DIANA REPUBLIC

I think it has been said by all sorts of maritime authorities, but just for the record: Let’s all stop sailing in and around the Arabian Sea and the Gulf of Aden, shall we? I don’t mean to be insensitive; the tragic execution of the four Americans last week made me sick to my stomach. But this seems to be a dangerous area can we all agree? There are packs of pirates with nothing better to do than board ships and take hostages to negotiate for ransoms. With all this information, I am having a particularly difficult time understanding the logic of the most recent victims of the Somali pirates. They brought their three children with them on this ill-advised odyssey.

I am not a fan of sailing in general so you have pretty much lost me from the start. If I did develop an affinity for sailing, I can guarantee you that pirate infested waters would not be part of my route. Maybe there is the thought that if we don’t go there, the pirates win. I am not pro-pirate, unless we are talking about the patch-wearing parrot carrying Disney version, but I say let ‘em win this one.

This adventure seeking Danish family, who in my mind should be home making wooden shoes or windmills, went so far as to blog that they had “a plan” should they be boarded. Hmmm. And their plan was based on their experiences with which pirates? And the pirates have what to lose? Well sadly as it turned out even the best laid plan didn’t protect them and ….well you know the rest.

My point or rather my question is why would you put your family at risk for a sailing trip? In what mindset do you plan an expedition on which you might run into folks who could potentially cause you and your children harm? What possible reason could there be to need “a plan” should you be boarded? What were these people thinking?

I pray that they come out of this unharmed and that their children are somehow sheltered from what must be a terrifying ordeal. I also pray that their poor choice serves as a warning to other naïve adventure seekers. Climb mountains, hike canyons, go white water rafting, go to Nordstrom during their semi annual shoe sale; there are plenty of adventures that don’t have danger and ransom associated with them (except for maybe the shoe sale at Nordstom).

I never had penis envy, sorry Dr. Freud. I never wished I was a boy and never wanted to be a man. That isn’t to say I am a girlie-girl, I have just always thought that God got me right.

And then there are times when I am truly thankful for my gender; most of them involve unpleasant tasks traditionally relegated to men. Equality is great and all, but someone has to kill the spiders.

I have written here before of the wildlife that we have on our farm, I mean yard. It’s like some kind of rabid petting zoo up in here with all the rabbits and field mice and the occasional possum. Recently there have been coyote sightings in our neighborhood because coyotes are indigenous to the north side of Chicago, right? Yeah, I didn’t think so. We have larger lots in my neighborhood, but that hardly makes us the country. The expressway is a stone’s throw away from our house.

Recently with the brutal cold spell, have come the squatters. Usually we know from the delightful little droppings left behind on the floor, the kitchen island and the couch. Ick! If the droppings are green we know that the life expectancy of our guest is considerably shorter than when he arrived. We take no pleasure in this, but we are not running a shelter for wayward mice either. It is our hope that the mice will check out of the inn before they expire, however every now and then one will pass away in some crook or crevice of our house.

This is where the fun starts. If you have never had an animal die in your wall you don’t know what you are missing. They do not make an air freshener that can eliminate this odor. The situation calls for air removal and replacement. And did I mention that this tends to happen in the kitchen wall so it is the kitchen, where we cook, that is fouled.

Last week we experienced the passing of a mouse. We had seen evidence of his visits. Bob even locked eyes with him one night when our visitor boldly glared at him from the kitchen island. So, we busted out the air fresheners and the diffusers, but it was still brutal. It took a day or so to notice that the odor was coming from a heating vent. Once again Bob spied the now ex-mouse behind some ductwork and promptly announced in a whiney voice “I wish I had a vagina”. The only other time he uttered those words there was a partially decomposed possum in the back yard that required removal.

After some initial strategizing and a little more whining, Bob stepped up. Moments later we were down one pair of kitchen tongs and one dead mouse, but Bob’s manhood was intact and undeniable once again. And once again I was glad to be a girl.

It has been almost a week and I may finally be ready to talk about it. I don’t know; it is all still pretty raw. The grief that one feels after a loss like this one really requires some time and distance. It has to be put into perspective. I am referring, of course, to the loss of our Bears at the hands of the dreaded Green Bay Packers.

