Steroids, not as much fun as they used to be.

So I am on Prednisone, again.

If you have been on a steroid under a doctors care, it is either sheer Hell, or the most productive time of your life.

First couple times, I thought I was Superman.  I had focus and the most amazing stamina.  Sleep be damned.  I would want to start painting the garage at 11pm IF I had a garage to paint.  This made me consider painting my next door neighbor's garage, you know, just to be nice, but at night, when they were asleep because asking for permission just wastes ALL THIS ENERGY AND VALUABLE TIME!

Then the third time, something went wrong.  Gone was the energy, which was replaced by a voracious appetite, and I could not sleep.  All I could do was eat for 23 hours and try to sleep for at least one.  I put on close to fifty pounds and that started a trend that hasn't been easy to revert.

So I have avoided them for obvious reasons.

Well about five months ago, my eye sight started to fail.  I went to the ophthalmologist that was highly recommended, and he claimed there was nothing wrong.  "Floaters..." and he dismissed me.  Its been getting increasing bad with blurred vision.

I knew, from my cataract surgery, that the surgery could result in too much tear production.  So I went back, insisted that it was something different than floaters, which kind of sail through the fluid inside your eye.  These were the huge splotchy patches, you could feel them going over the eyeball surface. And I had excessively watery eyes.   And when your eyes water, they are the wrong type of tears that you eye needs to function properly.

Well, Dr. Crabass was insulted that I had returned, and that I was second guessing his his scholarly opinion.  This man has no personality.  Think Andrew Dice Clay without the charm.  This guy is wound tighter than a two dollar watch.  Anyway, he again says "I have told you what I think, but if we must..."

This time he gave me a Rx for Pataday, and we tried that.  No luck.

So with things going down hill and the ability to read all but gone I called my doctor and was referred to a hospital practice.   So on Tuesday I met with Dr. Singh, and Dr. Singh was very nice and he listened and he asked me all other manner of questions.

The inside of my eyes were healthy, save for the lack of pigment on my retina ("You find sun light painful - bright days cause squinting..."  Why yes.) but we've known that for 20 years, and then he says "You are describing eye mucus, which is a sign of the wrong type of tears are being produced and both of your eyeballs are really under stress.  We need to get them calmed down."

So now I am on Prednisone to get the eyeballs calmed down.  Four times daily.  Cool compresses.

Now its not a lot of Prednisone by any measure, still, we are watching the pressure in my eyes because this drug can raise that, and that came be very bad.  I go back in two weeks and they'll recheck the eyes.  "You might have a plugged tear duct, or you might need a stronger allergy drop."

And miracle of miracles, the eyes are seeing better.  Things are readable.  ANd my eyes don't have 'roid rage.

But guess what side effect came back?

I can't sleep.

Can't fall asleep.

And if I do, I don't stay asleep.  

I called the office and spoke with Margie and she said it could have an impact, but not likely.  "So doctor would like you take your final drops for the day no later than 6pm."

So here I am, wired, hungry and wondering where someone finds a pair of bed reading glasses.

And man, do I need some sleep.

What's the matter Blanche, don't you like your din din?

I mean I love my Aussie's, but seriously.

First it was Vegemite, now this shit?

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

Chips are a snack.  But this?  Vienna Sausage and blocky vegi's?

Ugh.

Norma has a hot flash

MJ is there to hold his hand.

Our door is always open.

First off, no, the Husband and I have not broken up.  We are as happy as two men can be, and from the way we look into each other's eyes, we'll be together until we are both quite old.

It's taken a year for me to get over this.  But last year, I was dumped by by our best friends.  They ended our friendship in a way that may seem very "modern" but was very hurtful.

We have known this couple for 18 years - they were our best friends.  We saw them socially very frequently and we had many hours of good heartfelt friendship.  When "Tom" lost his mother I drove to his hometown to be with him.  When my mother died, both Tom and Ed were with us.

