tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19761287544879414982024-02-20T00:34:06.974-05:00The MSadventures of Ms. CrankyPantsIf you have multiple sclerosis, you know it pretty well sucks. With its freaky symptoms, it sucks even more for your garden-variety hypochondriac. And...that's me: a hypochondriac with MS. Seems like fodder for an amusing blog. At the very least, it might keep me from sitting here analyzing every twitch and weird sensation. Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-446545723302449422016-06-02T15:03:00.001-04:002016-06-06T09:02:13.013-04:00Guess Who's the Worldwide MS Fashion Icon? (Yep, ME!)Sound the trumpets: I have glorious news to share!!! I've recently <strike>been named</strike> named myself <strike>an</strike> <i>the </i>MS FASHION ICON, thanks to a brand-new cooling vest.<br />
<br />
I know what you're thinking: the word "VEST" belongs nowhere near a sentence also containing the words "fashion" and "icon" (unless that sentence is "Former self-proclaimed and widely disputed fashion icon Ms. CrankyPants was found in a drunken, disheveled state, covered in her own feces and, tragically, wearing a soiled plaid vest.").<br />
<br />
Clearly, I need to explain. As probably all of you with MS know, summertime heat is a bitch. It can make us sluggish, cranky, and weak. Oh, wait -- that's me on a normal day! No, seriously, folks, the heat is terrible when you have MS. Everyone's experiences are different, but I have:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>nearly passed out (actual MEDICS were called; super embarrassing)</li>
<li>had ringing in my ears</li>
<li>felt weak to the point of having trouble walking</li>
<li>experienced double vision</li>
</ul>
<br />
All of these symptoms are temporary, thank god, but any one of them can make going outside when it's hot suck. ENTER THE COOL VEST! Yes, such a garment exists. And it's literally a vest that provides cooling relief from the crappy sun! How does this little miracle occur? It depends on the vest, as I learned. In an completely unbiased <i>fashion </i>(see what I did there?), I will share the high- and low-lights of two varieties so you can decide if a cool vest is for you!<br />
<br />
First, some questions:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Are you comfortable being the center of attention?</li>
<li>Are you a fan of Steve Irwin (RIP)?</li>
<li>Do you love the "Safari Look"?</li>
<li>Would you be okay with being detained for wearing what appears to be suicide-bomber attire?</li>
</ol>
<br />
If you answered YES to any of these questions, have I got a cool vest for you!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9obe4sOMhvCzyjh33dl-la762-HaNksYlRGtmboxi4jFkYzpxtv1HWTXHU5xvGzGP902pQS05dAgA4-grNnBW55O0-F1Uv_IrBxZqVeh3oMa5t4nvNkgjeol8dtaXio2iYXwMTwHUQovU/s1600/SafariVest2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9obe4sOMhvCzyjh33dl-la762-HaNksYlRGtmboxi4jFkYzpxtv1HWTXHU5xvGzGP902pQS05dAgA4-grNnBW55O0-F1Uv_IrBxZqVeh3oMa5t4nvNkgjeol8dtaXio2iYXwMTwHUQovU/s320/SafariVest2.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ta-da! Let's go to a swanky outdoor party! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I am not naming brands, because I don't know if I could get in trouble, but this is what I refer to as THE MOST HIDEOUS THING I EVER WORE ON PURPOSE (TMHTIEWOP). Those red and blue checked pants my mom forced me into when I was four don't count. TMHTIEWOP requires one to freeze roughly 83 packs of ice and cram them into the many, many glam pockets. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWnDArnnVqb4bLeoYPsc99yrt0ginEtUUubhIB78U84bTUqy9vO5cg6A03EA0jeohfwAzx5humrwo90PGVYREwdj3leDPwMaV6PbmALKN4VSREJcrdAev42iDabnXYkGE7frZ-RKTdWosM/s1600/safariVest7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWnDArnnVqb4bLeoYPsc99yrt0ginEtUUubhIB78U84bTUqy9vO5cg6A03EA0jeohfwAzx5humrwo90PGVYREwdj3leDPwMaV6PbmALKN4VSREJcrdAev42iDabnXYkGE7frZ-RKTdWosM/s320/safariVest7.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's fun to wrestle with twisted, frozen blocks of ice!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNVE88eVhjeUmPC5YwHhHkRUMj86sOkFSRbHy7SrRz6oxy7Egjrabto9aVRG-W8J2FiXouMMKx_xjot5Cg_c1OJuirhsdn-IKfJ2eS3bvAz8S_AdmNqVxT2zYq1TlXzsZj_DLuGDTRhYD/s1600/ClusterfckInTheFreezer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDNVE88eVhjeUmPC5YwHhHkRUMj86sOkFSRbHy7SrRz6oxy7Egjrabto9aVRG-W8J2FiXouMMKx_xjot5Cg_c1OJuirhsdn-IKfJ2eS3bvAz8S_AdmNqVxT2zYq1TlXzsZj_DLuGDTRhYD/s320/ClusterfckInTheFreezer.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not ENTIRELY the ice blocks' fault that I have a minuscule freezer, but I blame them anyway. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWUPa7c0Mlh-0GKgQ3TZ4nFqV-QjKW5tnkekreDmlnk5sOZUqbNTdtBJhs2KbIFzREVXFi74Meb0uua5dmRXvoZEcvHas-fZ8xiO5AoXA-YtSclfpjfdflfynvzbwBYFDU5iTAU_ZACjT/s1600/safariVest6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWUPa7c0Mlh-0GKgQ3TZ4nFqV-QjKW5tnkekreDmlnk5sOZUqbNTdtBJhs2KbIFzREVXFi74Meb0uua5dmRXvoZEcvHas-fZ8xiO5AoXA-YtSclfpjfdflfynvzbwBYFDU5iTAU_ZACjT/s320/safariVest6.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: left;">TMHTIEWOP with packs (can't account for the gray blobby thing, which I must have tucked into one of the pockets in a fugue state brought on by extreme heat or embarrassment).</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
The main drawback of this vest (apart from the <u>obvious</u>) is that the ice melts, quickly, when it's hot enough for you to you say "f*** it, I don't CARE what I look like as long as I'm not broiling hot!" And once that ice melts, you are -- as I was at a festival last summer -- left wearing a heavy, soggy, chocolate-ice-cream-drip spotted vest that security guards and, oh, every other festival-goer look at askance.<br />
<br />
Summer is rolling around again, and I was displeased at the idea of relying on TMHTIEWOP to get me through outdoor events. Then! A revelation! I used this thing called "google" to look up alternatives. Guess what? There is more than one variety of cooling vest on the planet! I must have known this at one point (like, when I bought the first one), but perhaps I was unsure that I'd use it, so I opted for one of the more budget-friendly vests. Whatever. The point is -- there's actually an ATTRACTIVE cooling vest you can find using "google."<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEIjQJ6VDHS6EG3yM1Pk41hj-vDyXMpBWiNzIlUNwduqHmTRX0m0C5Q1EqSRWmEnuBipwA9nY6bMPOuLydqaejczCRniaYGB57GglP1Yxdt-pVtoIIROyzd1Lk8Dhd5DVUusPamHvnJj4_/s1600/CooltureVest1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEIjQJ6VDHS6EG3yM1Pk41hj-vDyXMpBWiNzIlUNwduqHmTRX0m0C5Q1EqSRWmEnuBipwA9nY6bMPOuLydqaejczCRniaYGB57GglP1Yxdt-pVtoIIROyzd1Lk8Dhd5DVUusPamHvnJj4_/s320/CooltureVest1.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the back side (hahahaha). Seriously, if you have to wear one, how cute is that? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJBW5nFS-tK8KrRP3TB-BkeUY2Vws22q7Wh60BPzakNm4nXdWuqy-cDDSltBSLbpv2zjc-5Ialy81oEyOuKuUwBNFATqIZ33B-JqQA9TGI_18rDkLo4qPOwbrtvemcj94ZfzAusSlD1D6/s1600/CooltureVest2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJBW5nFS-tK8KrRP3TB-BkeUY2Vws22q7Wh60BPzakNm4nXdWuqy-cDDSltBSLbpv2zjc-5Ialy81oEyOuKuUwBNFATqIZ33B-JqQA9TGI_18rDkLo4qPOwbrtvemcj94ZfzAusSlD1D6/s320/CooltureVest2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at it! LOOK AT IT!!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUarJsrnbxQSp8UXzJh8s4XbCaj4yj29Xn5sOlleBSy7W9ZLfg11nel5zHLgOgzb7EZHO4DJFd9Kkq3cNu63Uj7PuYfk9ULjx6H5vS325xC5kVYcK9mwXN7hwGh4fRO4N1JNHHPDZmFy0i/s1600/sidebyside.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUarJsrnbxQSp8UXzJh8s4XbCaj4yj29Xn5sOlleBSy7W9ZLfg11nel5zHLgOgzb7EZHO4DJFd9Kkq3cNu63Uj7PuYfk9ULjx6H5vS325xC5kVYcK9mwXN7hwGh4fRO4N1JNHHPDZmFy0i/s320/sidebyside.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The front is pretty utilitarian, but the belt thingy gives one a shape that actually resembles a human body.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The Coolture vest (I swear I'm not getting paid) also uses packs to keep it, uh, cool, but they are small and easy to manipulate into the well-concealed pockets.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj92RxGtpz0rRnVj5SuZAGhjyieQyf-ARaAweiXnVTXtZ85IlcRsjNaE4ZKlidtC_QA87SUQkeh7eXzpEjIFSvdsLqPe1FsNTReEsNMoUcND80tXilXTo-Q-XQysBGzwDUqOACEqyDrbUFZ/s1600/coolturepacks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj92RxGtpz0rRnVj5SuZAGhjyieQyf-ARaAweiXnVTXtZ85IlcRsjNaE4ZKlidtC_QA87SUQkeh7eXzpEjIFSvdsLqPe1FsNTReEsNMoUcND80tXilXTo-Q-XQysBGzwDUqOACEqyDrbUFZ/s320/coolturepacks.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They look like large-ish ravioli, but their official name is CoolPak.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I'm too lazy to try to rewrite the details, but according to <a href="http://www.coolture.net/" target="_blank">the Coolture website</a>, the CoolPaks are <span style="font-family: inherit;">"s<span style="background-color: white;">imilar to dry ice...freeze colder than ice or gel, and remain colder than ice or gel."</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444;"> </span></span><br />
<br />
Oh! And the Cooling Vest With Graphic variety (the hummingbird is one of several designs) comes with a free cooling headband!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCQKdma9iHzQHoCLcaR3Wgr-P-9eTHPx_zWmIxF8ZRGXUYJKaBzTjIVm_jo0Bywv8zjybDt4IVKmJIRss9PeIsVoF3ghyhvAm__2kvugrlKnH-XrrgHwqjt3bN0dH-BQ9I0JUr4_y1wOHo/s1600/CooltureHeadband.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCQKdma9iHzQHoCLcaR3Wgr-P-9eTHPx_zWmIxF8ZRGXUYJKaBzTjIVm_jo0Bywv8zjybDt4IVKmJIRss9PeIsVoF3ghyhvAm__2kvugrlKnH-XrrgHwqjt3bN0dH-BQ9I0JUr4_y1wOHo/s320/CooltureHeadband.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This looks...inappropriate (oh, it's just me?!). But here's the CoolPak being inserted into the headband.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You're going to have to trust me: the headband is pretty cute. And it feels freaking FAB! The cooling part rests at the back of your head. I've been outside for an hour or so with just the headband (OKAY, <i>and clothes</i>, pervs) without dissolving into a whiny, cranky heap.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I read <a href="http://activemsers.org/tipstricks/choosingacoolingvest.html" target="_blank">here</a> about programs that help people afford vests. This might apply to U.S. residents only, but hopefully there are similar programs in other countries. The ActiveMSers' reviews of cooling vests helped me choose the CoolTure vest. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Here's hoping you all stay cool. And, most importantly, <i>cool</i>. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com34tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-70917719382798810212016-01-21T11:31:00.000-05:002016-01-22T15:51:04.500-05:00The Cat Superhighway to HELLIn our ever-hopeful effort to keep the goddamn cats happy, my husband and I just shelled out a rather large amount of money for some wooden shelves. WAIT. These aren't ordinary shelves; no, sir. They are, in aggregate, a Mother-F***ing CAT SUPERHIGHWAY (MFCSH). So, obviously, they are worth the cost, no matter how exorbitant. That's what I keep telling myself (and my continually-about-to-divorce-me husband).<br />
<br />
I saw a setup like these on Jackson Galaxy's show (which is totally <i>not </i>to say what I've done here is at all endorsed by him, so please don't sue me, Mr. Galaxy). The cats on the show -- formerly implacable enemies -- were alternately lounging and cavorting on the shelves. The idea is that the MFCSH gives cats a whole new area to explore and get the hell away from each other if/when needed. Or, better yet, the MFCSH offers a new level on which the cats can race around and chase each other PLAYFULLY. At least, that was my hope. Here are a couple of the shelves after my husband spent hours painstakingly arranging them.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcniLMeNlkf4ErtE0tjyuPhvu1aW3B6yZvCwuEseKjqmf0ai1hvRLzRvGXXnETQsGEUMYCEbkWJDOSeB9PMFSbErWvwnEfJrPo1gWc6Yjc882Ko0hyphenhyphenX5iNfPw1paNy4sNafguSjTdz5B7/s1600/CSH3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKcniLMeNlkf4ErtE0tjyuPhvu1aW3B6yZvCwuEseKjqmf0ai1hvRLzRvGXXnETQsGEUMYCEbkWJDOSeB9PMFSbErWvwnEfJrPo1gWc6Yjc882Ko0hyphenhyphenX5iNfPw1paNy4sNafguSjTdz5B7/s400/CSH3.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The colorful string is my addition -- a LURE, if you will, to get the cats up and cavorting. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCM81aj3nDeU0nNFsN83r4EmkRoxP71AkY73JYP17uRWoauR3D3Gcm1EZJf8z_UvboqCglrYF8Lw_e4vJkKWWSrVN-KCnY3jisrrFFa9Mg4ckSzaFPrWB6aF_ks9IlufAuzbE7a0sfZWHd/s1600/CSH1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCM81aj3nDeU0nNFsN83r4EmkRoxP71AkY73JYP17uRWoauR3D3Gcm1EZJf8z_UvboqCglrYF8Lw_e4vJkKWWSrVN-KCnY3jisrrFFa9Mg4ckSzaFPrWB6aF_ks9IlufAuzbE7a0sfZWHd/s400/CSH1.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The detritus on this one is ANOTHER LURE: catnip! Who could resist? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Okay, empty shelves aren't as good as shelves with lounging/gallivanting cats, so I'll show you the amazing MFCSH in action:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtFZCKAE9uneQAUdWjDi7smZpgCrUx9WANih2q_bxU_IIJkQ3bE0Ve3eaR2u8fMD9gdLDST2YExf8qeGJTknyPXAsOEn2ItbGpt_ceQOZdB7oCxdizjYOfrjgyx2Nvn5Xn8M7lg9pjRRa/s1600/CSH4_NOCATS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKtFZCKAE9uneQAUdWjDi7smZpgCrUx9WANih2q_bxU_IIJkQ3bE0Ve3eaR2u8fMD9gdLDST2YExf8qeGJTknyPXAsOEn2ItbGpt_ceQOZdB7oCxdizjYOfrjgyx2Nvn5Xn8M7lg9pjRRa/s400/CSH4_NOCATS.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here come the cats! The arrows show you where they SHOULD be.<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkAI7VAYUa3nL_-gFEs3x1QxFTCLrGQKfZSx4HxuoMY3BQ1ps_9szLf7vrRuKjfExJf7ptmI1ddwQ23eAFvzH7WBhVhBVIfOnUpJTpMUP4PU-HzblaaVOZKD_W2NAhcvxgwh96EmUPrYAX/s1600/CSH2_Squeaky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkAI7VAYUa3nL_-gFEs3x1QxFTCLrGQKfZSx4HxuoMY3BQ1ps_9szLf7vrRuKjfExJf7ptmI1ddwQ23eAFvzH7WBhVhBVIfOnUpJTpMUP4PU-HzblaaVOZKD_W2NAhcvxgwh96EmUPrYAX/s400/CSH2_Squeaky.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yay! There's Squeaky! She loves the string! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaeOUe6Kg8N8KuXSK3bFsCJFqTNfj2J6SlUGrkHxMLj6D4BCBwO54aX4k4m53q82osllcRCKDy7hYK-3n9DhtQ2NWsi9q3w8Bf9ZUq0FGBMAEDF7QVmIhISD3Hnk4YgC-jKxuTKNyR_W8L/s1600/CSH1_CaptNap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaeOUe6Kg8N8KuXSK3bFsCJFqTNfj2J6SlUGrkHxMLj6D4BCBwO54aX4k4m53q82osllcRCKDy7hYK-3n9DhtQ2NWsi9q3w8Bf9ZUq0FGBMAEDF7QVmIhISD3Hnk4YgC-jKxuTKNyR_W8L/s400/CSH1_CaptNap.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And, look -- it's Capt. Nap! "MMMMM! Is this catnip?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFEaZ4vCBAqmRlFDyRXFVqA-pBc-keB8nQpvnnJ521OEw4HyaM6KAhHpFj5jRx7tN2qtAV0nIIcRk7wSQ-mezggynrUwWJhhmnSS9M6TiqT3LwtnqlM3ZOa-zlpK2jQ6zy5399SrF94iGK/s1600/CSH3_Peeper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFEaZ4vCBAqmRlFDyRXFVqA-pBc-keB8nQpvnnJ521OEw4HyaM6KAhHpFj5jRx7tN2qtAV0nIIcRk7wSQ-mezggynrUwWJhhmnSS9M6TiqT3LwtnqlM3ZOa-zlpK2jQ6zy5399SrF94iGK/s400/CSH3_Peeper.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Awwww, little Peeper loves to lounge on this MFCSH shelf! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So there you have it -- our MFCSH is a roaring success. Oh, wait -- what's this?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHczL0eSNBE2I6CyAGKWII9bsKwLRpTVEAb899sKZ52XNYG6bJisuvx5ZimhS3rPH3Zx5Ki_hd8DyhBzAhNJwJbwYTLyFQgMtyXS9zDiVBFFmsjb_ncIlMghyTz5oCLJhxW9hQiLTkL0D/s1600/Chewy2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHczL0eSNBE2I6CyAGKWII9bsKwLRpTVEAb899sKZ52XNYG6bJisuvx5ZimhS3rPH3Zx5Ki_hd8DyhBzAhNJwJbwYTLyFQgMtyXS9zDiVBFFmsjb_ncIlMghyTz5oCLJhxW9hQiLTkL0D/s400/Chewy2.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Why, it's Chewbacca! He's a toy I bought years ago that no one played with. He sits at the launching pad/cat tree, just under the MFCSH. What a rude comment! </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In case it isn't ABUNDANTLY clear, the cats scorn the MFCSH. In fact, here's Squeaky lazing on the couch <i>directly opposite</i> the MFCSH. Yes, she's yawning in my face. Jerk.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxm4Px5bc-tiH7om2b_E5qimsWs2ObqiGJmHcv4Ldnj-RIMK10LcE8JwqQHrjm89h2BL5vX1vlM36aveFRA2iEjD-zPPe1axHwNpLMJawyleBiOzG8FwUxQpJjGNZgs2hBI8mYcR3axjs/s1600/SqueakyYawning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDxm4Px5bc-tiH7om2b_E5qimsWs2ObqiGJmHcv4Ldnj-RIMK10LcE8JwqQHrjm89h2BL5vX1vlM36aveFRA2iEjD-zPPe1axHwNpLMJawyleBiOzG8FwUxQpJjGNZgs2hBI8mYcR3axjs/s400/SqueakyYawning.jpg" width="366" /></a></div>