It wasn’t pretty – let me tell you. It was super cold and so were the Bears (bah dum bump). But the real disappointment to me was not the players or the game. It was the fans. I had worried about the behavior of the Packer fans, but the ones I saw celebrated appropriately. On the other hand to hear some Bears’ season ticket holders, you would think that they hadn’t won a game all season. A woman in my section called them “losers” as she left midway through the forth quarter. Had she looked at her ticket, she might have confirmed that she was in attendance at a “championship” game. Chicago sports fan can be completely irrational when it comes to a loss like this.

Then to add insult to injury the fans, the media and even his fellow NFL players turned on the quarterback, questioning his toughness. Really? I know he is not going to win Mr. Congeniality any time soon, but he isn’t running for office. He is a quarterback not the Bachelor. The guy has been sacked something like 58 times in one season, more than anyone else in the league. He was even one of the only three quarterbacks to have the privilege of being pounded into the frozen University of Minnesota tundra a few times. Yeah, he is a total wuss.

I won’t listen to sports talk radio. Even in the best of times it is painful to listen to these sad beer-bellied wanna-be’s second guess a professional sports team’s decisions based upon their experiences from that one season of football they played in seventh grade. In the wake of this loss we should fire the coach (again), axe the general manager (again) and castrate the quarterback. But as it turns out, I don’t have to listen to sports talk radio. I just have to walk into the lunch room in my testosterone filled office. So that’s what these guys do on weekends.

Anyway I sat Shiva. I wailed. I mourned the loss and I came to grips with the end of the season. And now I am done with football until next year. No Super Bowl for me. I am not a fair weather fan, but I am not just a football fan either. I am a Bears fan.

So if it was my job to write here, I might have to fire myself. I haven’t even bothered to call in sick or request a leave of absence. I have just been completely MIA. Luckily, as I am more of volunteer, I just gave myself a stern warning and put myself on probation. I am also a pretty cool boss as it turns out.

Things have been a bit hectic what with the full time gig, the holidays and whatnot. But the holidays are pretty much over and, with any luck, I will remain gainfully employed for the foreseeable future. So my choices as I see them are either make some time to write or bail and bailing is just not an option. Remind me to Google time management later. Do you think that they sell extra hours in the day on Amazon? They sell everything else.

I have found time, of course, to watch the Real Housewives of everywhere, my daily DVR’d dose of The Young and the Restless and many episodes of Hoarders and Intervention. I did draw the line at the Hoarders episode for which the trailer promised an infestation of rats. A possum or two, many cat carcasses and piles of unidentified feces are apparently fair game, but a man covered in rats, not so much. Good to know I have limits.

Speaking of good/bad TV, The Bachelor has returned to prime time and brought with it my car-wreck-gapers-reflex. But other than a fang toothed model, a dentist in a bad gold lame dress (with yellow tulle??) and your garden variety Fatal Attraction gal named Michelle (is it the name?), there might not be enough crazy to keep my interest. Oh who am I kidding? I will watch. I always watch.

In actual news, mah beloved Bears are participating in the biggest football game to hit the Midwest in about seventy years on Sunday and I can hardly eat. We are playing the Green Bay Packers, our (and I realize that I am not part of the team, but I choose to use the collective anyway) arch-enemy, for the NFC Championship title and a ticket to that big game that must not be mentioned lest we jinx ourselves. It is a wonder I have been able to focus long enough to write this. But I am on probation and I wouldn’t want to risk ticking off my boss.

I was thankful on Thanksgiving Day. Really, I was. I was thankful for my family, my friends, my dogs, my home, my job and my health. And these were the blessings that I had planned to spend my Thanksgiving Day celebrating, along with roast turkey, green bean casserole and some NFL football. As it turned out, however, I had a whole host of unexpected things to be thankful for this year.

The night before Thanksgiving Bob and I had assumed our usual positions on the couch and were watching whatever was clogging up our DVR when I noticed that my nose was unusually cold. It was kind of brisk in our family room. I asked Bob to turn up the heat which he did assuring me that it was 68°, a perfectly comfortable temperature. A half an hour later my nose was still cold and so were my fingers. I checked the thermostat and discovered that Bob had been reading the “set to” number not the actual temperature. The actual temperature was 58°. Our furnace was not working. I was at that moment thankful that we had two furnaces and dual zoned heat. So, if anyone is keeping track, I started giving thanks early.

