Monday, February 13, 2017

The Naval Warmer

Being cold natured, I'm a big fan of "warmer" gear.  Hand Warmers?  Ear Warmers?  Leg Warmers?  Bring'm on.

I even have a Neck Warmer.

But I've never considered getting a Navel Warmer. 

It just never occurred to me that warming my navel would help warm up my entire body.  But according to the Japan Trend Shop it does!

My Mom always told me to wear a hat in the winter because my body heat would escape through my head if it wasn't covered.

The Navel Warmer probably works the same way.

But then again, I rarely leave home with my navel uncovered.  Part of the reason I keep it covered is that I'd freeze my butt off if my navel was uncovered. 

A more significant reason for leaving it covered is that I fear exposing my navel to the world would cause significant civil unrest.

Wait a minute!  I may have this all wrong.

Perhaps leaving my naval exposed in public would actually reduce divisiveness!  People from all races, genders, and political agendas would unite for this cause.




"Gross!  Who does she think she is?  BeyoncĂ©?"
"I wish I could un-see that." 

"Cover that thing up!"



I have my doubts about the new Lady Warmer Hezo Kyu Navel Warmer

They claim it's practical (and safe!) in that you don't need to light anything up.  You just put the Navel Warmer in the microwave for 30 seconds, take it out, and place it on your naval.




That's so much better (and safer!) than lighting a campfire atop your navel.

But then again, the Lady Warmer Hezo Kyi Navel Warmer is not inexpensive ($210 plus shipping and handling).
I think I'll just take my chance with the campfire.

Besides, if the fire spreads, I'll warm up even faster.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017

The Missing Questions


The email came out of the blue.  From a marketing manager at PuppySpot, a company whose mission it is to make lives better by placing healthy puppies into happy homes.



Rachel thought it would be great if I would let my readers know about a fun flowchart she had created that helps link personality traits in people to their most compatible breeds.  She offered to show it to me.

Even though I hate puppies, I asked Rachel to send me her flowchart so I could consider writing about it.

OK, you guys all know that I'm lying about hating puppies, right?  I like puppies way better than most people.  Especially teenagers.  And politicians.

Here's Rachel's fun flow chart.
 

It starts off well.  The first question is, "Where do you live?" which is a very helpful question to help you narrow down the optimal breed of your future pup.  Although the rest of the questions are good, the list seems to me to be incomplete.

Um, Rachel?  I respectfully suggest adding the following questions to your flowchart:

"Do you own a good vacuum cleaner?"  and "Do you have packing tape?"  If the answer to both of these questions is no, you should probably avoid a Chow Chow.




And what about, "How big is your shovel?"  Unless it is large, you may want to cross Great Danes off your list. 



"Do you mind if your dog eats your furniture?" is also missing from the list, as is "Do you  mind if your puppy eats your underwear?"  If the answer to either of these questions is yes, you may want to get a fish.

And what about, "Do you want to dress up your dog for social occasions?"  I'm pretty sure there are some breeds that would not be amenable to wearing a doggie tutu.

But then again, maybe I'm wrong about that.



Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Verbal Diarrhea

Ever since my Rotator Cuff surgery I've had the pleasure pain of participating in Physical Therapy.  My PT Therapist, let's call him "Igor", is a great guy who genuinely wants me to get back to 100%.

However, his empathy for my low pain threshold, that is scientifically linked to my red hair and left-handedness, seems a bit insincere.  I get the sense that he thinks I'm a bit on the whiny side.


Which I just don't get.  I don't whine that much.  (For a debilitated left-handed redhead.)

We start each treatment with arm swings.  I bend over at the waist and place my right arm on the bed and let the injred arm hang limply.  Then I sway my hips back and forth, which kick-starts my left arm moving in a circle.  20 times clockwise.  20 times counterclockwise.

As a side note, Dave walked into the bathroom yesterday while I was doing my arm swings.  He stopped in his tracks, turned around and exited.  I heard him tell the dog, "Kevin. Don't go in there.  Your mother's doing something deviant."



The worst part of PT is when Igor moves my arm FOR me.  I lie on the bed as he slowly moves my arm up and down. 

Like a damn railroad crossing arm.

And he forces it to go a bit higher each time.  It's called "Passive Range of Motion."

I noted a positive correlation between the intensity of my pain and my level of concentration on what Igor is doing to my poor arm.  The more I focus, the more it hurts.




Thus, Verbal Diarrhea rears its ugly head.

Each time Igor begins the Passive Range of Motion I begin my monologue.  Which has evolved into the random history of my life.

And it works!  The more I babble the less pain I feel.