<br />Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-67121318249778918662015-12-28T12:31:00.000-05:002015-12-29T09:04:18.055-05:00I'm Bringing Cranky Back (Yeah!)In case the semi-relevant pop culture reference escaped you, I'm alluding to the song "I'm Bringing Sexy Back" by Justin Timberlake in my title.<br />
<br />
Oh, dear. That's embarrassing. I just looked up the title, and it's actually "SexyBack." There goes my attempt to be hip. HAHAHAHA, little has changed, old friends! I'm as awkward as ever. (<i>Note to self</i>: Stop trying to be cool. Word.)<br />
<br />
So the holidays have made me think about:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Being cranky</li>
<li>Jesus</li>
</ol>
<br />
I thought I'd have more items on that list, but that about sums it up. Being cranky is self-explanatory. The second item refers not to Jesus in the traditional, nice sense. It refers to the number of times I've said or thought, "JESUS H. CHRIST, this sucks."<br />
<br />
"This" could refer to:<br />
<ol>
<li>Receiving a crappy present</li>
<li>Remembering I <strike>forgot to</strike> was too lazy to send Christmas cards (again)</li>
<li>Getting a Warm and Fuzzy holiday letter</li>
<li>Cleaning Capt. Nap's butt </li>
</ol>
<br />
Remember this guy?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEFxgdN6oKSYeZWFQsQan5qSMaude8nTHeJ1x5eCirZdFrYF3HJRdEhyphenhyphenhjFxGg9qcTleuIFS8mLHD5RbiEg45X9taGsQrXtNhmVqmqNor7bR_1WG3Yrgv1fPRJfDx7xKRbzcgXoEsGBUzp/s1600/Tricky_cat_in_drawer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEFxgdN6oKSYeZWFQsQan5qSMaude8nTHeJ1x5eCirZdFrYF3HJRdEhyphenhyphenhjFxGg9qcTleuIFS8mLHD5RbiEg45X9taGsQrXtNhmVqmqNor7bR_1WG3Yrgv1fPRJfDx7xKRbzcgXoEsGBUzp/s320/Tricky_cat_in_drawer.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hey! I'm rubbing my butt on your clean clothes! LOL!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In 2015 (this would have been a Notable Achievement in my Warm and Fuzzy holiday letter), Captain Nap gained 4 freaking pounds. That's right! Now he's too fat to reach his butt! So I have the distinct (get it? Stink?) pleasure of using minuscule wipes (like, slightly larger than a half-dollar) to wash it for him. Oh, and to add to the fun, Squeaky finds his dirty anus repellent, and she lets everyone know by hissing and lunging at him constantly.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Srqnkrz9A-3rtX3aaPe9eNyRi41FWlrmKmt9JRXgvVkM1peJ0M4SR7Iqohb2_3LAAEFONMaNBNh00wevKPBSS9uMLJBJLpFOIwwFKKXCSFApcjG5nY6foCiX7q1NNPM5y9Syj2hPYYCL/s1600/These_socks_were_like_this_when_I_got_here.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Srqnkrz9A-3rtX3aaPe9eNyRi41FWlrmKmt9JRXgvVkM1peJ0M4SR7Iqohb2_3LAAEFONMaNBNh00wevKPBSS9uMLJBJLpFOIwwFKKXCSFApcjG5nY6foCiX7q1NNPM5y9Syj2hPYYCL/s320/These_socks_were_like_this_when_I_got_here.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You just stay up in your drawer, you nauseating creature."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So many good times. Captain Nap is on a diet; fear not, animal-loving friends. I want to get my enormous pal healthy STAT (and not just because I don't want to be on butt detail for any longer than is absolutely necessary) (I swear).<br />
<br />
I'm going to keep this post short and sweet. I'm out of practice. And I don't know if anyone still reads it. Plus, now that I've covered POO, I'm all out of topics. Told you little has changed.<br />
<br />
XOXO,<br />
Ms. CrankyPants<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-9637671938498936682014-10-09T13:16:00.000-04:002014-10-10T10:31:53.743-04:00Communal Food Is GrossAs some of you know, I work in an office. Specifically, in a dinky CUBE in an office. I've detailed the glories of toiling in a cube here: <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2014/04/working-in-cube-is-hell.html" target="_blank">Working in a Cube Is HELL</a>.<br />
<br />
Anyone who's ever worked with others knows the delights of SHARING: sharing cramped quarters, sharing a fridge, and sharing a bathroom. Let's not forget sharing food. And I'm not talking about the "sharing" that happens when you bring in yummy leftovers and store them in the fridge, and a rude coworker decides he wants to "share" them. (For the record, Sir HelpsHimselfALot, that's "stealing," not "sharing.") No, I'm talking about communal food. I suspect that almost every office has The Bowl of Rejected Candy in the kitchen. You know, a giant vessel with a grimy coating of crumbs and wrappers at the bottom, partially filled with anything that's not chocolate. So, the Runts, the Gummi-anythings, the lollipops...yeah, the shitty candy.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggznLbqA5n16C9__Zu-0HTEPz9t4Qisv1XwMssBwJBPY8VwpfP4R7r1Rm6VnF94nQ6SoPP5W11RAsja7EgDkRbUiwh5eWP6hY3DB8xA5K_4z1OdDxtcoz0uGQKRuHEWuAeDLE81Es_xEsU/s1600/RejectCandy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggznLbqA5n16C9__Zu-0HTEPz9t4Qisv1XwMssBwJBPY8VwpfP4R7r1Rm6VnF94nQ6SoPP5W11RAsja7EgDkRbUiwh5eWP6hY3DB8xA5K_4z1OdDxtcoz0uGQKRuHEWuAeDLE81Es_xEsU/s1600/RejectCandy.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This has been sitting in a pathetic pile at my workplace for roughly 152 years.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Another office staple? The Canister of Crappy Snacks.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloPX6GLh7JIo4xpB9Vt43LNf8oxEwhgEnzxHFViNa-lCUWgCpJf6m0WhyHVoSk5Oc8LAeLw6AQB4t2v-Ggb4VMAQaI2MU-PXs3G8BwgCUIfl92Eph7NLoa-KuGEJVBLQRhddxS7oSp6i0/s1600/OpenPretzels.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhloPX6GLh7JIo4xpB9Vt43LNf8oxEwhgEnzxHFViNa-lCUWgCpJf6m0WhyHVoSk5Oc8LAeLw6AQB4t2v-Ggb4VMAQaI2MU-PXs3G8BwgCUIfl92Eph7NLoa-KuGEJVBLQRhddxS7oSp6i0/s1600/OpenPretzels.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Yep, that's a plastic container with the remnants of some pretzels (in the kitchen for approx. 36 yrs.). Who the hell likes pretzels? And who the hell likes pretzels that 47 other people have sifted through? Okay, you know what? To this I say, NO! I've just been in the bathroom with you, and I know that you barely used soap and you for sure didn't wash for the 20 seconds that hygiene rules dictate. So, madam, please don't plunge your filthy hand in that bowl of pretzels, swish it around vigorously to find the <i>verybestone</i>, and expect me to follow suit. I'll be in my cube, muttering and slathering on antibacterial gel.<br />
<br />
As you gazed hungrily at those pretzels, your eyes surely were drawn to the Toblerone candy bar to the left. I know what you're wondering. Did someone leave that in the kitchen by mistake? Why, no! Apparently, that's a candy bar for everyone in the office to share!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg8IjsDS9W9oy0CRw0oNe65LIRmisNbtyPoiYqspUNFG5a1OqjjKEAl8snjYOQsSbujtgceajN5V8BxQ0baSRl9s5-134DA9caLp5qYGB2NQxtdEVlOFDF7rcDzxezGAoKlFwAv2Ovp2Tz/s1600/OpenCandyBar.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg8IjsDS9W9oy0CRw0oNe65LIRmisNbtyPoiYqspUNFG5a1OqjjKEAl8snjYOQsSbujtgceajN5V8BxQ0baSRl9s5-134DA9caLp5qYGB2NQxtdEVlOFDF7rcDzxezGAoKlFwAv2Ovp2Tz/s1600/OpenCandyBar.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mmmmm, I hope you used your mouth to break off that section.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yes, indeed. The communal candy bar! Who in their right MIND would want to snap off a piece of that after dozens of filthy fingers have groped all over it? I admit, when I first saw the candy bar (and it was sealed), I had an urge to whisk it straight into my purse to enjoy later. Then I decided to not be a pig and let someone ELSE have it. But I expected someone to take the <i>whole </i>bar, not just nibble/pry off bits [shudder].<br />
<br />
In the kitchen where all this food sits around, there are bound to be <strike>roaches</strike> <strike>rats</strike> <strike>hobos</strike> dirty dishes and crumbs. Fortunately, there also are cleaning supplies! Like this sponge!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpj1jimHygc9y70j5DZ0wnS8LrhBzih_2TJhL5fVp1Q91ETVeORFE2EGhhEqYgseGpkxPTq_zFa2v4cbJdsCLF6dvFmLYoewb6_gV_WPAdErzZCtuK3EXkc7Q5sOF6kXD9eDd1IBZrBtg/s1600/GrimySponge.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVpj1jimHygc9y70j5DZ0wnS8LrhBzih_2TJhL5fVp1Q91ETVeORFE2EGhhEqYgseGpkxPTq_zFa2v4cbJdsCLF6dvFmLYoewb6_gV_WPAdErzZCtuK3EXkc7Q5sOF6kXD9eDd1IBZrBtg/s1600/GrimySponge.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, the dishes were cleaner BEFORE you used that sponge.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And this dish drainer!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZonWsjyJLiHQZt8nzPUnvx-Jx6YiDMoCM6tbk08yJ6qi7zPQ8dZL-9VdCmxZN1ZQNvP7hjzQvXtEAyP5ZCMqyvfqQ8JDoWHT6WiP621qb6fu6K8-cT5Uc1exBqzvKXIn7nD7RsvKIICHM/s1600/AncientPileofDishes.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZonWsjyJLiHQZt8nzPUnvx-Jx6YiDMoCM6tbk08yJ6qi7zPQ8dZL-9VdCmxZN1ZQNvP7hjzQvXtEAyP5ZCMqyvfqQ8JDoWHT6WiP621qb6fu6K8-cT5Uc1exBqzvKXIn7nD7RsvKIICHM/s1600/AncientPileofDishes.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This exact collection of dishes has been here for at least a year. I'm thinking of painting a still life.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I spy with my little eye...something unpleasant lurking beneath the dish drainer! Let's take a closer look, shall we?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EjBBG7Sv7XTc5BP7jeHL8za2NLLVlyBRv2ysoIrKr98TB3OTDhWG2UdxkwOWxPoqDo4ziWMrSWmW1j9T-zp7C4-xIB9hcnXdipdY5By6ZtFOqg9NUCbeEPz8_R5sdkoq9tnZLA98KArW/s1600/NastyDorito.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4EjBBG7Sv7XTc5BP7jeHL8za2NLLVlyBRv2ysoIrKr98TB3OTDhWG2UdxkwOWxPoqDo4ziWMrSWmW1j9T-zp7C4-xIB9hcnXdipdY5By6ZtFOqg9NUCbeEPz8_R5sdkoq9tnZLA98KArW/s1600/NastyDorito.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dorito, circa 1987.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There's no mistaking that neon-orange glow! Who the hell brought in Doritos? And why don't we have THOSE out rather than the f***ing pretzels??<br />
<br />
When discussing office sharing, it's impossible to avoid the topic of the beloved <b>potluck luncheon</b>! You know the drill: signup sheet in the kitchen; Jill with her famous meatballs that everyone secretly hates; <strike>me</strike> uhhhh, Amber, who always brings something with cat hair in it; Andy and his purchased-5-minutes-before-the-lunch bag of cookies...<br />
<br />
The thing about potlucks, apart from the crappy food and stilted conversation, is that one can't help but think about just HOW that food was prepared. Here's a handy tip that the germaphobes in your office will surely appreciate you following: when making food for the office potluck, please, for the LOVE OF GOD, do not enlist the aid of your children. While I'm totally sure your son is the most adorable and sweet child on the entire freaking planet, I suspect he's also picking his nose and licking his fingers nonstop.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17VoOGnWRRQXMTBDR809qEBut2jPBOvxqPdlGokf8sxiXCLLw8Q9uOPgi1TvHm_HV80ILpEugV-9ulMr31pC89jW6c90QwGM6IZbn-zlyg83FHsWW9Wcaci-_Romqe-d04wGeICG8114L/s1600/KidFoodPrepHorror2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh17VoOGnWRRQXMTBDR809qEBut2jPBOvxqPdlGokf8sxiXCLLw8Q9uOPgi1TvHm_HV80ILpEugV-9ulMr31pC89jW6c90QwGM6IZbn-zlyg83FHsWW9Wcaci-_Romqe-d04wGeICG8114L/s1600/KidFoodPrepHorror2.jpg" height="282" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Please....NO. </td></tr>
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You know who DOES make a fantastic kitchen helper? Capt. Nap!!!<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQVnCl3S60g-gJQga-fDywQ-Oaqi4QPxbwLC73swRRCPwd0gcsopAwf00HnXcT4Hd53ZB1djmHU-bMZcTFu5pvL5KsvyEMduPyqIZW59bQ7cBJQVITGHRb0ki21bM1dWRPZbizHGO3Hdxj/s1600/CaptNap1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQVnCl3S60g-gJQga-fDywQ-Oaqi4QPxbwLC73swRRCPwd0gcsopAwf00HnXcT4Hd53ZB1djmHU-bMZcTFu5pvL5KsvyEMduPyqIZW59bQ7cBJQVITGHRb0ki21bM1dWRPZbizHGO3Hdxj/s1600/CaptNap1.JPG" height="251" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He totally washed his paws after this picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My frequently shedding, counter-lurking fur-baby is as clean as a whistle! That's why we let him lounge around on our clean clothes!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtne-H7l5hzQsx7_YUZ0eaZ6ZxDLKjuU-JSowIk5eTblx8O4Ky9zNsuf8PydFkH2L8R05nNKMrDfIb3paIFKzmZtCrsiITV-NZ34njn-C5blur3x_9DDSsjynbv25SkELMeOWauSKEiDg0/s1600/Crap_did_Squeaky_spot_me.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtne-H7l5hzQsx7_YUZ0eaZ6ZxDLKjuU-JSowIk5eTblx8O4Ky9zNsuf8PydFkH2L8R05nNKMrDfIb3paIFKzmZtCrsiITV-NZ34njn-C5blur3x_9DDSsjynbv25SkELMeOWauSKEiDg0/s1600/Crap_did_Squeaky_spot_me.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Can a cat get some PRIVACY? I'm trying to pee!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So if you see a cat hair or 20 in the food I bring it to the next potluck, not to worry! My cats are the cleanest, sweetest, most adorable kitties on the entire freaking planet!<br />
<br />Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-28879672811946578082014-10-06T12:01:00.000-04:002014-10-10T10:31:09.954-04:00My Cat Has No TeethPoor Captain Nap. You remember--this guy:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCtOIUQ2RQdOMVwmhkkv2OJsye-gnd77ilNVT7E2EZ_1UlyIN5XaeXaZvqL9d8ySRDmD_HaXmSNWlXsQqGBJA0yQfol3OWBXGHtb12CntwVua61G1QGK7SkYup2WlCCZdYxthGlHlI_Ysy/s1600/NapoleonWTF.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCtOIUQ2RQdOMVwmhkkv2OJsye-gnd77ilNVT7E2EZ_1UlyIN5XaeXaZvqL9d8ySRDmD_HaXmSNWlXsQqGBJA0yQfol3OWBXGHtb12CntwVua61G1QGK7SkYup2WlCCZdYxthGlHlI_Ysy/s1600/NapoleonWTF.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Why you gotta treat me so bad?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Capt. Nap is the unfortunate victim of the feline herpes virus. (My gyno SWORE he couldn't catch it from me.) (I'm TOTALLY joking. I didn't ask my gyno.)<br />
<br />
Okay, okay. All kidding aside, it was this little minx who gave it to him. <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2013/12/getting-third-cat-is-sign-you-are-crazy.html" target="_blank">Remember the adorable Pepper Anne?</a><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhwNcX_RpL4I6RrewOCcHt8iP225JsxhuIMZFn_01YYYfecdpZEpNr_uLt6tc1L55WcCQGR12PQ-MAW9hPZbXktxrTiVeMskudQwuaq20H3YOZAo4ybV-_T1w-rbQFYw6RjtyDrfXlbga/s1600/Pepper-Ann1-217x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhwNcX_RpL4I6RrewOCcHt8iP225JsxhuIMZFn_01YYYfecdpZEpNr_uLt6tc1L55WcCQGR12PQ-MAW9hPZbXktxrTiVeMskudQwuaq20H3YOZAo4ybV-_T1w-rbQFYw6RjtyDrfXlbga/s1600/Pepper-Ann1-217x300.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm winking at you because you think I'm healthy, but I have a hilarious secret!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yes, the missing-an-eye (so, not winking) Pepper Anne, who we adopted in a moment of weakness, because, you know, she's so damn cute. Anyway, we've had her for nearly a year now, and she's been the cause of:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Marital discord</li>