Thanksgiving morning I was decidedly thankful for layers; flannel shirt over sweatshirt over nightgown. It was a toasty 55° in my kitchen, the room in which I would be spending the majority of my day. We called the heating and air company, who had incidentally inspected our furnaces less than a month ago, and they sent us George. I was then thankful that George had opted to earn time and a half over gorging himself on poultry like the rest of us.

Bob ushered George down to the basement to inspect the previously inspected furnace. He summoned us a bit later with the prognosis. He could replace the “board” and that might solve the problem. The motor, he showed us, was also showing signs of rust and might need to be replaced in the near future. Then he threw in a carbon monoxide threat (the heating and air equivalent of weapons of mass destruction) for good measure. Or we could replace the furnace, which of course, is what he recommended. I was no longer thankful for George. I was thankful for restraint.

Presented with an $800 solution and a $5000 solution and no time for any real research, I was thankful for family members and friends who know about this stuff. Bob immediately called his brother, brother in law and a handy plumber friend. They all supported the $5000 solution. I was then quite thankful for home equity line of credit.

When the installers arrived at 4:30 (on Thanksgiving Day still), I was temporarily thankful for them. When it was discovered that the unit they brought couldn’t be installed in the space we had available, I was thankful my carving knife wasn’t in reach. The furnace that would fit in the space, was of course, more expensive. And about then I was glad that I didn’t have access to any firearms.

After promising to return the next day with our new more expensive furnace, the installers left (unharmed). I was thankful that they were gone and that we could finally enjoy our Thanksgiving dinner. I also gave thanks that the meal turned out well, though, no one would have dared to blame me for a dry turkey with all the goings on.

Truly I was all sorts of thankful this Thanksgiving, although I was admittedly a little homicidal too. I did give thanks for my family, my furballs, my friends, my home, my job and my health, as well as my fleece and my flannel. But in the end, I was just thankful that this Thanksgiving Day was finally over.

I have suffered with back pain for years. Last year it reached a critical point where I actually went to the doctor. I don’t like to rush into things, as you can see. I went to the doctor seeking less a solution and more something to take away the pain. The doctor, missing all my cues, did not prescribe anything that I found useful. She handed me a prescription for physical therapy. What? No pain killers? No muscle relaxers? No quaaludes? I was more than disappointed, I was pissed.

I have seen physical therapy on television. It involves grueling work to regain some lost motion or activity. There are tears of pain and gritted teeth. Patients with paralysis walk with their hands on parallel bars shuffling their legs along in the hopes of regaining the power to walk. They struggle and sweat, neither of which are enjoyable. Even the name of the company she referred was unappealing: Athletico. This is clearly a company that services athletes, which I am not. I am a relatively sedentary, reluctant exerciser. I am motivated by vanity not competition.

So I tabled the prescription for this physical therapy nonsense and went along my way, my soon to be hump-backed way. A few months ago I began to wake in the middle of the night unable to roll over because of pain. Still I persevered (probably not the right word for stubbornly refusing to seek help). Eventually I began to have muscle spasms in my shoulders and neck and I had to throw in the towel. I went back to the doctor, this time secure in my self-diagnosis of back cancer. No WebMD needed, it was all very clear to me.

My doctor did prescribe muscle relaxers this time, possibly because my upper back muscles had begun to resemble oak or maple to the touch. She also renewed my prescription for, say it with me, physical therapy. Bitch. I took the muscle relaxers and honestly they helped a bit but were no where near as much fun as I had hoped. (Side note: I may or may not have been looking for a martini in pill form which is strange because I don’t think vodka really helps with back pain.) After I had taken all the muscle relaxers (as prescribed) and my back had refused to comply, I had to admit defeat and make an appointment to begin therapy of the physical nature.

Um, why did no one tell me how awesome physical therapy is? Seriously, I would have done this a long time ago if I had known. I don’t know how it is for other ailments, but for my particular issue – I have to have a strong handed young man give me a massage. Sure there is no aromatherapy or Yanni music, but who cares? I am receiving an insurance subsidized back rub. Then, the physical therapist does a little adjusting of my spine, not in a jerking chiropractic way. He gently moves my spine this way and that way to loosen the ligaments that are in a chokehold on my vertebrae. It pretty much all feels awesome, even the parts that hurt. There is a little exercise component to the therapy. I have to stretch which requires very little coordination and do a couple strengthening exercises, but no gritting of teeth, no sweating. And did I mention the massage. I am converted.