"Igor, did I ever tell you about the time I suggested Linda dry her hair using the Gold's Gym hand dryer?  OMG it gave her the biggest dread lock I have ever seen.  It was  hysteric YOWZA, IGOR YOU'RE KILLING ME So once when I was going to a Bill's game I made a sign out of a sheet that said, 'Conrad you can hold me if you want.  I'll even let you score'. I hung it right in the end zone.  My Mom was so mad at me JUDAS CHRISTMAS IN JULY WHAT ARE YOU DOING IGOR? Did you like macaroni and cheese when you were a kid?  I used to put hot dogs in my kids Mac 'N Cheese to make it even less healthy FOR CRYING IN THE BEER IGOR I AM NOT GUMBY!  STOP! You know one time I did an experiment when I tried to start a pair of Dave's underwear on fire on the driveway using a Barbie roller blade.  It didn't work.  Turns out that what I thought was hairspray was dry shampoo.  Imagine that! HOLY STINKIN' COW, IGOR!  HOW MUCH LONGER?  Did you ever cook a turkey, Igor?  There's a scene in Heck the Dolls with Chardonnay where Becky's cooking her first turkey and she thought the turkey neck was a penis.  And then her husband wants a sandwich so she sticks the neck between 2 pieces of bread and gives it to him.  And hs says it's great and that he loves the texture of the meat.  Igor?  Where'd you go?"

I hadn't even noticed that Igor had walked away and was writing something in his notebook.

"There you are, Igor!  We're done already?  Wow.  That wasn't so bad."

I'm not sure what he was writing in his notebook.  I would hope he'd be entering notes about the amazing progress I've made.

And not a referral for a mental health professional.

Because I don't need one.

I have Igor.

Sunday, January 15, 2017

Token Madness

What Baby Boomer doesn't recall the fun of picking his or her token at the start of a childhood Monopoly game?



My sisters and I would argue over who got to be the Scottie Dog.  My brothers would go to the mat over the Race Car. 

But nobody wanted to be the Iron.  The Iron was lame.  In fact, Hasbro replaced it with a cat in 2013.

Now Hasbro is sponsoring Token Madness, a contest to come up with a new, more relevant set of Monopoly game tokens.  In addition to the Scottie dog, top hat, car, thimble, boot, wheelbarrow, battleship and cat, there are 56 options that the public can vote on here.
As you can see, Hasbro has provided some "interesting" new options.  I can just imagine making my way around the Monopoly board as a Bunny Slipper!



Or passing GO as a Sliced Bread token.



Have the Marketing geniuses at Hasbro lost their minds?  Where's the wine glass? The Pop Tart?  The tap dance shoe?

Come on Hasbro!  Why do you have to pre-select the options anyhow?  Why not let the public come up with ideas?

Oh.  I know why.

Hasbro is afraid of the public.  And their collective sense of humor.

Like when the public voted to name a Humpback Whale in a 2007 Greenpeace internet poll Mister Splashy Pants.

I happen to like that name.


Then there was that Dub the Dew contest in 2012 where an Italian restaurant launched a campaign to choose the name for their apple-green soft drink.  They had to cancel the campaign when the winner was "Hitler did nothing wrong."  The 1st runner up was "Diabeetus".

Yeah.  I guess I'd have cancelled that campaign, too.

But my favorite public poll gone awry was the contest to name an expensive polar research vessel.

And I'm kind of bothered by the fact that they decided not to name the $300 million Antarctic boat Boaty McBoatface.  



It won fair and square, right?


I suppose that's why Hasbro pre-selected the 64 tokens included in the Great Monopoly Token-Off. 

But guess what, Hasbro Marketing Geniuses.  There's a downside to your chicken-ass business decision. 


We will probably never hear these words in an American Living Room.


"I want to be the tampon."

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

Developing Healthy Lifestyles

I was taking a walk with Kevin on Christmas day when I noticed them: the two kids riding brand new bikes down the sidewalk.  The boy was about 8.  His sister no older than 6.  They made me smile.

Bikes under the Christmas tree.  A rarity in this day and age of electronics and gadgets that have proliferated the shopping season.

These kids were getting exercise rather than sitting around on their butts, playing on some expensive new devices.


My smile broadened as they got closer.  Clearly the offspring of outstanding parents.  Parent who understand the importance of exercise and helping kids develop healthy lifestyles.


These parents deserve medals.


As the boy passed me on the sidewalk I heard him say, "Mom, how far can I go?"  I looked around to see the mom.  (I had to sneak a peek at this June Cleaver of 2016.)




I didn't see her.

"Turn around at the bus stop," she said loudly and clearly.


What?  Where was she?


As the little girl approached me on her bike she said, "Mom, can I go with Brice?"


I looked around again.  What was she, Casper the invisible mom?


And from the iWatch on the girl's left arm came the response, "Okay, but be careful."

Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Sling Blade

Time for an update on my recovery from that lil' ole Rotator Cuff surgery I had last week.