<li>Horrific sores in Squeaky's mouth</li>
<li>Capt. Nap's full-mouth extraction</li>
<li>Plenty o' good times!</li>
</ol>
<br />
Without going into too much detail (because it involves science and medical terminology I don't really understand), Pepper Anne, who we renamed "Peeper" (get it? One eye?), has this herpes virus, which is what caused her to lose her eye before we adopted her. The other cats, not being all that particular about where/what they eat, snuffled around in the same food bowls and caught the virus from Peeper.<br />
<br />
Squeaky was the first victim.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBaCsnPDESK51cN_tuX9dIxpxQNNzUDvS3Y43IKKTJALC9ez3YYFoebJyvxO-w_9giwdTKtfANWAk0uFeneL_KYhV1KmaO64ySJe6uohngzApSTUs1zweLguglELeBnQGOIpJdwXvkHhMW/s1600/SqueakyGuardingToy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBaCsnPDESK51cN_tuX9dIxpxQNNzUDvS3Y43IKKTJALC9ez3YYFoebJyvxO-w_9giwdTKtfANWAk0uFeneL_KYhV1KmaO64ySJe6uohngzApSTUs1zweLguglELeBnQGOIpJdwXvkHhMW/s1600/SqueakyGuardingToy.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Squeaky guarding her favorite toy from Peeper.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Because she's black, I didn't notice at first that she'd developed a sore under her nose. By the time I saw it, it was bleeding. I raced her to the vet (after a mighty struggle to get her in the carrier), who looked in her mouth and found a bunch of ulcers. We had lots of fun medicating Squeaky! She was quarantined in our bedroom for two weeks, which she seemed to like. A lot. In fact, she still goes in there every day. It's her Peeper-free sanctuary. We finally got her outbreak under control.<br />
<br />
That's when I noticed Capt. Nap's breath. It had gone from regular-cat gross to atrocious. As in, he'd open his mouth a crack and I'd want to flee to another house.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9rXysAkPqL5WSih5QmDR2I0sQ3smivkHS747xLK3WFYP1xZ0T9hOar_3BYPLVh57BH-DNZgFZW_HxCg6h4r1jgQSx61oSd0igOau7MkBX1qm_NmhpWLJ5j7_2OBLaj7Z4WrpRzLqsxxj2/s1600/Remove_it_from_my_sight_at_once.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9rXysAkPqL5WSih5QmDR2I0sQ3smivkHS747xLK3WFYP1xZ0T9hOar_3BYPLVh57BH-DNZgFZW_HxCg6h4r1jgQSx61oSd0igOau7MkBX1qm_NmhpWLJ5j7_2OBLaj7Z4WrpRzLqsxxj2/s1600/Remove_it_from_my_sight_at_once.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The captain is embarrassed that I'm detailing his bad breath.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I raced HIM to the vet. She looked in his mouth and gasped. I'm not joking. She then called in a vet tech, who looked in his mouth and also gasped. She showed me what they were gasping about (surprisingly, not his breath). His gums were an inflamed mess; bright red and sore looking. The herpes virus had manifested itself as something called stomatitis. I nodded somberly, not realizing fully the magnitude of this condition until I got home and googled it. One of the cheering articles was titled, "<a href="http://www.catster.com/lifestyle/cats-and-stomatitis" target="_blank">Cats and Stomatitis: A Condition You Wouldn't Wish on Your Worst Enemy.</a>"<br />
<br />
So the bottom line was his immune system was rejecting his teeth. Or something like that. The best way to treat a case of stomatitis that was as bad as Capt. Nap's was to remove the worst of his teeth. We started with a dental cleaning and extraction of several teeth, in the hopes that those measures would do the trick. They didn't. Last week, I bundled Capt. Nap into his carrier for the 4,786th time this year and dropped him off at the vet so they could take out ALL of his remaining teeth. It sounds extreme, I know. But I did a lot of reading about it, and talked at length to my vet, and it seems that a full-mouth extraction is often the best way to relieve a cat's suffering. Goodness knows, I didn't want my old friend to suffer.<br />
<br />
He's back home now and gobbling his food as if he's in a race. Even dry food! Twice a day I put out canned and dry; usually he makes a beeline for the dry. Go figure.<br />
<br />
He's still recovering, but I can tell he feels better. He's grooming himself (something he abandoned before because it was too painful) and even seems more playful. Hooray! It's been a long and challenging year getting Peeper integrated into our household. With the help of Prozac, Squeaky is coming around (although she does get annoyed with Peeper fairly frequently). Also with the help of Prozac,* my husband no longer seems in favor of divorcing me. He did say, however, that three is the ABSOLUTE MAXIMUM.<br />
<br />
Also, I was wondering if anyone could <strike>lend </strike>give me $38,971.95? That's my rough estimate of what I've spent on vet bills this year.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhL9FwJyT11G4Jpc5H2FSfEvQGipKNy6ZCXI9LCQsBAdLcuPONcR_7mb_gcjH07jQik8GPtNGGQK2RKrgS8UO0gS12kzDG5bdnw6rOAhW-vzgmICBTg2FXX2HquWgUD87EjTBoIeBc33r/s1600/PepperAnne.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhL9FwJyT11G4Jpc5H2FSfEvQGipKNy6ZCXI9LCQsBAdLcuPONcR_7mb_gcjH07jQik8GPtNGGQK2RKrgS8UO0gS12kzDG5bdnw6rOAhW-vzgmICBTg2FXX2HquWgUD87EjTBoIeBc33r/s1600/PepperAnne.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The end. (Get it?)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*J/K about my husband and Prozac. Not j/k about Squeaky and Prozac, though.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-24345246308300498002014-09-30T11:35:00.002-04:002014-09-30T11:35:36.188-04:00I Was Abducted By Aliens, Which SuckedI know, I know, it sounds RIDICULOUS, but it's totally true. And despite all the sci-fi movies about aliens being all super smart and possessing amazing technology, there was no way for me to work on my blog. From the, ah, spaceship. So! That's where I've been. (In space.)<br />
<br />
Gotcha! I wasn't REALLY abducted. Hahahahhaha, bet you've really missed that razor-sharp wit. No, what happened was in May I went to the pool. First I got drunk, because when you're over 40 (BARELY), going to the pool is a bit frightening. Oh, that's just me? Hmmmm. Anyway, I got a bit drunk, donned my swim shirt and shorts...hang on, I think I have a picture...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://kingdomofstyle.typepad.co.uk/.a/6a00d8341c2f0953ef014e8649487c970d-700wi" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://kingdomofstyle.typepad.co.uk/.a/6a00d8341c2f0953ef014e8649487c970d-700wi" height="320" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weird how that "Frankie Wetjacket" text appeared at the top of the pic. Will have to get my camera looked at.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, yeah, I was perched on a table, poolside, when... OKAY, FINE, that's not me. Here's the real photo:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://cdn.gajitz.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/aqualung-underwater-flight-suit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://cdn.gajitz.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/04/aqualung-underwater-flight-suit.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clearly, I needed a shave. And boobs. And a psychiatric evaluation, STAT.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
All right, you got me. That's not me either. But my actual attire vaguely resembled the second photo and looked absolutely nothing like the first (although my hair and makeup <u>were</u> super stunning). So I sauntered into the pool, wings fluttering, and proceeded to hop in, whereupon I was immediately ejected for failing to take a shower before entering the pool in which 27 people had just urinated.<br />
<br />
DAMMIT, I'll just tell you all the truth. <i>Nothing </i>happened. I got really busy with work and felt more fatigued than usual. Might have been the summer heat, exacerbating my ever-present MS-related tiredness. Whatever it was, the blog became The Blog I Had Been Neglecting Horribly. I felt as though I'd also neglected the friends I'd made via the blog, which made me feel like an ass. When I thought of all the work I'd have to do to worm my way back into everyone's good graces, I felt even MORE tired. So I continued to neglect my blog and others' blogs, and staved off most of my guilty feelings by telling myself you're all big jerks anyway.<br />
<br />
Hahahahhaha! Of course I didn't do that. Some of you kindly contacted me to make sure I was okay. So, thanks; really. For those of you who are still reading me, I will be easing (worming) into the blog and popping over to see what you've been up to. I've missed <i>all </i>of you big jerks. A lot. Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-24208294949527241462014-04-10T10:57:00.000-04:002014-04-10T10:57:33.869-04:00Working in a Cube Is HELLWhen you're a Certified CrankyPants (CCP), working in a cube can be nightmarish. As I type this, someone is rustling around with a candy bar wrapper, making an ungodly racket in this otherwise quiet office. This person shouldn't be hungry. Want to know how I know? BECAUSE HE JUST FINISHED ROOTING/RUSTLING/CHOMPING through what must have been a family-sized bag of the noisiest chips ever made! That's how I know. It took him *24* minutes to make his way loudly through the contents of that bag. I was gritting my teeth and watching the little clock on the bottom right-hand side of my computer the entire time.<br />
<ul>
<li><b>1:50</b> Bag makes its first appearance [<i>crinkle crinkle</i>]</li>
<li><b>1:50</b> Cube dweller (CD) wrestles the bag open [<i>CRINKLE CRACKLE RUSTLE</i>]</li>
<li><b>1:50</b> CD opens bag and plunges entire fist into the opening to seize a chip [<i>ROOT ROOT CRINKLE CRINKLE</i>]</li>
<li><b>1:51 - 2:10</b> CD jams chip after chip into his mouth [<i>CHEW CHEW SMACK ROOT RUSTLE CRINKLE</i>]</li>
<li><b>2:11</b> Is he done? [<i>SILENCE</i>]</li>
<li><b>2:12 - 2:13</b> CD upends bag into his mouth to dislodge the crumbs at the bottom [<i>TAPTAPTAP SMACK SHAKE RUSTLE</i>]</li>
<li><b>2:14</b> CD disposes of bag, noisily [<i>CRUMPLE CRUMPLE CRINKLE</i>]</li>
</ul>
Lord, by now I need a tranquilizer, but the hell that is CubeLand has just begun.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Return to Cubicles" height="266" src="http://icdn6.digitaltrends.com/image/return-to-cubicles-650x0.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is a Shutterstock photo of a really annoying and nosy CD (<i>caption dedicated to my blogger friend Birdie</i>!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Okay, seriously, WTF is that guy doing peeping over the wall of my cube? Oh, yeah. There's ZERO privacy here. Want to have a private phone conversation or talk shit about someone in the office? Good luck, because about 12 people will hear every word you're saying (best to just blog about it so your complaints can be read over and over, as well as shared with coworkers who weren't in earshot).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioaX_KERurU4Oimzfl-ljSN6OLTL8LrNwi_q4xchTYEaXzbHWA1XwOOqFvDekYAsTvyChAR-cWl_YKCEyo-v37_DFq4yBmtCEHvjo2Xl05UYRk4hb5xF4rgM6A2CNjgm5iHd8QNxMzUIM/s1600/cubicle-lg-24163222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioaX_KERurU4Oimzfl-ljSN6OLTL8LrNwi_q4xchTYEaXzbHWA1XwOOqFvDekYAsTvyChAR-cWl_YKCEyo-v37_DFq4yBmtCEHvjo2Xl05UYRk4hb5xF4rgM6A2CNjgm5iHd8QNxMzUIM/s400/cubicle-lg-24163222.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Were you just talking about me, Ms. CrankyPants?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In addition to chewing noises, there are many, MANY other irritating sounds that emanate from the cubes. How about these gems to make your day just that much more annoying?<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Clipping nails (yes, really)</li>
<li>Receiving text alerts (cute tones OR vibrating)</li>
<li>Cracking knuckles</li>
<li>Scratching</li>
<li>Sighing</li>
<li>Yawning</li>
<li>Breathing loudly</li>
<li>Sniffling (repeatedly)</li>
<li>Clearing throat (repeatedly)</li>
<li>Chomping on gum </li>
<li>Scraping out the <i>verylastbit </i>of yogurt from a container</li>
<li>Listening to music (YES, I can hear the tinny noises escaping from your headphones)</li>
<li>Shifting constantly in a squeaky office chair (for the love of GOD, please get some WD40)</li>
<li>Snickering at a hilarious cat video on YouTube*</li>
</ul>
<br />
*Have you seen <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0sBOIy1Utrk" target="_blank">the one where the cats play patty cake</a>? It really is funny and I'd snicker right now if I were watching it.<br />
<br />
<img src="data:image/jpeg;base64,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" /><br />
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**I just watched it. I kept the volume low but still loud enough so the fellow in the neighboring cube probably could hear it. And I couldn't help it, I snickered. But I will not clip my nails. Promise.<br />
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<br />Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com46tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-36878803727083499042014-04-07T10:28:00.000-04:002014-04-07T13:16:09.324-04:00I Am Not Dead (YET)Colossally lazy, yes. Dead, no. Not yet, anyway. Although I HAVE been feeling a pain in my left calf that *might* be a blood clot that will eventually travel to my brain and explode. For now, though, I live and breathe. Here's why I've been neglecting the blog and not visiting any of yours:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Colossally lazy (covered this already)</li>
<li>Days may be numbered (see: blood clot, above)</li>
<li>Two fellow editors at my workplace selfishly decided to have babies, leaving me with all of the work. So, SO thoughtless of them</li>
<li>MS/cancer/blood clot (or all three)-related fatigue</li>
</ol>
<br />
Those of you with MS who are on a disease-modifying drug (DMD) like Copaxone (which is what I'm on) may be familiar with the following phenomenon: you switch insurance annnnnnnnnnd, suddenly, getting your DMD becomes more difficult than that time a monkey was sent into space (or was it a dog?). I mean, really. My insurance has changed recently for lots of boring reasons, but as has happened Every.Single.Time there's a change of insurance, the new company is taking for-f*cking-ever to get me my meds. I've been completely out of Copaxone for almost two weeks now.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGFpWmnFTOMUNOTDLUFpsMkdbQ0D11ORGCa53S5ml416bQXMCYThsNr8x4WsAXxVE3W78KEKcDZTo_mSZ1qe_4YsaXmBOlAvDrjHie3vlnI9QNStMGeWUghylDktxAj_TvhIzLJUSD4py/s1600/photo+%252876%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnGFpWmnFTOMUNOTDLUFpsMkdbQ0D11ORGCa53S5ml416bQXMCYThsNr8x4WsAXxVE3W78KEKcDZTo_mSZ1qe_4YsaXmBOlAvDrjHie3vlnI9QNStMGeWUghylDktxAj_TvhIzLJUSD4py/s1600/photo+%252876%2529.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wee Squeaky says I'm getting punished for adopting that damn third cat.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