I realize that other types of injuries may require more vigorous therapy. I have seen others who have been doing some unpleasant looking exercises, but they all appear to be pretty athletic. As a non-athlete, however, the chances of me sustaining any of those injuries is pretty slim. Even I can’t hurt myself on an elliptical trainer. I have five more weeks of back rubs, I mean therapy and the physical therapist told me that I would probably benefit long term from regular massage therapy. I may love that guy.

My sister in law, the mother of my godchildren, is mildly obsessed with documenting the life and times of her kids. My niece and nephew are one and three respectively and she has held at least four, maybe more, portrait sessions at one of those strip mall photography store fronts and has created multiple Shutterfly books for posterity. I have had the good fortune to accompany my extended family on two of the strip mall photography expeditions. And to be clear “good fortune” is defined in this case by my ability to blog about the experience.

On our most recent visit our manager was a frenetic fellow who behaved has if his bonus at stake. Each session requires two employees; a photographer and an assistant to coax smiles out of the wailing children. We began with my niece who, while not wailing, was slightly suspicious and was not inclined to smile just because there was a camera pointed at her with a strange woman dancing behind behind it. The manager jumped into our session to replace the assistant in no time. He wasn’t messing around. He had in his arsenal a well rehearsed routine that involved a stuffed kitty flying through the air, landing on someone’s head and flopping around. On at least one occasion the head was mine and Peppy, our over-caffeinated manager, paid no attention to my carefully coiffed hairdo. He proceeded to shuffle us around, using corny lines to manipulate the bewildered children. “OK, can you cross your legs for me? Criss cross applesauce” he said as he crossed my nephew’s legs for him as if he were a Gumby doll. I’m not certain, but I may have seen my nephew’s first eye-roll. If not I was internally eye-rolling enough for all of us.

When the time came for to the full family photo (in which I was included) the photographer began to position us. Just as we had assumed our places, Peppy returned from a smoke break to rearrange us. He sat the core family members in an simple arrangement and then asked me to sit on a large block behind them. The resulting portrait makes me appear to be some crazed family portrait crasher. We took several photos in this configuration and then I was dismissed. I was banished to the Lego table to sit with the families waiting while their anticipation turned to dread.

Once all the photos had been taken it was time for the sales pitch. The previously affable photographer morphed into a mildly pushy salesman right before our eyes. The sales pitch involves sitting in front of a computer screen while the salesperson begins to display the photos in a fashion not unlike the way the optometrist gauges your vision, but more quickly. “Which one do you like better? This one or this one? Is this one better or this one? Better or the same?” Once you have selected your photos you are obliged to chose the “Package” that you want, none of which really fit your desires.  Oh, and did I mention that it is at this point that the children traditionally run out of steam and begin to meltdown. These places must make a mint while stressed out mother’s agree to purchase many more photos (mostly in useless wallet size) than intended.

As we drove off to have lunch, my sweet photo obsessed sister in law absolved me of the obligation to attend future portrait sessions.

Yeah, that is probably a pretty good idea.

It has happened. No, not the hot flashes kind of change. I have a grown up job. I know, right? I have reentered the land of the commuters and cube dwellers. I have become a Dilbert cartoon or a character on The Office. I am Regina Phalange, a business women in town on business.

It has been awhile coming, but honestly, I am so grateful on so many levels for the opportunity. I know how many people are looking for work and have been unemployed for unfathomable periods. I know how many people are struggling financially and, I imagine, psychologically. I can only count my lucky stars for the perfect storm of circumstances that lead me to this position.

I am also grateful on another level. Five years ago, even three years ago, I would not have been in a position, psychologically or emotionally, to accept this opportunity. I had to learn to live with out my best frenemy booze: a toxic relationship and a difficult breakup. I have also had to navigate my way out of the quicksand that is depression. Both will be ongoing battles but I am appropriately armed now.

The workplace has not changed all that much in my absence. People are talking about last night’s television between cubes, but now it is about Jersey Shore instead of The Real World. Fantasy football has replaced the outdated betting brackets. Instant messaging now camouflages the extended gossiping that used to take place at the copier. There are still happy hours, but the drinks have gotten more expensive. Oh, and I won’t be the one who drinks too much and becomes the topic of the aforementioned gossip in this iteration of my corporate life.