At Christmas, we'd give them a gift and Tom would be giddy and Ed's response would always be "I thought we agreed not to give gifts this year."  And that was a statement that you kind of pushed aside because Tom loved it, even if Ed felt like we had had a conversation that we had never had.

They were invited to all of our parties and our friends adored them.  And over the years, we all grew as people are won't to do.  They seemed to drift towards wine, and all the accessories needed to drink wine. 

"Accesories?" I asked?  "You need accessories?  You have a bottle, there's a glass; what else do you need."

"Well, you need to aerate the wine so you use this aerator, and you decant it into this crystal decanter, then when you are done there is this cotton wand that fits in the decanter..." And Tom went on and on.

Since neither the Husband and I drink wine except maybe once or twice a year, we figured it was natural that we wouldn't understand this zeal.  And there were other places where we drifted in different directions. 

Of the two, Tom was the more gregarious, Ed was the one more likely to be rigid in his outlook.   And whenever they stepped over the line into the grey area of things that hurt, which wasn't often, we looked the other way as we hoped they would with us.  We would take them out to dinner, and pay, but Ed always insisted on separate checks.

Still, we always had fun with them.

When we told them that we were moving, though, something very definite happened.   They seemed to detatch from us.  

They would say that they were coming down and then never show.  They would make plans and then cancel. Phone calls stopped being returned.  We were hurt, and I let them know it.  I mean if you say you are going to be someplace and one of you is postponing an eight hour drive so he could enjoy sometime with your best friends only to have them not show up, wouldn't you communicate that hurt? Things got better before we left and we were offered the chance to stay with them whenever we were in town.  We had gotten over the hurdle.

After we moved, we took them up on that.  We brought them treats from Baltimore, supplied our own food, replenished the coffee we drank and left the bedding in place as instructed by Ed.

When they came to visit us, though, things seemed off.  On the Saturday noon of Memorial Day Ed announced that they wanted to drive to the Ocean City to poke around, I told him that was a really bad idea.  The roads to "The Shore" are notorious on holiday weekends, and the bridges back up.  If you are heading east and don't want to lose two or three hours, you have to leave early in the morning because traffic is unbearable.   "If you want to go, you can try it, but you'll spend more time in traffic than at your destination."  So they stayed, and we found things to do.   We showed them the city and the things we had found.

In subsequent visits, things seemed off, calls started not getting returned.

In December, 2014 when I knew I was traveling back home in April, I called to see if I could hang out at their house.

No return call.

In February, I called again to see how they were.  No return call.

The husband called in March because he was concerned.  No return call.

With the trip coming up and my hotel booked, I called one last time to Ed, said that I hoped his mother was OK, that we were concerned.   I wanted to take them out to a nice meal - pick the place and the night.   There was no return call.

There was a text message in which I was admonished for being a horrible person.  Over and over, Ed called me rude.  Ed said since I hadn't understood the message of their silence he was going to spell it out.  They had hated their trip to see us.  For three years they were losing patience with me. Both he and Tom found me unpleasant, in three different statements, Ed convicted me of "rudeness".  They no longer thought of me as a friend.  "That is our decision."

My immediate response was "If there was something wrong, why didn't you say anything. And if it went on for three years, why didn't he say something?"  I also said  "You are still our friends.  We love you.  The door is always open."

And that message generated silence that spoke loudly.

The husband was so hurt that he came home from work early.  We both cried.  It was like like being dumped.  Like someone killing you pet.  Like some you loved dying.  We both felt horrible for days, weeks and months. 

At my next psychologist appointment, I showed him the text.  His expression was one of astoundment.

"This isn't about you.  This is about this person.  This is about this person being unable to express himself to other people.  This about this person thinking it is easier to walk away than try and resolve a difference.  Frankly, this is a damaged person.  But I can honestly say that this is the first time I have seen this done in a text message. And it stinks."