I've called my neurologist's office. I've called the insurance company. I've called Shared Solutions, which is a resource for people on Copaxone. The Shared Solutions people have helped on several occasions as as I've waded through the dozens of calls required to get my meds after a change of insurance. But the combined power of Shared Solutions and me is not enough. The insurance company drags its heels and insists on authorizations and --oops!-- preauthorizations and calls to specialty pharmacies, which need prescriptions, but wait, they're still waiting on the authorization (or was it the preauthorization?), and they haven't heard from the neurologist, so please call to have him fax the prescription to this number -- no, not THAT number, which we gave you two days ago, but THIS one -- and call us back but of course, sure, we'll call you when we've gotten it; oh, who did you talk to last time? Sorry, I don't see any notes in your file, let me put you on hold for 45 minutes....<br />
<br />
It's truly one of the more frustrating, infuriating, and exhausting processes I've been through. And it happens without fail. Why, WHY is it so hard to get the meds we are told we need? I know some people eschew DMDs altogether, but I'm not willing to go that route yet, even though I kind of am by default now. One of the nurses at Shared Solutions said my MS symptoms could flare up during this no-drug period, but so far I haven't had a relapse. I've been feeling the fatigue more than usual. Is it coincidence? Is it because I'm temporarily off the meds? Is it that freaking blood clot? I don't know. Do insurance companies make this so hard because it really IS as challenging as putting a monkey (or dog) into space? Or is it because these drugs are so expensive? In a moment of desperation, I asked someone last week about getting a small supply of injections to tide me over. To get 30 injections -- the smallest dose they could parcel out -- I'd have to pony up $5,000 out of pocket. Ummmm, yeah, hang on while I write that check.<br />
<br />
So, I wait. And call. And get put on hold. And get told there is another hoop to jump through. And all I can do, as far as I can see, is call back and then call again and wait and wait some more and hope someone will hurry the hell up. Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-69160168115599236322014-02-28T13:06:00.000-05:002014-02-28T14:45:52.338-05:00Why a Magnifying Mirror Is a Huge MistakeWhen I was a wee lass, I dreamed of being an astronomer. Then I found out astronomers need to be proficient in math. There went that dream. I still loved learning about the planets and stars, though, and my dad even got an acquaintance of his who worked at NASA to send me some beautiful pictures of Saturn, which I have framed and hung in my office. This is one of them:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VDbHPhSBWRq6JuWqukoOAsOnyxq-t_lv1wJzWogPaJ6lpVJ6Naas-ZldG-rsIkiT7EDJjrKRdaLHwFyme3FtL6R-0oakk4eux_rH4_kufKZPgbWa8y3x9Br6hrDH1HPOxQ3nbCtBhSA7/s1600/saturn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1VDbHPhSBWRq6JuWqukoOAsOnyxq-t_lv1wJzWogPaJ6lpVJ6Naas-ZldG-rsIkiT7EDJjrKRdaLHwFyme3FtL6R-0oakk4eux_rH4_kufKZPgbWa8y3x9Br6hrDH1HPOxQ3nbCtBhSA7/s1600/saturn.jpg" height="253" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pretty cool, right? Thanks, Dad (and NASA).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
You know what else is nice? Those closeup shots of the moon, of dreamy-sounding places like the Sea of Tranquility.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_3HmgCPsNwGiJosTy2k0Ddg11fWnJbXqvZjJDrAgoMWdZ7fOIXnMllAFyMBoKrzKLXBp0vp1AfxQH2eqCee1HfCj1LGo6oVJIEM_ujBqSajQjeUmu4DcjLmyy_z6D9x3P2sx5SEo5B9k/s1600/Moon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq_3HmgCPsNwGiJosTy2k0Ddg11fWnJbXqvZjJDrAgoMWdZ7fOIXnMllAFyMBoKrzKLXBp0vp1AfxQH2eqCee1HfCj1LGo6oVJIEM_ujBqSajQjeUmu4DcjLmyy_z6D9x3P2sx5SEo5B9k/s1600/Moon.jpg" height="320" width="306" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't know if the Sea of Tranquility is in this shot, but thanks, NASA, nonetheless!</td></tr>
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You know what is NOT nice? Magnifying mirrors. Bear with me a second, because this will all make sense shortly.<br />
<br />
You're cruising around through life, thinking you look okay. I mean, sure, you can accept that you're not a supermodel, but overall, not too shabby. In fact, a little like this:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRAZ3ocaEcr73LOIv-2MmVxA802y7yo4F_k4NXR9j2juypBy-wyAk8AihBfKcTBZ6LG5c_nvfuo8YdX921wKzXes7zJjY1z6uObUVH9XPVQZsm8YQTUCdZh54EpP76BuAmVGEXcDEZlMt5/s1600/womans_face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRAZ3ocaEcr73LOIv-2MmVxA802y7yo4F_k4NXR9j2juypBy-wyAk8AihBfKcTBZ6LG5c_nvfuo8YdX921wKzXes7zJjY1z6uObUVH9XPVQZsm8YQTUCdZh54EpP76BuAmVGEXcDEZlMt5/s1600/womans_face.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maybe with a *slightly* shorter neck, but yeah, this looks about right. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
One day, you're at the drugstore buying, oh, I don't know, hemorrhoid cream (BECAUSE YOU READ IT REDUCES EYE PUFFINESS, DAMMIT) and you see one of these:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0IhHKBgWwR_xxag6Dt40v36fuLUJ9S0EgzHP0bqXQa9jMjmprnCu701VMvPT7JkF_Zi7hCMKM7AjVhEdX0E_dfYu2qe-axxazeQsxoOijb3ses1tcm-8zjjxHRUpGbwZX4n2DEF-9i5UV/s1600/Mirror.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0IhHKBgWwR_xxag6Dt40v36fuLUJ9S0EgzHP0bqXQa9jMjmprnCu701VMvPT7JkF_Zi7hCMKM7AjVhEdX0E_dfYu2qe-axxazeQsxoOijb3ses1tcm-8zjjxHRUpGbwZX4n2DEF-9i5UV/s1600/Mirror.jpg" height="320" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And looky here! It's the BEST CHOICE OF THE YEAR! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
"Magnifying my face by 10 times? How fantastic!" you think. "I can use it to touch up eye makeup, perform eyebrow maintenance, and examine my freakishly long neck for suspicious moles."<br />
<br />
You jam it into your basket, pay for your treasures, and race home, eager to use those suction cups to attach it to your larger mirror. You moisten the suction cups, press the magnifying mirror to the larger mirror, and lean in, eager to begin your examination. The mirror pops off. You re-moisten it, press a little harder, and it slides down about 10 inches. You dry off the suction cups, curse loudly, and smash the mirror onto the larger one AGAIN. You wait 20 seconds. Okay, this time it's holding. You lean in. It falls off.<br />
<br />
"G*DDAMMIT!" you shout as you snatch up the miraculously unbroken mirror from the bottom of the sink.<br />
<br />
By now you're red-faced and perspiring. But you're going to touch up your eye makeup, by gum! So you take a deep breath and bring the little miracle mirror to you.<br />
<br />
"This will work just fine," you murmur, as you check your eye makeup.<br />
<br />
Okay, a little smudging at the corners. No problem! You do some touching up and step back to see the effect in the larger mirror. Nice! Looking goooooooooooood.<br />
<br />
"Hey," you think -- and here's where things go to hell -- "why don't I take a closer look AT MY ENTIRE FACE?"<br />
<br />
Foolishly, you begin navigating the contours of your face with the little mirror and disgusting flaws come into immediate and unwelcome focus. Flaws that are magnified *10 times*. Holy CRAP, what is that hair doing THERE? You snatch up the tweezers for an emergency pluck. OMG, is this eyebrow hair...? YES, it's WHITE! YOU HAVE A WHITE EYEBROW HAIR! You clutch the tweezers in trembling fingers for another emergency pluck. It only gets worse. You will notice you have about 4,983 more zits, age spots, and wrinkles than you thought could even FIT on a human face. Glorious 10X magnification! Your face looks a lot like that closeup of the moon, with the occasional one of these moles thrown in for laughs:<br />
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On the bright side, and there's only <i>one </i>positive thing that will come out of this purchase: you can re-do your ruined-from-weeping eye makeup quite nicely now. So there's that.<br />
<br />
I can't end this post without a word of warning: do not, under ANY circumstances, use this mirror of horrors to look in your ears or your nose. Such reckless actions will bring you only misery. And you already feel bad enough as it is....Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-50582245130002000062014-02-19T12:31:00.000-05:002014-02-20T06:17:40.630-05:00The 5 Types of People Who Visit the BathroomMy mom (!) told me my last two blog posts (<a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2014/01/why-i-cant-wear-shorts-anymore.html" target="_blank">revolting bruises</a> and <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2014/01/i-have-farting-cat.html" target="_blank">cat farting</a>) were a bit off-putting, so I've decided to switch things up a bit. They say you should write about what you know, and God knows I am intimately familiar with the bathroom. ("Wait! Mom, where are you going?!") Having MS makes me have to pee approximately 716 times per day. Okay, maybe not QUITE that many, but last Saturday morning, after two cups of coffee and one-and-a-half glasses of water, I went five (5) times in an hour. I know it was exactly five times in an hour, because after each visit, I bellowed to my lucky, lucky husband, "That's the SECOND time...that's the FOURTH time..." until he left the house.<br>
<br>
At home, the only interesting people I run into in the bathroom are, well, my husband and me. Oh, and Capt. Nap, who for some peculiar and perhaps best-not-examined reason, likes to skulk behind the shower curtain and then leap out and watch the toilet being flushed. Not sure where he gets this fascination with the bathroom...<br>
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At work, I run into <i>lots </i>of interesting people (who probably wonder why I am always in there, but at least I'm not lurking behind doors and racing out to watch the toilets being flushed). How many of the following bathroom patrons do you recognize?<br>
<br>
<ol>
<li><b>The Cell Phone Talker</b>: Really, this one is troubling. I mean, okay, probably everyone has taken their phone into the bathroom for a quick check of Facebook or to send a text ("Hey! Guess where I am?"), but the people who chatter away blithely while others tromp in and out, flushing, slamming doors...I don't get it! What must the receiver of the call think? <i>Behavior Assessment</i>: DISTURBING, with a generous side of WTF? </li>
<li><b>The Fake-Out Hand Washer</b>: Not to be confused with the No Hand Washer (no explanation needed), the Fake-Out Hand Washer thinks people can't see her through the massive gaps in the doors. Yes, madam, I can totally see you turn on the water for the requisite 4.75 seconds and just stand there, gazing at yourself in the mirror, and then noisily snatch up paper towels and leave. <i>Behavior Assessment</i>: GROSS, and please do not ask to borrow my stapler.</li>
<li><b>The Silent Shitter (SS)</b> (sorry about the language, Mom): This one is a sneaky customer! You stroll into the bathroom and it's quiet. You have the place to yourself. Yay! You choose your favorite stall -- and then you see them: feet under the door across the way. No sounds whatsoever, just feet. You know she's in there, and she knows you're in there, and no one is making a peep. I hate SS! I mean, I appreciate that she's waiting for an empty bathroom, truly, but the utter silence renders me powerless to accomplish my business, because I know she's just WAITING for me to wrap it up and get the hell out of there. Gah! <i>Behavior Assessment</i>: ANNOYING, because I'll have to come back in 10 minutes when she's gone (and there's a 99.475% chance it'll smell bad).</li>
<li><b>The "Oh, I'm Just Here to Blow My Nose/Wash My Hands" Trickster</b>: This is one I've employed dozens of times. It's your "get out of the bathroom" card when, for example, you are stuck in the oppressive, bladder-seizing presence of an SS. If you've blundered into a stall before noticing SS, you need to take <i>some </i>kind of action and then scram. Here's where the fake nose-blow comes into play. If you see SS before you go into the stall, a brisk hand-washing works like a charm. These fake-outs backfire only if you return 10 minutes later and SS is still lurking. <i>Behavior Assessment</i>: PERFECTLY UNDERSTANDABLE, although everyone knows you didn't <i>really </i>come in there to just wash your hands or blow your nose.</li>
<li><b>The Excessive Towel User</b>: I kind of like the environment, so this one bugs me. But there's always that person who, after washing, proceeds to rip 37 paper towels from the dispenser to dry her hands. Really? I get that the towels are cheap and crappy, but I have first-hand (hahaha! Get it?) experience and can say with certainty that two towels will indeed dry your hands. Sure, it'll feel like you're drying them with sandpaper, but that's true of 2 -AND- 37. So how about using 2? Please? <i>Behavior Assessment</i>: IRRITATING, if you are a tree hugger; otherwise, this complaint is no doubt irritating. </li>
</ol>
And that's my list. I could go on and on (the <b>Overly Friendly Stranger</b>, the<b> Sullen and Beady-Eyed Stranger</b>, the <b>Mom Coaxing Her Kids into Going Potty</b>), but I fear I may be driving off my more respectable readers. The rest of you, thanks for sticking around, and feel free to chime in with your own additions!<br>
<br>Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-22772262942483467562014-01-17T12:50:00.002-05:002014-01-17T12:50:20.704-05:00Why I Can't Wear Shorts AnymoreOkay, okay, I suppose I CAN wear shorts, but my advanced age aside, I really <i>shouldn't</i>. And, no, it's not because it's winter here and I'd look positively ridiculous. (Incidentally, you know you're ancient when you see young whippersnappers wearing shorts in the winter, or standing at the bus stop in the rain resolutely NOT holding an umbrella, and think how silly they look.)<br />
<br />
But I've gotten off track. Back to why I shouldn't wear shorts. I can best illustrate this via a wee story. I was baking a couple of loaves of bread the other day...<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHHIVEF3dWrUUm1boHtbzFuMgy2zaMq26gK93ULcRFg6kbWpCORRfX-vVjGl0C7M7j6xtVU4ViME5jjYNOwyqtochc6H4EHDuChX3lIFPlU37p7q0Z7QB0-RFqI9Un6Q43CpccjGAj_Z-s/s1600/photo+(1).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHHIVEF3dWrUUm1boHtbzFuMgy2zaMq26gK93ULcRFg6kbWpCORRfX-vVjGl0C7M7j6xtVU4ViME5jjYNOwyqtochc6H4EHDuChX3lIFPlU37p7q0Z7QB0-RFqI9Un6Q43CpccjGAj_Z-s/s1600/photo+(1).JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mmmm, just half an hour at 350 degrees...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
HOLY SHIT, THOSE AREN'T TWO LOAVES OF RAW DOUGH! THOSE ARE MY THIGHS!!!!!<br />
<br />
Have you reared back from your computer, shouting in disgust and rubbing furiously at your eyes? Let me know when you're back and ready to resume reading. I'll wait...<br />
<br />
...................<br />
<br />
..................<br />
<br />
Geez, it wasn't <i>that </i>bad, was it? Yes? Okay, okay, take your time.<br />
<br />
..................<br />
<br />
How are you feeling now? Oh, still a little ill? Try a little Pepto Bismol or, if you're inclined, 3 - 4 shots of tequila. Go on. I'll wait...<br />
<br />