It is nice to be back among the living. I wasn’t exactly under a rock, but I wasn’t really out there either. So far I am taking to my new day gig like a fish to water. Speaking of fish and other odiferous food items, going forward I will have to remember that offices are a shared environment. A giant head of cauliflower purchased at the farmer’s market during one’ s lunch hour does nothing to improve the odor of one’s cubicle nor does said odor serve as a particularly good way to start a conversation with your new colleagues/neighbors.

You know how a little extra weight can creep up on you? One day all your favorite clothes fit well and then without any significant dietary change they begin to feel snug. Its not until you actually step on the scale that you realize that you have put on ten pounds with no effort at all. Yeah, well how about if you are only 3 feet tall?

It is one thing when I fail to maintain my own weight through diet and exercise. At 5’ 10”, I can carry an extra ten pounds with little more than a strained waistline (and an occasional flying button). Goose, on the other hand, is officially fat. Since his last visit to the vet he has gained 9 pounds. He is 61 pounds. I can’t feel his ribs. His fur coat is looking a little tight. I don’t know how this happened. He doesn’t get all sorts of treats, just a cookie here and a bit of lamb trachea (larynx?) there.  We only feed him one cup of dry food twice a day. I am beside myself. I have a child that could be considered obese. Do dogs have a BMI?

So, now what? I have to reduce his food by one third. Great, that won’t feel like deprivation. I suppose more exercise is in order too. I have seen doggie treadmills in the catalogs that clog my mailbox. What do you think it would take to get Bob Harper to go all “Biggest Doggie Loser” on Goose’s ass? Does Jenny Craig have a canine program, because damn that Sarah Rue looks awesome? My husband, Bob, even had me ask the vet if it could be a thyroid disorder (too much Oprah?). It wasn’t.

We have to guard Goose’s feelings. I don’t want to do anything that might damage his self-esteem or cause an eating disorder. What might that look like? Milk bone wrappers hidden in the couch and Beggin’ Strips boxes strewn about. And the purging, well I can’t begin to imagine. Lets not even get into the cost of therapy.

I have never had a chubby pooch before.

Larry was tall and skinny.

Mike is svelte and athletic.

In their old age our Golden Retrievers, Casey and Lucas, had some weight issues, but Goose is not even two.

Somehow Goose has moved into the portly zone without our notice – it happens, right? No need to panic and start inquiring about doggie gastric bypass yet. We’ll just begin the eat less, move more program and by we, I mean both Goose and I. Who knows, maybe in my efforts to whip him back into shape I’ll find inspiration. I can still feel my ribs, but my equivalent of his”fur coat” is a little tight these days too.

It looks as if I will be delaying my return to college. Luckily, I did not run out and buy school supplies or this fall’s coolest jeans. The local university of my choice (a school that my taxes pay for) will not accept my transcripts as prerequisites to their business courses because they are TOO OLD.

I am sorry, I realize that things have changed over the last twenty years, but it isn’t as if I brought an abacus to math class. There were motor vehicles and televisions when I attended college. And I really don’t think the fundamental premises of business management (my major) have changed that drastically. In that I haven’t lived in a cave and have practiced both business and management during the elapsed time, the major changes that have occurred have affected me as well. I am vaguely familiar with the Internets and those new fangled smart phones. I know about social media. I tweet.

Once I had gotten permission from my original college to take two 300 level management courses at another accredited college or university to complete my degree requirements, I thought the hard part was over. It took the better part of four months, many emails and phone calls to accomplish that. It never really occurred to me that said accredited university wouldn’t happily take my money and let me register for a couple of classes. I could understand the need to see my transcripts to be certain that I had some core knowledge, but that they were “aged” (their term)? I was told that my transcripts wouldn’t even qualify me to transfer into the school. I was, needless to say, disappointed.

But as it usually goes, now I am angry. At what point did my education become obsolete? If I had completed my requirements for a degree would it also be considered to be obsolete? Is there some continuing education program for college degrees that I am aware of? Am I expected to start all over again as a freshman? Seriously, I can’t afford to gain the freshman fifteen.

Now I am back at square one and with a bit of a chip on my shoulder, but not enough to go all Norma Rae on the situation. It is hard enough to get the gumption up to try and fix one of your life’s regrets without having the people who should be helping, shut you down. I remain convinced that I will find a college or university that will accept my antique transcripts and I will just continue to look for it. After all, Bob reminded me about those really old people who get their degrees. And while that is inspirational (in an insulting sort of way) I would prefer not to actually be really old when I accomplish this.