Shrink went onto explain what would drive a person to do this, like this.  But this post isn't placing all the blame on Ed and Tom.  Relatiosnhips are tow-way streets.  Between two people, there is a fifty fifty split in who is responsible for the dynamics.  And when its a couples friendship, that is a four way 25% split.  But the one thing I know from years of therapy is that a big part of emotional maturity is being able to accept criticism while being able to discuss the other side of the equation takes calm, proper approach.  Telling someone who is your friend that they have offended or hurt you is a risk because it can hurt people.  So I can understand why someone would rather walk away than expose themselves to risk.   

So when I went back to Ohio and our friends welcomed me back, first question on the tip of their tongues was "How are Tom and Ed?"

And honestly, I just showed them the text.  I figured that Ed 's words could speak for themselves.  People seemed universally shocked.  But I never bad mouthed either of Tom or Ed.  What could be gained?  It was their decision.

One friend said "Well we like them, would you mind if we stayed friends?"  You know, my immediate internal reaction was why would you after you've seen how they treated us?  But then the truth came out of my mouth "We don't hate them, we didn't cut the cord, Ed did.  That's between Ed and I, not you and them."  I mean you like to think that your friends are on your side, and the truth was these folks were on my side, but they were alos on Tom and Ed's side. "It's not like junior high where you can be their friends and not mine or vice versa.  And you should never have to ask of one friend approves of another."  Frankly, if they had become hostile to Tom and Ed, that would hurt Husband and I more.

"What if I talked to them about this?"

I liked that she wanted to fix it, but I her not to say a word.  Please, say nothing.  Do nothing.  This is something that Ed and Tom and Cookie and Husband need to work through. "Enjoy their company, don't ruin it with bringing us into it."

It's been a hard year.  When it came to sending Christmas Cards, we did, again with a note saying we hope that they were OK, that our door was still open.

A year later, the door is still open, but the hurt has never left.  They're still our friends to us.  And our other friends have asked if we have heard from them, and I shake my head and simply say "We would love to; our door is always open."

I could say that I don't miss them, we do.  But at the same point, they know the door is open.  And when they choose to knock, we'll embrace them.  And if not, well, that's the way life worked out.

And when I go back to Ohio for our summer visit and we see them, it will be "Hi," and "just so you know, the door is always open.  When you're ready to make a date, call us.  Take care, we have to meet our friends, B' bye."

Quelle Horreur: Love It of List It is an alleged sham cum canard

Quick Agador Spartacus, get Hillary and David a Perin tablet!

My chickens, what can I say but I have spent the day sneezing up an absolute allergy attack.  This is what happens when you plunk a midwest boy down south of Mason Dixon Line.

But did you hear the news?  No?  Then I am a harbinger of news then!

A North Carolina couple alleges that Love It or List It is a fake, and they do sloppy work, too.  A fraud. A scripted show in which the principles are actors.  A carnie show! Yes, good old fashioned alleged chicanery!

Quelle Horreur!  An alleged canard*? Clutch the pearls!

Here's a link to the first article on the dust up.

Apparently, David isn't a licensed real estate agent in North Carolina, where the alleged unhappy people are.  Allegedly, there are questions about how monies were spent.  Allegedly, the work was sloppy.  Allegedly, this couple never would have hired the contractor that was contracted by the production company. 

I am sure that Petra Donovan is pissing in her pants.  She's the one who outed the show as being a scripted sham in this blog four years ago, which kvetching about my critique.

Click to embigify

(Sucks to be you, Petra - I did a screen shot of your brutal comments just in case you thought you could delete the comments.)

Well seeing as I got them to admit it back then, *poof* my work here is done.   If you need me I will be searching for FLONASE®


*canard is such a great word.

No update, no, not for today

The weather is FINALLY too nice for a blog post!

Quelle Shocking

How could it come to this?  Liza Minnelli's ex-husband, dead you know.

The news came yesterday.  We were shocked.  Shocked I say.

It's about time - he's looked embalmed for years.