There, there. It's going to be okay. I won't do that again, I promise.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjVSaFK8YPthbTzebyMIoYvvL4ngr0u2Rf62_GkpbOwlyaWV6MNHXGm7ALbaK4GV3DDH2YY2DnYMpIdvQw1dPwCQlwr9n1SYpIrA7yrwDGSUkutHTPJ9Bn1s7VLDRni8XW4DvjyPOh5nI/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsjVSaFK8YPthbTzebyMIoYvvL4ngr0u2Rf62_GkpbOwlyaWV6MNHXGm7ALbaK4GV3DDH2YY2DnYMpIdvQw1dPwCQlwr9n1SYpIrA7yrwDGSUkutHTPJ9Bn1s7VLDRni8XW4DvjyPOh5nI/s1600/photo+(2).JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oops, I forgot! My bad!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Hahaha - yes, of COURSE I was going to do it again. But that's the last one, really.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Ladies and gents, these horrifying images reveal the "But wait! There's MORE!" bonus you get when on an MS disease-modifying drug like Copaxone. I've been on it for a couple of years now, and so far these revolting bruises are the worst side effect. Don't get me wrong, giving the injections can be painful, and the site afterward is often sore and itchy. (NO, <i>sore and itchy</i> is not how my skin is normally. Stop being rude.) But <i>unattractive and unsuitable for shorts</i>? Yes indeedy. This is, in part, why I love the winter: Long pants. Maybe even long-johns for good measure. And tights. Plus snow pants.<br />
<br />
But, come summertime, when I might <strike>enjoy</strike> need to work in the garden or take a walk, it's hard to not want to wear shorts. Rest assured, though, I'll be keeping my bruised-fruit-like gams covered up. Thank God for those mid-calf length pants that I think went out of style in 2010. I have a closet full of them. You know, because:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVvdMiwZ_sUyGzojEBmz7zLl76P4Rf247OoQ6GNhJgQZVn713eUJHTv1NMdfMrDxjePw0QLzVekVZjFZAchHPiEUFGHV_02eq1O8E7e14BuIn7KfgYgt08soleeflENj6TXei8T1Do2UM/s1600/photo+%252824%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlVvdMiwZ_sUyGzojEBmz7zLl76P4Rf247OoQ6GNhJgQZVn713eUJHTv1NMdfMrDxjePw0QLzVekVZjFZAchHPiEUFGHV_02eq1O8E7e14BuIn7KfgYgt08soleeflENj6TXei8T1Do2UM/s1600/photo+%252824%2529.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry!! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-54526065225015144482014-01-13T13:54:00.000-05:002014-01-13T13:54:43.002-05:00I Have a Farting Cat<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
First, I must give credit where credit is due: thank you, gentlemen, from <a href="http://www.abeerfortheshower.com/" target="_blank">A Beer for the Shower</a> (ABftS), for bringing to my attention the need to address cat farting. In their most recent blog post, ABftS mentioned this off-putting (and HILARIOUS) behavior. Anyone who spends a nanosecond reading my frequently off-putting blog can well imagine that I find the idea of cat farting amusing. And amusing it is...until it's your cat doing the farting.<br />
<br />
The fellows from ABftS didn't realize cat farting exists. (They thought it was a myth, like women farting...which IS a myth, by the way.) But I'm here to tell you that one of the following felines is a farter:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCtOIUQ2RQdOMVwmhkkv2OJsye-gnd77ilNVT7E2EZ_1UlyIN5XaeXaZvqL9d8ySRDmD_HaXmSNWlXsQqGBJA0yQfol3OWBXGHtb12CntwVua61G1QGK7SkYup2WlCCZdYxthGlHlI_Ysy/s1600/NapoleonWTF.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCtOIUQ2RQdOMVwmhkkv2OJsye-gnd77ilNVT7E2EZ_1UlyIN5XaeXaZvqL9d8ySRDmD_HaXmSNWlXsQqGBJA0yQfol3OWBXGHtb12CntwVua61G1QGK7SkYup2WlCCZdYxthGlHlI_Ysy/s1600/NapoleonWTF.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captain Nap? He looks a bit embarrassed, doesn't he? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Or could it be the oft-maligned Squeaky?<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuKzAG1ci_gradYWydq9yCOoF0XFySXgL1SSBBs7SOBlDuHjZtSRgUCrpkCpvmHkVrCxet3QsN77dJ98h5HzZq0BdlpQ7pCvlOznTKgXkRWcRJB44ajtUdiACbw0hAjVySRVG_a0H6J6f/s1600/Oh+you+want+to+write+something.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsuKzAG1ci_gradYWydq9yCOoF0XFySXgL1SSBBs7SOBlDuHjZtSRgUCrpkCpvmHkVrCxet3QsN77dJ98h5HzZq0BdlpQ7pCvlOznTKgXkRWcRJB44ajtUdiACbw0hAjVySRVG_a0H6J6f/s1600/Oh+you+want+to+write+something.JPG" height="239" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Haha! I'm farting on your laptop!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now hold on. Before you go and blame poor Squeaky, let's not forget the newest member of the family:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhwNcX_RpL4I6RrewOCcHt8iP225JsxhuIMZFn_01YYYfecdpZEpNr_uLt6tc1L55WcCQGR12PQ-MAW9hPZbXktxrTiVeMskudQwuaq20H3YOZAo4ybV-_T1w-rbQFYw6RjtyDrfXlbga/s1600/Pepper-Ann1-217x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhwNcX_RpL4I6RrewOCcHt8iP225JsxhuIMZFn_01YYYfecdpZEpNr_uLt6tc1L55WcCQGR12PQ-MAW9hPZbXktxrTiVeMskudQwuaq20H3YOZAo4ybV-_T1w-rbQFYw6RjtyDrfXlbga/s1600/Pepper-Ann1-217x300.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not darling Pepper Anne!?! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhL9FwJyT11G4Jpc5H2FSfEvQGipKNy6ZCXI9LCQsBAdLcuPONcR_7mb_gcjH07jQik8GPtNGGQK2RKrgS8UO0gS12kzDG5bdnw6rOAhW-vzgmICBTg2FXX2HquWgUD87EjTBoIeBc33r/s1600/PepperAnne.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPhL9FwJyT11G4Jpc5H2FSfEvQGipKNy6ZCXI9LCQsBAdLcuPONcR_7mb_gcjH07jQik8GPtNGGQK2RKrgS8UO0gS12kzDG5bdnw6rOAhW-vzgmICBTg2FXX2HquWgUD87EjTBoIeBc33r/s1600/PepperAnne.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This picture is a CLUE. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yes, friends, the adorable Pepper Anne is not only missing an eye, she's also missing her manners. Maybe it's the stress and excitement of a new home, or maybe it's the super-expensive special diet all three cats are on (she routinely horns in on the adult cats' food, which is a $$$ hypoallergenic variety that Capt. Nap needs). Whatever the reason, the cats and I will be having a pleasant conversation, such as the following:<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> "Squeaky, did you gnaw on that plant?"<br />
<b>Squeaky: </b>"NO!"<br />
<b>Me:</b> "Capt. Nap, is Squeaky telling Mommy the truth?"<br />
<b>Capt. Nap:</b> "No! She's totally lying!"<br />
<b>Me:</b> "Squeaky, is there something you want to tell Mommy?"<br />
<br />
And then Pepper Anne will stroll past and leave a horrific odor in her wake. I know it's her because:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>It wasn't me (remember: women don't fart)</li>
<li>Squeaky is now in the Punishment Box<span style="color: red;">*</span> (a Plexiglass container where she stays until she admits she was naughty)</li>
<li>Capt. Nap is lying on a sofa halfway across the room</li>
</ol>
<div>
<span style="color: red; font-size: xx-small;">*NO, I don't put my cats in a Punishment Box. </span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If I were guilty of ever passing gas, I can see where this cat-farting business might come in handy.<br /></div>
<div>
["AAAAAH, Pepper Anne JUST FARTED AGAIN!!! GOD, IT'S DISGUSTING!!!!"]</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But since I do not, there's no reason for me to not get to the bottom of this problem and nip it in the bud. So, I've taken her to the vet and duly dropped off a stool sample. Please wish us luck. Cat farting is amusing only when it's happening to someone else. </div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-22184097806343549072013-12-31T11:41:00.000-05:002013-12-31T11:41:43.714-05:00Why I May Be Suing SomebodyI woke up Sunday with a horrific neckache.<br />
<br />
"What's the hell?" I wondered crankily, as I staggered to the bathroom to attend to bidness and brush my teeth. Four possibilities came to mind immediately:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Meningitis</li>
<li>Neck cancer</li>
<li>MS flareup</li>
<li>Slept funny</li>
</ol>
<br />
I was pretty sure it was one of the first two, but I wasn't going to rule out #3 or #4 immediately. I'd mull it over while having some coffee.<br />
<br />
First there was cat bidness to deal with. LOTS of it. Who the hell decided three cats was a good idea? So, yeah, feeding, scooping litter, medicating...crap. By the time I was done, I was ready for a good sit-down.<br />
<br />
Coffee in hand, I settled down on the couch. <i>Ahhhhh. Better.</i> Wait! What's this? Why, it's my laptop, positioned just how I left it (on top of a box containing a puzzle that I thought my husband and I could do as a wholesome alternative to watching TV). I looked around guiltily. Oh, that's right! Husband is out of town!!<br />
<br />
"Well, what's the harm, really?" I said to myself reassuringly. "I mean, one or two more episodes isn't such a big deal."<br />
<br />
Capt. Nap was sprawled out in the middle of the floor, vigorously cleaning his butt.<br />
<br />
"STOP JUDGING ME!" I shouted. "I CAN QUIT ANYTIME I WANT!"<br />
<br />
He paused for a second, glanced at me, and resumed cleaning.<br />
<br />
"Whatever," I mumbled, and lurched forward to turn on my laptop and continue my "Breaking Bad" marathon on Netflix.<br />
<br />
Mid-lurch I stopped in agony. Was the meningitis getting worse? What WAS this horrible pain?? Did I need to go to Urgent Care? I gritted my teeth and turned on my laptop. Once the show began, I sank back into the couch. My neck throbbed. I could not get into a comfortable position. It was totally interfering with my enjoyment of the show. I thought back to yesterday; what had I done?<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Woke up</li>
<li>Cat bidness</li>
<li>"Breaking Bad" (begin Season 1)</li>
<li>Showered</li>
<li>More "Breaking Bad"</li>
<li>Lunch</li>
<li>"Breaking Bad" (begin Season 2)</li>
<li>Cat bidness</li>
<li>Dinner</li>
<li>"Breaking Bad" (finish Season 2)</li>
<li>Well-earned sleep</li>
</ol>
<br />
See! Nothing strenuous -- unless it was taking care of those damn cats. Maybe I twisted my neck trying to scoop one of the four (4), YES, FOUR, litterboxes? Hmmmm. This <i>was </i>a mystery. I slumped into a slightly different position on the couch, cursing and trying to keep my head in a position where I could see the show on my laptop. A very small lightbulb (like, nightlight-size) sputtered on.<br />
<br />
"Now wait just a darn minute," I mused. "Could it be...?"<br />
<br />
Could it be that the HOURS I'd spent the previous day hunched on the couch watching "Breaking Bad" had caused my horrific neck pain? Only one way to find out! I sprang off the couch to do some stretching exercises and then go outside for invigorating fresh air.<br />
<br />
HAHAHAHAHA!<br />
<br />
No, I didn't. I peeled myself off the couch, shuffled upstairs without moving my neck for a mega-dose of Aleve, and continued my disgusting "Breaking Bad" marathon. This time, though. I added another wholesome and unopened puzzle to my "laptop stand." Within an hour, I was feeling better -- and making an impressive dent in Season 3!<br />
<br />
If any among you are lawyers (or if you've watched a lot of legal shows on TV), can you please advise me? I believe I *may* have a case against "Breaking Bad" and/or Netflix for mental anguish and...physical torment (?). I easily could wear one of those neck-brace thingys, if that would bolster my case.<br />
<br />
<br />Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-88774982432630695092013-12-12T15:41:00.000-05:002013-12-12T15:43:17.053-05:00Cheer, Goodwill, and Embarrassments: Ms. CrankyPants' Holiday Letter!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Happy holidays, everyone! It's been quite a year! There have been some highlights, and many, MANY embarrassing lowlights, most of which I've shared with you. If you need a refresher, just click <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2013/01/arts-and-crap.html" target="_blank">here </a>or <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2013/03/toilet-training-cat-edition.html" target="_blank">here</a>. Oh, hell, click on any post in my blog; it's nearly all embarrassing.<br />
<br />
Everyone knows that the very BEST holiday letters are all about <strike>bragging </strike>highlights, so let's get started!<br />
<ul>
<li>I'll just get the biggie out of the way first: I now have 10 followers! It's taken close to a year, but 10 new people actually like me! Or at least, the Ms. CrankyPants version of me. For all you know, I could be a colossal ASS whom you'd hate in real life. (After all, I just used the word "whom.")</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPwM-cUd-Pf_YOQ5SuOhJPYk6UbcLjuLWr3HDHuJSyzXOVVX2NTeF9R39JnOdRsOhQ04xUgHv6JX5GESgUtsl-cfJojEM45HS2jm7NI5x6v2UXrxszgn5KoHk8EyJXKD6M8sPONC8-Cs2/s1600/14333.0.219.138.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQPwM-cUd-Pf_YOQ5SuOhJPYk6UbcLjuLWr3HDHuJSyzXOVVX2NTeF9R39JnOdRsOhQ04xUgHv6JX5GESgUtsl-cfJojEM45HS2jm7NI5x6v2UXrxszgn5KoHk8EyJXKD6M8sPONC8-Cs2/s1600/14333.0.219.138.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanks, 10 followers!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>I haven't had an MS relapse in...ages. Is it the Copaxone? The Swank Diet? Is it because I don't really have MS at all but some other horrible disease? Or, could it be that strange "agreement" I made with the mysterious silver-tongued chap with the red tail and horns who showed up that one night with a contract? Dunno. Whatever. I've been feeling good. (Note: I've just officially jinxed myself.)</li>
</ul>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5gCojcJcoRaZNRO5KIvmVzvuvpvijftBQouUhbYFaZsD97JXZB5bKSKxKZGIPd1mjWOEkvG_i2rlmqSENPyLzpe35Hv5EF2CqDxVRYSvY4TMsMtWxwat2gzEJLyqPz6BWqWS59aqrypI/s1600/devil-dance-clip-art_419575.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv5gCojcJcoRaZNRO5KIvmVzvuvpvijftBQouUhbYFaZsD97JXZB5bKSKxKZGIPd1mjWOEkvG_i2rlmqSENPyLzpe35Hv5EF2CqDxVRYSvY4TMsMtWxwat2gzEJLyqPz6BWqWS59aqrypI/s320/devil-dance-clip-art_419575.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He LOOKED friendly enough...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<ul>
<li>Our fantastically wonderful family is growing! The cat-adoption stork brought us a little bundle of joy (LBOJ) named Pepper Anne! </li>
