, a joke about J.S. Bach being the rock star of the Lutheran church is HILARIOUS in a church basement full of Lutherans.  It's way less funny at literally any other live music venue.

Which brings me to the COVID screener at the clinic where most of my doctors are located.

Sigh.

First of all, my clinic has two sides: the regular medical side and the cancer side.  (I go to both, not because I have cancer, but because I see the hematologist for my iron issues.)  The screeners on the cancer side are always very nice, very helpful, and appropriately chatty.

And then there's the guy on the regular medical side.

I'm not sure where they got this guy, but Clint Eastwood's character from "Gran Torino" wouldn't be far off.    Total super grumpy old guy.

Generally he just barks at you to lift your bangs so he can take your temp. Then he sticks your dated sticker on your boob (nope, he doesn't need you to do it, he's got it0 and then he points and grunts at the check in kiosks.  Super helpful and customer servicy.  

But on the day in question, he must have decided to be a little more people friendly. I was holding a manila envelop (we'll get to that in a minute) and he said, "Lift your bangs.  Whatcha got there?"

I said, "I'm dropping off a package for my doctor."

"Oh," he says, "I didn't realize they were BUYING drugs in here now."

4)  ALWAYS ask the fluffy girl.  She knows.

The manila envelop in question was my forms for my health insurance that my idiot general practice doc (more on him in a minute) needs to fill out so I can same some buckage on my insurance rates.  Last year my IGP (Idiot General Practictioner) FORGOT to send in the forms. So this year I was getting them done a head of the deadline AND I was going to pick them up and send them myself.  Which is what I wrote in big, black letters on the envelop.

I approached the desk and since the fluffy girl seemed be on the phone, I went to the not fluffy girl.  "Two questions," says I.  "First, is this the check in desk for Dr. XXX?" (I was seeing a new guy, for my ears.)

"No," says the not so fluffy girl, "His office is directly above this desk."

"Great," says I.  "Second question, can you please get this to Dr. IGP?  The instructions are on the envelop and his nurse will know what it's for."

NSF (Not So Fluffy)  took the envelop and then looked at me with fear, genuine fear, in her eyes.  "ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm..."

Now, come on.  It's not like NSF was young. She was definitely in my age class or above. It's not like she'd never been handed an envelop before!

Meanwhile, Fluffy was off the phone and looked over her shoulder, "Oh wow, you are early with that!" she cheered.

"You know what this is?"  NSF held the envelop with the very tips of her fingers, as if it contained some kind of weaponized chemical or something.

"Yes, it's for her insurance company."  Fluffy responded.

"What do I do with it?"  NSF is still holding the thing like  it's toxic.

Clearly Fluffy was having a long day with NSF.  "Give it to me," she said in that exhausted voice we fluffy girls know too well. It's the voice we have when we've spent a long time being the smartest person in the room and get zero credit for it because everyone thinks if you're fluffy you're stupid.  (I worked for a guy who told me every day that I'd be more intelligent if I lost 50 pounds.)

Anyway, the envelop was in Fluffy's hands and she was going to get the job done.  Confident, I moved on to the next thing.

OF COURSE NOT!

3) My General Practitioner is kind of an idiot.

You know how you get those punch cards for free meals at crappy sandwich places and when you get all the dots punched you get a free crappy sandwich?  And it's not like you WANT more sandwiches from the place because they are crappy...but it's free, so you know, why not?

Yeah, well, that's kind of the reason I keep going to my Idiot General Practitioner.  (IGP)  He's not a good doctor. I've been seeing him for more than 15 years now.  He's about 90% useless and I really only see him for my annual physical and bloodwork.   Then I see specialists for literally everything else.

Case in point, this ear problem:  I've been telling IGP that my ears have itched for a long time now.  And he looks in my ears and says, "They're clean, you're fine."  

Well, in May I was sick to death of my left ear ringing and being plugged, plus it also hurt like crazy.  So I got in to see him because, you know, that's what you do when you think you have an ear infection.

He looked in my left ear and said, and I quote, "I can't tell if the ear's infected. The ear drum looks like something smeared peanut butter on it and then threw sprinkles on it."

Okay...

Now, and I'm just spitballing here, a good doctor might, oh I don't know, CLEAN THE EAR and take another look. Not this guy. Nope, instead, he looked at my right ear, which he deemed, "VERY WAXY" (and didn't clean it) and he prescribed antibiotics and some super expensive ear drops.

Infection dealt with. But the left was still clogged and ringing and both ears still itched.  

This is the same guy who lost my insurance forms and I wound up not saving any money on insurance premiums last year.    Why do I keep going to him?  

Well, it's like that free sandwich. I mean, I never have to wait to get in to see him.  I call and I can get in the same day.  Plus, his blood pressure machine gives me the lowest numbers of any in the building.  I'm stupid to give that up, right?

2) The grossness of your medical issue is directly related to the hotness of the medical professional. 

Ladies, we know this is true.  And it gets more true the older we get.  If something gross is coming out of you, or if your medical complaint is particularly icky, the medical person in charge is going to be wildly, and I mean "Grey's Anatomy" attractive.  (You know, back when Grey's still had attractive people on it...sigh.) 