Over the past 211 hours (but who's counting) my arm has been held captive by a very tight papoose sling. I have a love/hate relationship with that damn sling.

I hate it 99.99% of the time.

When I'm brave enough to remove the sling for a wardrobe change, my arm feels as if 2 million alien chinchilla are gnawing at it.

My only relief is returning said arm to the sling. Which is when when I love my sling. (The technical term for this phenomenon is "Sling Stockholm Syndrome".)

Speaking of wardrobe, many would consider mine these days to be a fashion "don't".  But it's actually more like a fashion HELL NO, DON'T YOU DARE.
I wear a long sleeved buttoned up PJ shirt under the sling. And pull-up pants.  That don't necessarily have to match.  

I tried, unsuccessfully, to put on jeans but could not pull up the zipper nor fasten them one-handed.

It was quite the scene.  

It should be noted that I have not applied deodorant to my left arm pit for 9 days.  I suspect that is why Dave and Kevin can most often be found seated to my right.  Or in another room.

On a positive note, I have learned how to eat with my right hand.  Typically 82% of the food ends up in my mouth. Four percent lands on my face, 2% in my hair and the rest is, unfortunately, destined for my shirt, and contributes to the need for a wardrobe change.  

I entertain myself during the day by deleting junk mail from my in-box.  The rest of the time I am either reading, binge watching NetFlix, or shopping online.  

Dave thinks this surgery has saved us a fortune in shopping expenses.  Wait till he sees my Discover card bill.  Which brings me to my scathingly brilliant idea for a revision to ObamaCare: allow me to use my Health Savings Account card for surgical recovery shopping. (Feel free to use this idea, Donald.)

Dave and I go on one "special" outing each day.  Yesterday's trip to the Dollar Tree was just too darn short!  Although I am grateful to be getting out of the house, Dave has absolutely no appreciation for the Dollar Tree Customer Experience.



I was barely past the Rudolph Earrings and headed into the musical instrument aisle when I heard him beeping his car horn.

My surgeon, who has a very sick sense humor, prescribed what appeared to be Michael Jackson/Elvis drugs, but were really placebos.  The only impact the meds had on me required additional pills, the first of which I affectionately called S2.   (Stool softener)  The second was Benedryl, to get rid of the rash that covered my torso.   I threw a third into the mix: Chardonnay.   

I can finally sleep through the night.

I have a follow-up appointment with my surgeon tomorrow.  That's when I'll get the scoop about physical therapy.   If he takes my arm out of the sling I cannot be held accountable for his well-being.


That's all the news I have to report.  Except I'm still trying to pull my hair into a pony tail one handed. One of my neighbors did it for me last week.  She said my hair was soft.  

I must have had bananas for breakfast that day.  

I have an idea, but I'll need Dave's cooperation:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzJ7lf8mqBg

Friday, December 2, 2016

The Flopped Rescue

I was minding my own business in the Wendy’s drive through lane when I noticed some movement in the back of the pick-up truck in front of me.

The driver of the truck was paying for his lunch at the window.  His tailgate was open.

I surveyed the truck bed.  It contained buckets and what looked like an old freezer lying on its side, held in place with yellow rope.   

I saw something moving.  What was it?

Then it flopped.  

OMG. It was a fish.  A flopping fish.

I gasped.  What the flip was a fish doing in the back of a pick up truck in Wendy's drive through?

The fish kept flopping.  As if trying to make a get-away.  What should I do???

“There’s a fish flopping in that truck!” I said loudly to nobody.  

Nobody responded.  The fish kept flopping.

“He’s gonna die!” I roared.

Where did he come from?  The bucket?  He was about 6 inches long so he probably wasn’t bait.  Unless they were fishing for really big fish.

I quickly sized up the situation.  I could step out of my car and tell the driver that there was a fish flopping around on his tailgate.  He would probably laugh at me.

Or I could rescue him!  That’s what I should do.  There was a sidewalk between our vehicles.  I could walk past and casually reach in and grab the little guy.



But he needed water.  Badly.  His flops had become less spirited.  All I had was Diet Coke and I was relatively certain no fish could survive long in Diet Coke.  

I had no choice.  I had to tell the driver about the fish.

Except he drove away.  

“Wait!!!” I screamed.  “There’s a fish flopping on your tailgate!”  

I was sick to my stomach.  The poor guy was dead meat.  Make that dead fish.  

I drove up to the window.  The employee said, “$5.19,” without looking at me.

I handed her my credit card and in a shaky voice said, “There was a fish flopping around the back of that truck.”

“Say what?”

“There was a fish flopping around in the tailgate of that truck.  The one you just served.”

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t see no fish.”

I did.  And I wish I hadn’t.

My fish sandwich would have tasted way better.