</ul>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhwNcX_RpL4I6RrewOCcHt8iP225JsxhuIMZFn_01YYYfecdpZEpNr_uLt6tc1L55WcCQGR12PQ-MAW9hPZbXktxrTiVeMskudQwuaq20H3YOZAo4ybV-_T1w-rbQFYw6RjtyDrfXlbga/s1600/Pepper-Ann1-217x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhwNcX_RpL4I6RrewOCcHt8iP225JsxhuIMZFn_01YYYfecdpZEpNr_uLt6tc1L55WcCQGR12PQ-MAW9hPZbXktxrTiVeMskudQwuaq20H3YOZAo4ybV-_T1w-rbQFYw6RjtyDrfXlbga/s1600/Pepper-Ann1-217x300.jpg" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bFboW2ACIz2y1VWG0MGuAuAzHHXoyrEuFrDMeilxoU_50FtJJvwQS_M_-7SLw-XkmlcVzYIUyt0TujddcuKzL3bcIRrdGQWeEqKXw72ouXdlszeveSD528mud1ObdxiNsqsBwnowp8BZ/s1600/PepperAnne.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bFboW2ACIz2y1VWG0MGuAuAzHHXoyrEuFrDMeilxoU_50FtJJvwQS_M_-7SLw-XkmlcVzYIUyt0TujddcuKzL3bcIRrdGQWeEqKXw72ouXdlszeveSD528mud1ObdxiNsqsBwnowp8BZ/s320/PepperAnne.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pepper Anne, in one of her 4,872,810 adorable poses.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>Our existing cats <strike>hate</strike> <strike>aren't especially fond of</strike> are slowly getting used to our LBOJ!</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9rXysAkPqL5WSih5QmDR2I0sQ3smivkHS747xLK3WFYP1xZ0T9hOar_3BYPLVh57BH-DNZgFZW_HxCg6h4r1jgQSx61oSd0igOau7MkBX1qm_NmhpWLJ5j7_2OBLaj7Z4WrpRzLqsxxj2/s1600/Remove_it_from_my_sight_at_once.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9rXysAkPqL5WSih5QmDR2I0sQ3smivkHS747xLK3WFYP1xZ0T9hOar_3BYPLVh57BH-DNZgFZW_HxCg6h4r1jgQSx61oSd0igOau7MkBX1qm_NmhpWLJ5j7_2OBLaj7Z4WrpRzLqsxxj2/s320/Remove_it_from_my_sight_at_once.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Capt. Nap: "I can't even look at her. She's HIDEOUS!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>In other exciting feline news, Squeaky the Cat just graduated Magna Cat Laude from Big Jerk Cat University and has received her Ph.D. in Cat-Assery. She is so skilled! She can now hiss/growl at Pepper Anne and Capt. Nap WHILE guarding her toys, food, and the communal water bowl. Oh, and also all four litter boxes. She's so talented! We are so, so proud. That tuition money was well spent indeed. </li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGWDbIuROl1Y43weUBs46zwbkTY6nswqLs2qQghVQXn4IPHzUs2fruzw8OByZ6Ieu963mxafez2mvwHledipV1B6zFXb5h31MD89rlVh1oMjE5QuNeR32nhcP6g0M2HQA2vwj-nUhU7-ox/s1600/What_are_YOU_looking_at.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGWDbIuROl1Y43weUBs46zwbkTY6nswqLs2qQghVQXn4IPHzUs2fruzw8OByZ6Ieu963mxafez2mvwHledipV1B6zFXb5h31MD89rlVh1oMjE5QuNeR32nhcP6g0M2HQA2vwj-nUhU7-ox/s320/What_are_YOU_looking_at.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Who the hell are you calling a jerk? Cover my head at once, minion!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>Capt. Nap is also doing really well! He hasn't had an explosive vomiting session since September. Plus, remember his adorable <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2013/01/poo-paws-capt-naps-soon-to-be-patented.html" target="_blank">POO PAWS</a> that so delighted me back in January? He's taught l'il sis Pepper Anne how to actually walk in <b>her </b>poo before burying it. What a good big brother! Now we have two cats with the occasional poo paw. We couldn't be happier! (By the way, who wants to come over and lie on our carpet? First come, first served, friends. There's only so much carpet to go around!)</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5637hzF_YZzcl1uqSxSo-j5vVX4GtifjTG2ClrmelUvx-4Yb2VPz50hKLqZjk-8Qyw-JlzTfC9zH4zp0iFjrdlX_owHFPeOZAk5N6kci3KwmM4X7KoiTURIIPtHP8sQXQ7XUGSvXng1bH/s1600/photo+%252868%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5637hzF_YZzcl1uqSxSo-j5vVX4GtifjTG2ClrmelUvx-4Yb2VPz50hKLqZjk-8Qyw-JlzTfC9zH4zp0iFjrdlX_owHFPeOZAk5N6kci3KwmM4X7KoiTURIIPtHP8sQXQ7XUGSvXng1bH/s320/photo+%252868%2529.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I call this section of carpet. (Sorry, homeowners get first pick.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>Husband is continuing to support me in my efforts to stave off disability via the Swank Diet! He's a wonderful cook! But, really, how can you go wrong with products like TOFURKEY sausage?</li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOLxqHpK4r8bifCz6VC_xus40ds4cDoztaBs2Q8QDokDy7Ew-pDO7FfpTdRAMJ5i8Zs9yqjncpWm2jrE8tM1ifB-ghxFyj7i5Cc-kPxdQycvTKknXP_bFgV0f9EzYViDrnjV9D2KBLTxoQ/s1600/photo+%252868%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOLxqHpK4r8bifCz6VC_xus40ds4cDoztaBs2Q8QDokDy7Ew-pDO7FfpTdRAMJ5i8Zs9yqjncpWm2jrE8tM1ifB-ghxFyj7i5Cc-kPxdQycvTKknXP_bFgV0f9EzYViDrnjV9D2KBLTxoQ/s320/photo+%252868%2529.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OOPS! Wrong picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZWaRetDuNadKExK7-1yf2WdA0I6b1pOHVkNiRdQuIubo1Esr98XPcubMEMGWE-DYhICrhDbBWbZ94NNCxVzEdV8-FrQlhyphenhyphengB19VZO5Appaj5okZycbysb0AxjtotrHMJdLv8FPLuNCDzQ/s1600/Oh-dear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZWaRetDuNadKExK7-1yf2WdA0I6b1pOHVkNiRdQuIubo1Esr98XPcubMEMGWE-DYhICrhDbBWbZ94NNCxVzEdV8-FrQlhyphenhyphengB19VZO5Appaj5okZycbysb0AxjtotrHMJdLv8FPLuNCDzQ/s320/Oh-dear.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can see why I got confused.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>I <span style="font-size: xx-small;">may </span>have big boobs! Yes, friends, <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2013/06/the-bra-fitting-episode.html" target="_blank">according to a highly trained expert</a> at a local bra shop, I have spent most of my adult life wearing a way-too-tiny bra size. This was some of the best news in all of 2013 for the fabulous CrankyPants family! </li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li>Back to our kitty cats! They have really impressed us this year by scorning every single product we've introduced in an attempt to toilet train them. Stubborn little kitties! I do love a cat with his or her own personality! Oh, and not to worry: they've promised to pay us back the $3,176 we spent on <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2013/03/toilet-training-cat-edition.html" target="_blank">ridiculous devices</a> designed to make scooping their litter boxes a task of the past. </li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVzu-UNMkuHxXNbLga9mKiZ0NiV2mvWPc4umOPyA3kPl837KAtAvqLdoqAXQvbiEqBUN9FzXZ_BQ_2zhnTnpT_iDS_POLJ5ml0V-IEAWtbryKbvSLP93R0t8kpPyfR8gakrQXMA3sCqFJe/s1600/Litter+Kwitter.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVzu-UNMkuHxXNbLga9mKiZ0NiV2mvWPc4umOPyA3kPl837KAtAvqLdoqAXQvbiEqBUN9FzXZ_BQ_2zhnTnpT_iDS_POLJ5ml0V-IEAWtbryKbvSLP93R0t8kpPyfR8gakrQXMA3sCqFJe/s320/Litter+Kwitter.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Kwit the litter? NEVER!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>It sure was a great Halloween this year! We managed to significantly reduce the number of trick-or-treaters harassing us! No, it wasn't the unwrapped hard candies or the miniature boxes of ancient raisins we'd been passing out. We suspect it was because our neighbors saw my husband mowing the yard in the snow! "Why, those cat-loving, kid-less people are NUTS!" we think they might have said on the neighborhood shared social media platform that we imagine exists and to which we've not been invited. "I wouldn't send MY kids there this Halloween." Mission accomplished! </li>
</ul>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-A1dRwC_p7Fq6db89FIEaWhJCBovuOvz0_WhSB3FyWRHF53DqamrN7_EpPULpQZTUNhSWLbgZJm5vkHKmjmpak840t-Eh4Ki-hmtS4_BVLHyfE0CnGrh0tfT4O2vndGAtRN6oLKf3nRgn/s1600/snow_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-A1dRwC_p7Fq6db89FIEaWhJCBovuOvz0_WhSB3FyWRHF53DqamrN7_EpPULpQZTUNhSWLbgZJm5vkHKmjmpak840t-Eh4Ki-hmtS4_BVLHyfE0CnGrh0tfT4O2vndGAtRN6oLKf3nRgn/s320/snow_0.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This isn't my husband. I've been forbidden to use that picture. This is the mayor of someplace in Iowa. But you get the idea. And in his defense, my husband was not wearing shorts. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<ul>
<li>Thanksgiving 2013 was a tremendous success! No four-legged attendees vomited or did a poo anywhere! Pepper Anne jumped on the dining room table and lurched toward the turkey only once! (Maybe twice.) (Okay, fine, thrice.) (And, yes, I just said "thrice.")</li>
</ul>
<div>
We look forward to the new year, new embarrassments, and, ideally, new carpet. May you and yours have a very happy holiday season! </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />
<br />Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-68367722512845886712013-12-06T11:43:00.000-05:002013-12-06T11:43:16.484-05:00Getting a Third Cat Is a Sign You Are CrazySome of you* have been wondering where I've been. I have a darn fine excuse, and her name is Pepper Anne. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(*I'm going to go ahead and just pretend that's the case, without any actual proof to support that claim.)</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg291W23NSpfrBllYNPkS36yaD9eRvXQRgahCaLcysganaFMi459O3QLgfrdL9GuvUAuEidVqemJxMyNkPLGCp6Nkn_XwxWBeBk7KDCH5Gu6xezUycsiTS6mcXo1DlU6KwHILxumfMfKabx/s1600/Pepper-Ann1-217x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg291W23NSpfrBllYNPkS36yaD9eRvXQRgahCaLcysganaFMi459O3QLgfrdL9GuvUAuEidVqemJxMyNkPLGCp6Nkn_XwxWBeBk7KDCH5Gu6xezUycsiTS6mcXo1DlU6KwHILxumfMfKabx/s1600/Pepper-Ann1-217x300.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hi! I'm Pepper Anne! Won't you be my friend?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So I saw this picture on Homer the Blind WonderCat's Facebook page. <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2013/08/goodbye-to-friend-i-never-met_27.html" target="_blank">I wrote about</a> my quite-possibly-disturbing-to-non-cat-people "friendship" with the blind cat Homer (stop judging me) not too long ago. It seemed that darling Pepper Anne needed a home, and she was nearby. I began a Super-Stealthy Campaign to win over my husband.<br />
<br />
"Just LOOK at this adorable kitten!" I'd chirp, thrusting my phone into his field of vision several times a day.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, she's cute," he'd mumble, and continue trying to rake leaves or shower or drive off to work.<br />
<br />
"Poor Squeaky," I'd muse, whenever Squeaky the Cat was looking slightly bored. "She needs a playmate."<br />
<br />
"Poor Capt. Nap," I'd say, nudging my husband. "See how he's sleeping there on the couch? He totally is wishing he had someone to curl up with."<br />
<br />
My husband would look at me blankly and I'd whip out the picture of Pepper Anne again.<br />
<br />
"Just LOOK at this adorable kitten!" I'd chirp...and so forth.<br />
<br />
After several days of my Super-Stealthy Campaign, I "discovered" that Pepper Anne would be at a local pet store during an adoption event. By making 1,275 perfectly reasonable promises, I managed to talk my husband into going to the pet store "just to LOOK."<br />
<br />
Let's fast-forward. We have Pepper Anne. We're several weeks into the trial period, during which we make sure she meshes well with our resident cats. That bit has been rather...TAXING. Let's check in with everyone.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq9ohbJkH92NnEsXAJuZ4MJk7Jk2f7rG-NV5eQfOZaYwN3RBrYp2a49K3c5rtLnt5-PDMOL7jWCOcDkhgUzFUHXyMaSeT_i7cle4ikx_LHz-BEQNvdFSN4tDRfIMQ4XGK2QZNuWiRyechV/s1600/SqueakyGuardingToy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq9ohbJkH92NnEsXAJuZ4MJk7Jk2f7rG-NV5eQfOZaYwN3RBrYp2a49K3c5rtLnt5-PDMOL7jWCOcDkhgUzFUHXyMaSeT_i7cle4ikx_LHz-BEQNvdFSN4tDRfIMQ4XGK2QZNuWiRyechV/s320/SqueakyGuardingToy.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This is MY toy!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Squeaky the Cat spends a lot of time guarding this particular toy. When she's not guarding the toy (okay, even when she is guarding the toy), she's hissing, growling, and lunging. Mostly at Pepper Anne, but sometimes at Capt. Nap and/or my husband and me. Good times. She's by far the least won over by Pepper Anne's considerable charms.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjteNmDW7Sm34zcTPnvey8KelbJSMdecw_CFyvXvXMA08jucJbGQ-CRCXJ7EcKPewsmQS8Mq7rZFlzX5r8tVUx7kqYjHfSyE8OqKHN579SXVvNEz5EnJ8v0ulgw1iSC1hiunD-OoZ_tnqge/s1600/NapoleonWTF.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjteNmDW7Sm34zcTPnvey8KelbJSMdecw_CFyvXvXMA08jucJbGQ-CRCXJ7EcKPewsmQS8Mq7rZFlzX5r8tVUx7kqYjHfSyE8OqKHN579SXVvNEz5EnJ8v0ulgw1iSC1hiunD-OoZ_tnqge/s320/NapoleonWTF.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"It's totally obvious that you don't love me AT ALL."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Capt. Nap spends a lot of his time skulking near windows and doors, hoping someone will open them and liberate him from the madness that is our home. He also gives us this LOOK, which is designed for (and quite effective at) maximum guilt.<br />
<br />
I keep Grouchy-Ass Squeaky and Beleaguered Capt. Nap separate from My New Very Favorite Pepper Anne (just kidding; I love them all equally, except for Squeaky, who is being a real pain) when I'm not around. I've read tons of stuff on how to introduce cats, and pestered the people at the adoption center with 4,857,973 questions. In addition, I've spent around $78,974 on cat-calming items. Below are just a few:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnobLZdwAYkF2MeqzswSWs25OW1f-DKGv5tMZ-Wk72u7saJ-V4uxGGJ-0OEJyjLkSfUdfWTqQCJM5D45t0Lys3vF4dboZUHyad44XTf8JexaNz4L1ZD6Z54a_cSuz8DTYe9Swu6bTacqOt/s1600/ArrayOfCatCalmingNonsense.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnobLZdwAYkF2MeqzswSWs25OW1f-DKGv5tMZ-Wk72u7saJ-V4uxGGJ-0OEJyjLkSfUdfWTqQCJM5D45t0Lys3vF4dboZUHyad44XTf8JexaNz4L1ZD6Z54a_cSuz8DTYe9Swu6bTacqOt/s320/ArrayOfCatCalmingNonsense.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jackson Galaxy SPIRIT ESSENCES drops and Feliway COMFORT ZONE spray.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMPNwB2E87cgk-fpDfa0FEt8nWkx-Xb-aSWemRcRA8izivhHopgecQrmWkr420YZ1djzRg4mv0DxAgniYD47A2KOJuFgrHqwgOPYxBCjAt0230eFFtaB_bV38yqjk8Q9MvLqtRQMsdXOPB/s1600/FeliwayDiffuser.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMPNwB2E87cgk-fpDfa0FEt8nWkx-Xb-aSWemRcRA8izivhHopgecQrmWkr420YZ1djzRg4mv0DxAgniYD47A2KOJuFgrHqwgOPYxBCjAt0230eFFtaB_bV38yqjk8Q9MvLqtRQMsdXOPB/s320/FeliwayDiffuser.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feliway diffusers for the areas in the house where conflicts are most likely to occur. (AKA, the ENTIRE house.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
As I indicated above, the pictures reveal only a tiny portion of the sprays that litter nearly every surface in the house, plus the diffusers plugged in at potential <i>conflict zones</i>. (Did I mention that <i>conflict zones</i> are, like, everywhere?)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hope you can at least on some pitying level understand why I've been busy for three weeks. YES, I'm aware that my blog is ancient and hasn't been updated since October. LATE October, though, please note. Keep your fingers crossed for us as we enter the fourth and final week of the trial period. Oh, and Squeaky is up for adoption if anyone's interested. (Just kidding.) (Mostly.)</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKEEnhb-h-2xFy35kBxeVL_To2p2iLChMm_ohaVv33xCgsaR8sQ6QFdeP2rVUky7PwxAKTa-eiAAQl-nUuju8YjqM4aUU7_j5ITAILCIxtWQNtC1mgk40CVRpt1vK_lla2V7XKnK1a_fN/s1600/Wee-Squeaky2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDKEEnhb-h-2xFy35kBxeVL_To2p2iLChMm_ohaVv33xCgsaR8sQ6QFdeP2rVUky7PwxAKTa-eiAAQl-nUuju8YjqM4aUU7_j5ITAILCIxtWQNtC1mgk40CVRpt1vK_lla2V7XKnK1a_fN/s320/Wee-Squeaky2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm keeping Wee Squeaky, though. She's MUCH better behaved. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-32723027749092030012013-10-28T19:34:00.000-04:002013-10-28T19:34:06.913-04:00Hubris Will Bite You in the AssFirst, let me address the title of this piece. I was trying to show off and use a Big Word, but I confess that I had to look it up first. You know, to be sure I was using it correctly. So that's a little embarrassing. But here's what Wikipedia says:<br />
<br />