What Mr. Peenee needs...

...it couldn't hurt.

Time in a Bottled Up

Cookie has a confession.

I am an introvert, and I am about to lose my mind.

Here's why.

I tend to be a bit of an disciplined loaner.  I have patterns that I follow and they comfort me.  They give me a sense of accomplishment.  If I go to the store, I go in the morning.  If I clean, I clean in the morning.  My afternoons are designed to be a bit more freeform.  I have my daily routine, but sometimes, when the "gotta do" things of life are done, I need to go do things that I normally wouldn't do.  Like go down a street that I normally wouldn't go down.

As my mother would say "Take a new path every day, because one day you'll be dead and you won't be able to go down that street you hope to get to travel down."

Call it small scale wanderlust, but it's something I am compelled to do.  I need to see different things, go different places.

The problem is that two weeks ago I came down with that horrible bacterial bug that's floating around.  And in no time, my husband got it.  We had planned to go to Boston to visit my mother in law, but when you are as sick as we got, the only places we went were to the couch or to take a nap.  And we were down with said bug for a solid week.

That's a lot of togetherness for a loner.  A lot.

THEN, he had his hernia surgery first of this week.  So again, we have spent a great deal of time together while he has healed.  Tuesday morning I had to get out and go to the store.

But it's now Friday, and I am as tense as can be.

My husband is a kind, loving, wonderful man.  Yet I am about to lose my sanity.

He's going back to work on Monday, and I will be lonely when he is gone.  I will worry about him.  I will rejoice when he returns from work Monday evening.

But at this moment, I am on the verge of crumpling like a piece of reused foil.

Alone time for an introvert is like having your battery recharged.  

If I were an extrovert, all this togetherness would recharge me.

Right now I feel drained, unmotivated, unaccomplished.  And my brain feels exhausted.

And you feel guilty when you are like this.  I cannot imagine my world without him.  So when I get like this I feel like I am crazy.  God forbid that one day I will be alone.  And then I will wonder what the fuck was wrong with me for not revelling in these languid hours.

But, right now, I think I may need to scream.

The one where Cookie discovers Chatterbate

Yes, it has come to this.

My husband is asleep, I sat down at the computer to catch up on reading scientific journals on advances in DNA and Genealogy and and I find a message from my cousin Clyde in Ohio saying that his wife Vonda has kicked him out because she caught him on "Chatterbate".

"I thought I could make some money to buy Vonda that patio set she's been wanting for the trailer.  Can I move in with you in Baltimore?"

Two things race through my mind.  The first is how quickly I could type "No - you are better off living in the hen house until she cools down," and what in the world is Chatterbate.

Now, you know that I am a man of the worldly ways of the world, but Cookie has no reason to delve into social media any further than one has too.  So things like Grindr, are alien to me.  Why shop for widgets if you don't need widgets, I always say.

So I went to Chatterbate and reader, I was appalled.

I understand that you get what you pay for, and it's free, but for God's sake.  Imagine, if you will, "The People of Wal-Mart" in various states of undress, mouth breathing on cam and demanding that you pay them to see their pieces parts.

Chatterbate is the obscene phone call of sites, and none of these people should be seen with the lights on and their clothing off.

What they need is help.  Help with their production values.  Help with their wardrobe choices.  Help with their diets.

But more then that, none of these dolts is selling themselves very effectively.  They just sit there, lumpy, pale, and expecting someone to tip them into action.

And there ages seem to be chosen at random, or they type in 60 and 30 pops up in their profiles.

And they look like this.

"Candy", a "30" something housewife who is located in "Pussylandovia" sits in a recliner looking all the age of 60 plus.  Her bio says that she enjoys meeting "Men, women and couples" and that she will rock your world if you tip her 30 credits.  But until you do, she'll just sit there eating cheese doodles and reading the latest Lillian Vernon catalog.