Back when I was young and a little eyeliner was all I needed to look good, my doctors weren't all that good looking, at least, not that I noticed. But once I had kids (the ultimate in gooey weird stuff coming out of you...not the babies, the other stuff they never tell you about until it's too late) I started noticing this phenomenon.  

My GYN:  used to be an old guy, and before that a little Jewish guy who was adorable but not super hot.  Now?  REALLY beautiful woman.  

Remember my Frankenboot era? My physical therapist was HOT!  

The guy who dealt with my sinus infection...I don't remember his name, but when I called to make a follow up appointment all I said was, "He was good looking," and the nurse knew EXACTLY which doctor I was talking about.

My car accident in 2012 when I went to urgent care covered in Slimfast?  HOT DOCTOR.

Which brings me to my ears on the day in question.  In walks this...guy.  his picture online looked NOTHING like the tall, dark, and yummy standing in front of me. Like a cross between George Clooney and Noah Wylie from "ER."

Oh yeah, I want this guy digging around in my weird ear.

But, he's an ENT and that's what he gets paid to do. So...I explained my problem and how I had an infection, probably, back in May (this new appointment was in August). 

Hot ENT says, "Did you IGP clean out the ear?"

Apparently, IGP is the only person on the planet who didn't think he had to.

So Hot ENT looked in my ear.  "Well," says he, "You have a giant wad of wax pressing against your eardrum."

He stuck a tiny vaccuum cleaner in my ear and 15 semi uncomfortable seconds later, I could HEAR AGAIN.  (Bummer, no more excuse to NOT go to choir practice! LOL)  

I figured, hey, I'm here, let's run the itchy ear thing by him.

"No," says he. "That's not normal." he looked in my right ear and said, "Your ears are very waxy. It actually looks like you have eczema in there."

Eczema. In my ears.  This is like getting a yeast infection in my arm pits. Which I've also done.  (And yes, the dermatologist was good looking.)

So, he prescribed some oily drops, and told me to stay away from Q-tips because I was pretty much just angering the eczema.  Like Guru Saj angering Ross' koondis.

1)  The gas station is not a pick up joint.

Freshly able to hear, I left the clinic and went to my local Kwik Trip to fill my Mighty Cube's tank.  sounds like a simple task, free and clear of any weirdness, right?

Would it be #1?

so I'm standing there in that tiny space between the Cube and the gas pump, listening to Kwik Trip TV and generally enjoying the lack of ringing and clogged sound in my head.  And then...

"Libertarian?"

This grimy guy, you know the look, like he hasn't showered in anything other than dirt and motor oil in the last three weeks, comes up behind me in that tiny space between the car and the gas pump. Basically I'm hemmed in.  And he's in my face.

"What?"

"Libertarian? Do you listen to Chris Spangle? He's really good."

Oh right. I have a bumper sticker on my car that says, "Libertarian."  I joined the party a couple years ago when, sick of the two party system, I did the one political thing I've ever done in my life, and sent the Libertarians ten bucks.  All I'm going to say is that I'm sure there are really normal people out there who believe in personal freedoms and smaller government like I do...but I haven't met them. The Libertarians I meet tend to be a little more...creepy dirty guy-ish. Like it's some kind of endangered freedom to NOT bathe.

Anyway, this dude has me trapped between the gas pump and the car and oh yeah there's a whiff of BO about him.  He backs up and move around to the front of the Cube to continue the conversation.  "Yeah, Chris Spangle, he's great, you should listen to him."

"Yeah, okay, I'll check that out."  I mean, I'm a Midwesterner. We chat when chatted to.  (Kind of what got me into some trouble on a Greyhound bus when I was 16, but that's another story.)  

"Yeah, I think you'd enjoy that.  Oh and do you listen to WVCY?"

(I do not.  I listen to Bob and Brian weekday mornings and 88 Nine Radio Milwaukee on Saturday mornings because the call in show is the BEST of terrible radio and it's fun.)

"Yeah, WVCY, you'd really like their Sunday morning shows.  You should listen to it sometime. I never miss it."

It occurred to me at this moment that this was not a lonely guy simply chatting up someone while waiting for his car to fill.  (First of all, he didn't have a car.)  Nope, this guy was...trying to pick me up?  At the gas station?

I mean, again, I'm a Midwestern girl. So, manners.  But honestly, I'm conflicted. I mean, I haven't been hit on in a VERY long time.  (Being 50+ and plus sized and also married tends to cut down on that sort of thing. LOL)  So, you know, that was something. But still...greasy guy at the gas station, and he opens by pointing out the political bumper sticker on the car?   (I have other far more interesting bumper stickers on the mighty cube.)

So let this be a lesson to you guys out there: Grocery store, yes. Gas station, no. (But I really feel like I shouldn't have to say this.)

Clearly the Piano Player's Ancestor was on the Titanic.

Howdy all!

I'm working on a bang up Five for Friday this week, hopefully I'll get that out, but first I have to share a little moment in my life that could only happen to me.  (And like maybe the other 10 people who were shopping at Menards on Tuesday night.)