<b style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">Hubris</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;"> </span><span class="nowrap" style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px; white-space: nowrap;"><span class="IPA" title="Representation in the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA)"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help:IPA_for_English" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none !important;" title="Help:IPA for English">/</a></span><span class="IPA nopopups"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help:IPA_for_English#Key" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none !important;" title="Help:IPA for English"><span style="border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;" title="/ˈ/ primary stress follows">ˈ</span></a></span><span class="IPA nopopups"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help:IPA_for_English#Key" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none !important;" title="Help:IPA for English"><span style="border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;" title="'h' in 'hi'">h</span></a></span><span class="IPA nopopups"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help:IPA_for_English#Key" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none !important;" title="Help:IPA for English"><span style="border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;" title="/juː/ long 'u' in 'cute'">juː</span></a></span><span class="IPA nopopups"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help:IPA_for_English#Key" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none !important;" title="Help:IPA for English"><span style="border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;" title="'b' in 'buy'">b</span></a></span><span class="IPA nopopups"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help:IPA_for_English#Key" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none !important;" title="Help:IPA for English"><span style="border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;" title="'r' in 'rye'">r</span></a></span><span class="IPA nopopups"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help:IPA_for_English#Key" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none !important;" title="Help:IPA for English"><span style="border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;" title="/ɪ/ short 'i' in 'bid'">ɪ</span></a></span><span class="IPA nopopups"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help:IPA_for_English#Key" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none !important;" title="Help:IPA for English"><span style="border-bottom-style: dotted; border-bottom-width: 1px;" title="'s' in 'sigh'">s</span></a></span><span class="IPA" title="Representation in the International Phonetic Alphabet (IPA)"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Help:IPA_for_English" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; text-decoration: none !important;" title="Help:IPA for English">/</a></span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">, also </span><b style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">hybris</b><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">, from </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ancient_Greek" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px; text-decoration: none;" title="Ancient Greek">ancient Greek</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;"> </span><span lang="grc" style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;" xml:lang="grc"><a class="extiw" href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/%E1%BD%95%CE%B2%CF%81%CE%B9%CF%82" style="background-image: none; color: #663366; text-decoration: none;" title="wiktionary:ὕβρις">ὕβρις</a></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">, means extreme </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pride" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px; text-decoration: none;" title="Pride">pride</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;"> or arrogance. Hubris often indicates a loss of contact with </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reality" style="background-color: white; background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px; text-decoration: none;" title="Reality">reality</a><span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;"> and an overestimation of one's own competence, accomplishments or capabilities, especially when the person exhibiting it is in a position of power. Hubris is usually associated with the "simple-minded". </span><br />
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I'd like to call your attention to this section of the definition: <span style="background-color: white;"><i>H<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;">ubris often indicates a loss of contact with </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reality" style="background-image: none; color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px; text-decoration: none;" title="Reality">reality</a></i></span><br />
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Ummm, so, yes, I WAS using it correctly. If anyone's in doubt, there's also THIS:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19.1875px;"><i>Hubris is usually associated with the "simple-minded". </i></span><br />
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Now that we've got that straight, on with my post! I secured my pants with a giant paper clip today. You know, one of these:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzrjPnycl5sMU1vZdm8xoM-ECgklsK9aM3f-dNiQBFX0lpwdNypZlkplHAnZSESuC3H1YHDNNdySdev7meCqlVY_NBv8mPtXdejpEBMucTvT2J103dA5IacrdL9LZ5LbGrwc8QnAaQmHX/s1600/Offending-pants-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNzrjPnycl5sMU1vZdm8xoM-ECgklsK9aM3f-dNiQBFX0lpwdNypZlkplHAnZSESuC3H1YHDNNdySdev7meCqlVY_NBv8mPtXdejpEBMucTvT2J103dA5IacrdL9LZ5LbGrwc8QnAaQmHX/s320/Offending-pants-2.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">I know it's not a paper clip, but I'm too lazy to look up the proper word.</td></tr>
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Why did I use this not-a-paperclip to fasten my pants, you ask? It wasn't because my zipper broke or the button fell off my pants. It's because the pants were so damn tight that I couldn't stand it anymore. So I hunched in my cubicle at work, unbuttoned the top button (<span style="font-size: xx-small;">OKAY, FINE, AND LOOSENED THE ZIPPER A BIT TOO</span>), and used the clip to adjust them to a more, errrr, accommodating size. Fortunately, I was wearing one of my old wardrobe staples -- a baggy, forgiving shirt -- so I was fairly sure the freakish-looking shape that was now jutting out of my abdomen like the darling baby alien from "Alien" wasn't obvious.<br />
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<tr><td><img src="http://lostintegrity.files.wordpress.com/2010/11/alien_shot5l.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">It's a boy!</td></tr>
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I didn't feel spectacular about wearing these particular pants today but I was in a rush, so I figured they would do. The pants are made of some bizarre linenish-but-not-remotely-natural material. They're gray and crinkley (bonus! No ironing required; they're SUPPOSED to look like that!). They're also kind of a "slim" fit. I'd jettisoned them from my wardrobe around the same time as my <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2013/04/what-muffin-top-damnit.html" target="_blank">muffin top</a> reared its grotesque head.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUtGNbxMU63t99s8SRsEcxu-Zeqh4M9bRcMMox2qW9QZI_7_pAdG62k3NSvemK75RBGBmGtsz-HbHZcFp9BwuV5DCsYPgbgn5yVL3tfEiRIFPG9spKEo0K3uhPaoie44k3sCvg4SDrIKY/s1600/photo+%252872%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCUtGNbxMU63t99s8SRsEcxu-Zeqh4M9bRcMMox2qW9QZI_7_pAdG62k3NSvemK75RBGBmGtsz-HbHZcFp9BwuV5DCsYPgbgn5yVL3tfEiRIFPG9spKEo0K3uhPaoie44k3sCvg4SDrIKY/s320/photo+%252872%2529.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">In case you needed a refresher...</td></tr>
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Without doing anything resembling exercise, I've shed a few pounds. Maybe it's the Swank Diet? A raging case of terminal cancer, more likely. Whatever the reason, I vividly recall the moment I triumphantly welcomed the gray pants back into my wardrobe. I was tired of the same three pairs I'd been wearing. So, just last weekend, I eased open the closet door and gingerly took out the gray ones. I slipped them on, trotted over to the mirror, and -- no ghastly bulges. I turned around. No giant wedge!<br />
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"Welcome back to the rotation!" I said out loud, addressing my pants. No, really, I did. I said that to my pants in the mirror. <br />
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Clearly, I was feeling mighty pleased with myself. Clearly, I'd forgotten every single horror movie I'd ever seen (except for "Alien.") You know -- there's always a scene when a stupid character bellows: "Things couldn't POSSIBLY get any worse!" or sighs, "Thank God...it's over!" after tossing the gun/knife/hammer aside, and you just shake your head because the person saying it is so stupid. Of course things will get worse (duh), and no way are they over.<br />
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So, yeah. That was me. Tempting fate and displaying a helluva lot of hubris with my smug little comment. It didn't matter that no one except Squeaky and Capt. Nap (and the pants) heard me; Fate heard me. And my comment came back to bite me in the ass.<br />
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I know what you're hoping. You're hoping I have a picture of myself crammed into these pants with the unsightly alien-like protrusion that you will secretly enjoy noting is TOTALLY obvious, baggy shirt or no baggy shirt. Nope! Sorry, friends. I do have a shred of dignity left. You'll have to be content with this:<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNx0BrsddHd3tH2pzAnGwacic7DZmSpVEdh5P4BVS6A-0uZHuR_W_3JP08oHFY9yzGDzzq-Qm5QX059VOolXwY8NLqVlijNAX3kW1oWjNbwigwQwpHtOmhEta5bYbSrr8c0PRt5vAkn-by/s1600/Offending-pants-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNx0BrsddHd3tH2pzAnGwacic7DZmSpVEdh5P4BVS6A-0uZHuR_W_3JP08oHFY9yzGDzzq-Qm5QX059VOolXwY8NLqVlijNAX3kW1oWjNbwigwQwpHtOmhEta5bYbSrr8c0PRt5vAkn-by/s320/Offending-pants-1.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">In case you forgot, the pants are <i>supposed </i>to look that wrinkled.</td></tr>
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I've left the clip right there on the hanger as a reminder for the next time I start feeling a bit too pleased with myself. It's also there for the next time I want to wear the pants!Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-9760911900152049472013-10-06T08:03:00.000-04:002013-10-06T08:03:47.170-04:00Top 4 Most Annoying People at the Movies (and How to Avoid Them)As my name suggests, I am easily irritated. I'd like to share my thoughts on an entertainment venue that has enormous potential to be irritating: the movie theater.<br />
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Okay, to be fair, it's not the venue that's annoying, it's the people IN that venue: my fellow moviegoers. Presumably, we're all there to sit quietly and enjoy the film. That's why *I'm* there, anyway. Not so certain others in the audience. In a movie theater, I gain special powers. I become an Annoying Person Magnet (APM). I would much prefer to become an Annoying Person Repellent, but we must play the cards we've been dealt.<br />
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What does an APM do, you ask? Well, quite simply, regardless of the movie or what time it's showing, irritating people are drawn to the seats next to, in front of, or behind me. You're probably thinking, "Gee, Ms. CrankyPants, sounds as if you are quite a curmudgeon. Surely it's not that bad." Here's what I say to YOU: No, I'm not* and yes, it is.<br />
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I've come up with a list of the types of annoying people I regularly encounter at theaters and have thoughtfully provided the few ways I've managed to outwit them.<br />
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<b>1. The Rude Teenagers Putting Their Feet on the Seat in Front of Them:</b> You know who I'm talking about. The ones who, while the lights are still up and people are shambling around with their buckets of popcorn and gallons of soda looking for seats, sit there in full view, legs draped over the seats in front of them, staring balefully at the grownups. I'm not ashamed to admit it: teenagers frighten me. A lot. I don't want to sit in front of them and turn around to give them a Pointed Stare (which they'll ignore, naturally) or, worse, a stern talking-to. That's because the instant I were to turn back around to face the screen, they'd be throwing popcorn and jujubees in my hair and chortling gleefully. The only way to avoid these rude teenagers is to get to the theater good and early and stake out the back row. I've forced many a friend ("I don't CARE if you forgot your glasses, we're sitting in the back!") to hike up to the very back row and squint for 2.5 hours, just so I don't have to confront a teenager. (<i>Note</i>: in the aftermath of an especially bad relapse, when walking was hugely challenging, I clenched my teeth and made the Mt. Everest-like climb to the back, clutching the railing and gasping, ignoring the people staring at me. I realize not everyone with MS can do this. There was a mercifully brief time when I could not walk at all, so I try never to take it for granted, and I certainly do not mean to offend anyone with this post.)<br />
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<b>2. The Kicker:</b> Typically, these are young children (although they might be rude teenagers too) who are accompanied by an oblivious adult. Solution: same as above -- secure a seat in the back row. It's your only defense. Ha HA, would-be seat kicker! Can't kick my seat now! In your FACE!<br />
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<b>3. The Bag Crinkler/Soda Slurper:</b> Okay, sure, part of the movie experience is shoveling in treats. I get it; I do it too. But I try to get all of my noisy bag rustling done during loud parts of the movie. And, if my movie treats are crunchy, I try to not chomp loudly during quiet, heart-tugging parts of the show. Few things are more distracting than trying to listen to someone's dying words over the CRACKLE, ROOT, RUSTLE, CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH of a nearby person groping around in his bag of popcorn. Or, and this actually happened to me very recently, someone trying to suck out the last molecule from their cup of soda. This activity involved lots of ice-shaking, slurping, more ice-shaking, violent sucking, and, FINALLY, the dad grabbing the huge cup of soda out of his kid's hands. Bless that man. I was about to do it myself. (HAHA! Not really: children frighten me only slightly less than teenagers.) Unfortunately, apart from moving seats, there is no remedy for this one. Back row doesn't prevent the Bag Crinkler/Soda Slurper from parking him- or herself directly in front of or next to you.<br />
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<b>4. The Chatters:</b> These usually fall into two groups: children and old people. I can sort of understand children. I mean, they don't know what's going on, so they ask questions. Often, and loudly. Okay, fine. I can deal. Old people, though, come on! They've been around long enough to know how movies work. You pipe down and enjoy the show. Unfortunately, the problem usually results when the old person can't hear well and missed some dialogue or a plot development. "Mildred, who is that man? What did he just say?" "Harvey, that's the main character. He just said he's going to drive to the grocery store." "Mildred, what did he say now? I missed it." "Harvey, that's because you were talking." It's an exhausting process. Here's the only solution I've found: switch seats. A tip that may allow you to avoid moving seats: when you arrive (early, remember!), scan the crowd. Avoid all areas that have clusters of kids, teens, and old people. These are Trouble Zones. If people are talking loudly during the previews, there's an excellent chance they'll keep up the chattering during the movie too.<br />
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So, there you have it -- my list of annoying people in movies and ways to avoid them. As we wrap up here, you may be wondering: Why do I subject myself to movies when I often find them exasperating? A fine question. Yes, indeed. When I figure out the answer, I'll get back to you.<br />