"Miguel", a 20 year old male from Mexico City says he "loves the ladies" and will flex for 10 credits, show ass for 25 credits, and will cum for 250 credits.  Until someone coughs up the dough, though, he'll just answer your questions in the most painfully incorrect English.

"Private Soldier"  is a 23 year in West Virginia that claims to be on active duty in the U.S. Marine Corp and he says that "Currently serve in the military. Ill do whatever it takes to pretect the US and my family."  But thank God he will "pretect" us all by masturbating online for tips.  You can link an Amazon account to your Chatterbate account.  I am almost tempted to send him a used copy of "English for Dummies."

"Gramps", in Soledad, however seems to get the award for honesty.  "Too old for a hard-on, I'm the dirty old man that you mama warned you about."  Now if he were cruising down your street in a creepy white van passing out candy, well then, you'd call the cops.  So I guess as long as he's sitting naked on cam in some trailer in California with a 3D picture of the last supper over his head and waiting in tips so he can wave that wet noodle around, it seems safer.  Besides, you have to admire his attitude for thinking that somewhere out there there is someone for him lurking in the ether.

In any event, Clyde could be in for a long cold spring bedding down with the chickens.  I can imagine seeing him on Chatterbate, but I wouldn't want to see him.

"She'll come around.  Wait till you can get out in the field and get yourself a farmer's tan.  She's a sucker for farmer's tans," I message him back.  "And stay off that damn site.  Get a job at Wal Mart instead."

Now if you all will forgive me - I am too disturbed to go back to DNA articles.  I'm going to drag out some of Cookie's favorite porn - old house porn.  There is 80 years of lead paint from the front door of our house and I need to commit an act of penance.

The husband ain't crabby no more!

YES!  Yesterday it was the flu, and today the husband had a little outpatient hernia surgery that has been scheduled for WEEKS in advance of the flu.  The doctor said that our little flu shouldn't dampen the husband's appointment with the knife, so here we are.

The husband seems to think that he'll be back to his old self in no time.

Yeah, right.

So I was up at 4am so we could get him to the doctor at 5:30am for a 7am. procedure.

I planned to exact some level of revenge for getting me up at an ungodly hour.

In the past, I usually exacted said revenge when he's coming out of the anesthesia by telling him something outlandish.   After his wisdom teeth, I told him our dogs had puppies.  On another occasion, in the midst of a heatwave, I announced it was snowing.

Today, I told him that I love him in spite of "the vagina that the doctor accidently installed" instead repairing the hernia.

Yeah, I am that kind of bastard.

I do this not to freak him out - he played along.  I do this to get the nurse's reaction.   Why?  Because I am that type of bastard.

So now bully boy is sleeping it off.

My big job will be to keep the dogs from crawling all over him.

So he may not be crabby no more, but Cookie plans to be crabbie for the rest of the week.

Hopefully, though, in a month or so he'll be in fine form working in the garden.

I opened up the window and in flew Enza...

Well, what have Cookie and the husband been up to?

The truth is, we haven't been "well" - either of us.  Both the husband and I got our flu shots in the fall of last year, and then last week, we both got the "flu" or something that looked and felt like the flu.  Both of us were deathly ill - fever, coughing, high fever, more coughing, and you get the picture.  It was so bad that I ended up in urgent care of Easter Sunday, and the husband ended up in urgent care on Tuesday.

We have spent the last week literally on the couch or in the big squashy chair, bemoaning the pain in our every joint.  Our hair hurt, our gums ached.

What felt like the flu, was, according to urgent care, not the flu.

"Your flu tests are negative, but you have bronchitis," the doc in the box said, forcing Z-Packs into each of our hands.

In the 19 years Cookie and Husband have been together we have never been sick like this.  And it took up both down at the same time.

Well, I'm here to say that damned flu test was WRONG.  Or it was looking for the wrong thing.

In any event, we are fine, or as fine as you can be before the second act of the Cookie Household Sick Follies kicks off tomorrow.  More about that later.