Let me start by saying the weather this summer has been FUNKY.  Up here in Southeastern Wisconsin we've had longer hot stretches than I can remember, and it's been DRY. Sunny, hot, humid, just perfect for those people (of whom I am NOT one) who like to go out and get all tanned while they're gardening or hiking, or biking, or swimming at the local city pool, or whatever it is people who like to be outside like to do.  As for me, I make sure I get my daily walks in before sunrise or after sunset or at the grocery store.  Scarlett O'Hara would envy my milky white skin.

Anyway, so the weather has been funky and really, really dry in terms of rainfall. Everyone I see will say something like, "Boy do we need the rain."  (Except I know they don't mean it because they aren't farmers and 98.7% of the people I've met who aren't farmers but do like to be outside really don't like rain because it keeps them from being, you know, outside.)

The dryness of our weather ended the last two weeks as God looked down from Heaven, realized He hadn't tossed any stormy weather our way in a while, and let loose with all kinds of craptastic weather events.  Super winds, tornados, thunder and lightning, hail, and RAIN.  Rain like you would not believe in the last several days.  

At this point I here my friend and faithful reader, Todd, who lives in Southern California, mock me.  See, I take every chance I get to tell him that Wisconsin weather is superior to California weather because our weather doesn't try to come INDOORS and kills us. You know, like the mudslides, the earthquakes, that sort of thing. Our outside stays outside.

Yeah...well, then this week happened.

But, Wisconsinites, and indeed all Great Lakes Midwesterners don't let a little precipitation get in our way. If we did, we'd never leave our homes during the 8.5 months of winter!  So, on Tuesday, even though the skies were darkening and storms were predicted, hubby wanted to go to Menards because he had a $33 rebate check burning a hole in his pocket and he wanted to look at stuff.

I hadn't eaten dinner yet, (it was about 6 PM) but I wasn't super hungry and figured an outing would be a good thing. So, off to Menards we go!

The thing you have to know about Menards...if you don't know...is that they have EVERYTHING!  Or, at least they have some form of everything, just maybe not the brand names you recognize.  (I mean, you know Dinty Moore Beef Stew? Well they don't have that...but they do have some kind of beef stew and I swear the label is in Russian.)  Menards is a DYI store that also sell some groceries, clothes, books, movies, (None of which I've ever heard of...) and all kinds of candy, furniture, and fun stuff.  You just never, ever know what you're going to find. 

It's the Forest Gump of DIY stores.  

So after wandering for almost an hour, Hubby and I had collected a little more than $33 of odds and ends: a novel, a dvd, two cans of deviled ham spread, a new overhead light for the basement workout room, all of which were tucked nicely in our cart. We were on the second floor which was no biggie. There's this great ramp/people mover that carries humans and carts to the second floor. (They also have elevators, but why would you ride in an elevator when you can ride a RIDE?) 

It was during this wander around the upper level that the lights started to flicker and God in His fury fired many, many bolts of light at the store...like He was mad at it.

I should mention, I also hadn't charged my phone in a while...I was running on about 24% charge.

And then it all went black. And stayed black for a minute while the generators were powering up the back up lights.

And the piano player played on.

oh, did I not mention her?  Well, to add to the fun that is Menards, there's usually a baby grand at the top of the moving rampway and some local high school kid or ex con looking for community service hours, or some local pianist just eager to twiddle away for a couple hours, will sit and play that thing while people shop for toilet seats and dog food and "as seen on TV" crap.

So the lights are out, which means the cash registers are as well. And there are a number of us, maybe a dozen or so, who fumble our way from the corners of the store to gather at the check out area, hoping against hope one of them will just spring to life.

And the piano player played on.

We stood for about fifteen minutes and I couldn't take it any more.  They managed to get one of the cash registers to reboot but things were moving slowly. Hubby suggested I go back to furniture, find a comfy chair, and hang out. He would text me when he was through the line.

Which is what I did. Having very little charge, I couldn't check facebook or anything, so I went old school. I found a wooden rocking chair there in the furniture department. I was parked just below the moving ramp, hence, close to the piano.  So I sat, rocked, and listened to a really twisted mix of the pianist's showtunes and the loudspeaker belting out "YOU SAVE BIG MONEY, WHEN YOU SHOP MENARDS."

The store employees ignored me, except for one guy who asked if I had people checking out up front. I ached to give him some smart aleck answer like, "No, I'm the ghost who lives here and moves crap around at night so the day shift gets mad at the night shift." But the pianist rolled into a very creative version of "Elinor Rigby" and it erased my snarkiness.

So there we were, the pianist on the abandoned second floor and me, in a rocking chair twenty feet below her.  And all I could think about was that string quartet on the Titanic, the guys who played until the boat was halfway under water.  

I'm fairly certain this piano player is descended from one of those guys. And I'm also fairly certain they're proud of her for playing on as thunder and lighting roared around her.

We finally got checked out, but here's one final thing that puts the cherry on the top of the night: That rebate check?  Yeah, we couldn't use it.  The cash registers could process credit payments, but not rebate checks. We'll have to go back and gather up another bunch of stuff worth $33.