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*Maybe it's <i>slightly </i>me being a curmudgeon.Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-81941819734176283022013-09-16T19:01:00.000-04:002013-09-16T19:01:43.578-04:00Delicious Tofu Sloppy Joes (J/K, LOL)A lot of you* have been wondering (a) where I've been; (b) why the hell you're still following a blog that is, like, NEVER updated; and (c) if I'm still doing the Swank Diet. Folks, I have answers to all of those excellent questions.<br />
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(a) Right here on my ass thinking I really, really need to post something.<br />
(b) Okay, actually I don't have an answer for this one.<br />
(c) YES! Yes, I am.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">* Okay, just my sister.</span><br />
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To address (c), just the other night, my dear husband decided to make Sloppy Joes for dinner. Fortunately, I had purchased a ground-beef substitute (GBS) called Smart Ground VEGGIE PROTEIN CRUMBLES (VPC). You read that right, CRUMBLES. Sounds kind of fun, right? Wait, I think I have a picture:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJskDiH6JlRg6okK_GWAjePb3w6oQN6pTBVuflXhnRGlhwZnBYpRmOASTHhHjEgB1h467fkUE0hQYzkERbX8jtdDfUO_2tQ_C-M2wihu6eUis0_8iBj7I5m-4fzBlpS5pOPxL6EwEYcyuJ/s1600/photo+(100).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJskDiH6JlRg6okK_GWAjePb3w6oQN6pTBVuflXhnRGlhwZnBYpRmOASTHhHjEgB1h467fkUE0hQYzkERbX8jtdDfUO_2tQ_C-M2wihu6eUis0_8iBj7I5m-4fzBlpS5pOPxL6EwEYcyuJ/s320/photo+(100).JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You know when Wee Squeaky makes an appearance that things are bound to go badly. </td></tr>
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By now, my husband and I are old pros at the protein substitutes. <a href="http://msforhypochondriacs.blogspot.com/2013/01/tofurkey-round-2-hideous-mistake.html" target="_blank">Tofurkey sausage</a>? To-FASTIC sausage! Fake bacon? Fake Bac-OLICIOUS! You get the idea; I'll stop now. Anyway, back to the Sloppy Joes. I was fully prepared to, yes, enjoy this meal. Once you get used to the no-meat business, it's really not so bad. I never was a big meat eater anyway, and I still can eat fish and chicken breast, so for the rare meal when only a GBS will do, I'm okay with the tofu-ish stuff. BUT, I wasn't so foolish to think this might not turn out as spectacularly as I was hoping. So I grabbed Wee Squeaky and my camera to document the meal prep.<br />
<h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNt4Nu4PV-t_Clbb6aJALqUK6vxbQMQYH68h6wu1m4x3FPRVgS1d1N6jA5ZH4ULNox5Vu1lIjvnv4YCSVAMxfyb8Lhhpswwo1UT09px5bW7GlTmCbpX1qsb1j_VzcpUIW0GmWSaYWanLOA/s1600/photo+(99).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNt4Nu4PV-t_Clbb6aJALqUK6vxbQMQYH68h6wu1m4x3FPRVgS1d1N6jA5ZH4ULNox5Vu1lIjvnv4YCSVAMxfyb8Lhhpswwo1UT09px5bW7GlTmCbpX1qsb1j_VzcpUIW0GmWSaYWanLOA/s320/photo+(99).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Ha ha! This is going to SUCK!"</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">The makers of the VPC are very clever. You don't get to see the, er, crumbles until you open the box. Then you notice what looks like a brain vacuum sealed into plastic. My first misgivings about this meal happened during this photo. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDU6geL8WWxBVAPsx-JC3-REAjHRShYVnm_wZBSs-xE9HGTlJdkHebV1wmysloFo0JHJAWBWiEjsxRTrRhPU-Ww_YQuUBg_rwtX5CkyGz6UXJdFLSYfCg2MnObjNKNVEFQir-DDkN5Sfnr/s1600/photo+(96).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDU6geL8WWxBVAPsx-JC3-REAjHRShYVnm_wZBSs-xE9HGTlJdkHebV1wmysloFo0JHJAWBWiEjsxRTrRhPU-Ww_YQuUBg_rwtX5CkyGz6UXJdFLSYfCg2MnObjNKNVEFQir-DDkN5Sfnr/s320/photo+(96).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Unsealing the <strike>brain</strike> crumbles.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">My husband was undeterred. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Come on!" he urged cheerfully. "I'm sure it'll taste better than it looks!" </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdhCLhQr3w3xJbqfkBEHElP50JakHQMjCPfvRPBvm3vq2gneICroGzUaKpSPQ_wW5SA9UwMjS-MqgtNGexMOFnSUBtZ_5IxGNiOjSsP3hN_VYMqfuXntwDnGgjjLuTbVl4zOS7cDDD9VoQ/s1600/photo+(95).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdhCLhQr3w3xJbqfkBEHElP50JakHQMjCPfvRPBvm3vq2gneICroGzUaKpSPQ_wW5SA9UwMjS-MqgtNGexMOFnSUBtZ_5IxGNiOjSsP3hN_VYMqfuXntwDnGgjjLuTbVl4zOS7cDDD9VoQ/s320/photo+(95).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Okay, seriously, something about that stray crumble grossed me out.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The hunk of brain/fake meat proved to be a bit...TOUGH. Husband worked valiantly to smash it into submission. </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">While my husband was stabbing the VPC, I was alternately laughing and trying to avoid looking at what was now sizzling away in the pan. My eyes fell upon the box the VPC came in. I noticed THIS:</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkXmutYc64d9R71XLA-wWIAuBgYtZacO0mUBRoThbc0HNgDAlijg7tdy8K8eCtkGf7bzuLH6_4WL9E_Sqb2Vj_27i5GxuFBx-BRr-VWvz1EjYebbUzzb-INd6gqwJS-7MkMMzut0WogWKl/s1600/photo+(94).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkXmutYc64d9R71XLA-wWIAuBgYtZacO0mUBRoThbc0HNgDAlijg7tdy8K8eCtkGf7bzuLH6_4WL9E_Sqb2Vj_27i5GxuFBx-BRr-VWvz1EjYebbUzzb-INd6gqwJS-7MkMMzut0WogWKl/s320/photo+(94).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">"Hungry for more?" Ummmm, no. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">The picture is a bit blurry, because at this point I was laughing pretty hard. Hungry for more, my ass! I'm not even hungry for THIS! </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">"Now, Ms. CrankyPants," you might be thinking. "Aren't you jumping the gun here? Didn't you just get through trumpeting about all the fake protein you are eating with relish?" </span></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes, yes, I did. And I admit, when we added the tomato sauce, things did look better. See for yourselves:</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm2FEEBcFo5KEwFV36A28qos1FgfifN2WaQ940vVVJ0w2x8Zfoe_eewKYYwa8F6YjvmtArNIQZLbLkUWU3OqfKvDrfjF1OrZWAYSrxiWzjPXrjVTr8NzjzEcu05HNeqWzeNQKhhklvuSga/s1600/photo+(92).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm2FEEBcFo5KEwFV36A28qos1FgfifN2WaQ940vVVJ0w2x8Zfoe_eewKYYwa8F6YjvmtArNIQZLbLkUWU3OqfKvDrfjF1OrZWAYSrxiWzjPXrjVTr8NzjzEcu05HNeqWzeNQKhhklvuSga/s320/photo+(92).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ha ha! This is TOTALLY GOING TO SUCK!"</td></tr>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">Well, in spite of Wee Squeaky there next to the pan, I thought it looked edible. We loaded the...stuff onto our nicely toasted bread and added a delightful ear of corn. Just like ma used to make! Tell me this doesn't make your mouth water: </span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNXXUi_A_nG7m0XAYZdisaELvnHHrCweRJyln_bbetKrrmRdeAnEB2oHdUu75Dpbnq5HzdQvBU045SVyyF1df10bfPXpa2h7xQyZJwCDVT9-PK7y3_PUOovaIWh0V-fyBrpRCXlQ8i1hjK/s1600/photo+(68).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNXXUi_A_nG7m0XAYZdisaELvnHHrCweRJyln_bbetKrrmRdeAnEB2oHdUu75Dpbnq5HzdQvBU045SVyyF1df10bfPXpa2h7xQyZJwCDVT9-PK7y3_PUOovaIWh0V-fyBrpRCXlQ8i1hjK/s320/photo+(68).JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oops! Sorry, that's a piece of CAT POO on the carpet.<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0zX4HbOTDkhi-j4NY2ivnZG4rMY1uIAf_3XT67hh2a6QHflzDTf_1Df4Yg3R5ipXiebC6ayTxJdKyREcSlGoTCspYPEC8MdqeAnjPO7DZ0EQbmNe7NcwcEzVpJsR0VwmC7f302YN_JCi-/s1600/photo+%252891%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0zX4HbOTDkhi-j4NY2ivnZG4rMY1uIAf_3XT67hh2a6QHflzDTf_1Df4Yg3R5ipXiebC6ayTxJdKyREcSlGoTCspYPEC8MdqeAnjPO7DZ0EQbmNe7NcwcEzVpJsR0VwmC7f302YN_JCi-/s320/photo+%252891%2529.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Deploying the TOFU SLOPPY JOES!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">So. The burning question that you already know the answer to: how'd they taste? See the CAT POO picture, above. Okay, not that bad. But...not so great, either. However, much like the fake sausage and fake bacon, it's just a matter of preparing it in such a way that it's surrounded by other, better-tasting stuff. Before you know it, I'll be extolling the virtues of VPC! But that night, I kind of felt like Capt. Nap, when he is hoping there's more to his dinner than the can of cat food he's just been given.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5Hg0lozoouWLGFPLZ_bCobLixAv9fbcrJQ_Z1oqaqLnU0bi87hkchOHSAbaeTgXf-S4ivabTAQZVqMtK9qYwMIqU_tL5VMPv2ONx8W5RaLacet3ZHuACjbcSjGuKMsaVLFzXGxio7J8J/s1600/photo+(88).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5Hg0lozoouWLGFPLZ_bCobLixAv9fbcrJQ_Z1oqaqLnU0bi87hkchOHSAbaeTgXf-S4ivabTAQZVqMtK9qYwMIqU_tL5VMPv2ONx8W5RaLacet3ZHuACjbcSjGuKMsaVLFzXGxio7J8J/s320/photo+(88).JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Surely you jest?"<br /></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmO3RxxyWNtrHHMKuBjDxQn0p6HA2KgYRYA-Bxxa8BVnG3fBvHJQtQ_8gVuuSs1HKwNhjA3GbBKy7hiDWsZ6cOI8-w3JV8mqHbO9l5zitBpe5fsCpPkDkn_owvtGyLBlxOtyN_kHBUjDFB/s1600/photo+%252890%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmO3RxxyWNtrHHMKuBjDxQn0p6HA2KgYRYA-Bxxa8BVnG3fBvHJQtQ_8gVuuSs1HKwNhjA3GbBKy7hiDWsZ6cOI8-w3JV8mqHbO9l5zitBpe5fsCpPkDkn_owvtGyLBlxOtyN_kHBUjDFB/s320/photo+%252890%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">Ha ha! Can't really blame old Capt. Nap. At least we had corn. </span><br />
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">p.s. YES, I know the font is a huge mess in this post. Something's funky with Blogger.</span> </span></h3>
Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-48019349169728979912013-08-27T12:35:00.000-04:002013-08-27T12:41:38.595-04:00Goodbye to a Friend I Never MetI’ve had lots of friends over the years; friends who never knew I existed. No, not because I’m some creepy stalker or am unable to make real, live friends. The friends I’m talking about weren’t human. Hang on. Before you get alarmed, I’m not talking about aliens either. I’m talking about birds, groundhogs, chipmunks, beavers, rabbits…all of the wildlife I’ve had the good fortune to get to know by opening my eyes and noticing the natural word around me. It brings me a lot of joy to see Mumbles the chipmunk eating seeds scattered by Stumpy the sparrow at my birdfeeder. There’s Chewy the groundhog, who in warm weather I see munching on grass on a hill by my house. As I’ve moved over the years, I’m always a little sad to leave behind my “friends” who have silly names and never realized I was so happy they were living nearby. <P>One of the dangers of loving anything is the chance you will lose it. I lost my beloved dog Popcorn when he was 18. I have two healthy and happy cats now: Squeaky and Captain Nap. There’s another cat, too; one to which I didn’t realize how connected I was until he was gone. This little blind kitty wasn’t mine, but I am grieving for him as if he were. He was Homer the Blind Wonder Cat. <P>I’d been a Homer fan for a couple of years, ever since my sister gave me the book <i>Homer’s Odyssey </i>by Gwen Cooper. The book, the author, and Homer became instant favorites. When I saw Homer had a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Homerblindcatfans">Facebook page</a>, I officially became his friend, in that weird Facebook way. Gwen would write posts for Homer: funny little observations or mentions of other special-needs cats that needed a forever home. Pictures, too: Homer curled up with Gwen or sitting next to her as she worked on her laptop.<P> <P>As pets do, Homer got older. Some of Gwen’s more recent posts focused on Homer’s struggles with his health. I, like thousands of his fans, suspected the time was coming, and I dreaded it. Homer had become a fixture in my life, a little like my own cats. I couldn’t pet him or play with him, but he was my friend nonetheless. On Saturday, when I heard Gwen had put Homer to sleep, I cried. I called my husband upstairs and he hugged me while I sobbed over the loss of a cat I’d never met. I cried for Homer, yes, but I cried for his “mom,” Gwen, too. As anyone who’s read <i>Homer’s Odyssey </i>knows, she and Homer have been through a lot together. I couldn’t imagine the pain she was feeling. If I was this sad, what must she be experiencing? It gave me some comfort (because I was kind of wondering if I was crazy) to read comments written by hundreds of Homer’s other Facebook friends who also had cried over losing him.<P> <P>Gwen: thank you for sharing your little blind wonder cat with the world. Homer: thank you for being my friend. I will miss you.<P> Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-51351718477856525252013-07-24T14:26:00.001-04:002013-07-24T14:26:51.418-04:00A Royal Pain in the A$$Okay, I've had it. Had it with celebrity pregnancy speculation ("Jennifer Aniston Walked Past a Baby Store Once Last Month: Is She Expecting??!!"); post-pregnancy shockers ("HOT Mama: How Kim Kardashian Lost 42 Pounds in 10 Minutes!"); and, to me, the worst offender: the baby-bump pictures ("LookyLoo, Potential Celebrity Stalkers! Reese Witherspoon's BABY BUMP!"). I'm sick of the expression <em>baby bump</em> for sure (let's see how many times I can use it in this post, shall we?), and the pictures of the <em>baby bumps</em> just seem a little creepy. Maybe it's just me. Oh, it is? You like <em>baby bumps</em>? Fine.<br />
<br />
Anyone else sick of hearing about the royal baby? No? Crap. Come on...not even a little bit? No? You were one of the 345,987,482 people waiting with bated breath to learn his name? Sadly, it wasn't one of the super-clever names celebrities have chosen, such as North West. Or Brooklyn, Harper, Romeo, or Cruz. Not Jesse James or Justice. Neither Ptolemy nor Winter. Not Blanket! Not Banjo! Yeah, you get the point. Turns out it was something appropriately staid and regal: George. Zzzzzzzzzz! How much more exciting if the little chap were named something outrageous, like the celebrity spawn above. Prince would have been amusing. Elvis? (You know, "The King"?) Dumbledore? He's pretty badass, and, you know, a WIZARD, so that's sorta close to royalty, isn't it? Kings and wizards were always running around in the olden days fighting dragons, etc. <br />
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Perhaps I really am the lone crankypants who's already annoyed at the hubbub surrounding the newest member of the royal family. What's the big deal, anyway? He'll have royal nannies and governesses, and tutors to teach him his maths, and cricket coaches, and servants to bring him his crisps and ginger beer. ("Oi! Fetch me another bag of crisps, you cow! Pip pip!") That's kind of how I imagine it going, anyway. <br />
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Meanwhile, I will Keep Cranky and Carry On raising my <strike>kids</strike> cats. I can hear you scoffing from here. HEY! I'll have you know raising well-mannered, thoughtful, and smart cats is every bit as challenging as raising kids. Especially royal kids. I'm raising them without the help of nannies and tutors and cricket coaches. When my cats look at me imperiously as if to say, "Oi! Fetch me another can of tuna, you cow! Pip pip!" they aren't rudely addressing some servant, they're talking to ME, their doting mommy. Below are four other ways babies are infinitely easier than cats:</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Oi! Fetch us something to eat! At once!"</td></tr>
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1. Bathing a wee baby is fun! Look how he giggles and splashes around. Awwww...so sweet, so adorable. Now he's blinking up at you in wonder. Your heart swells. Just try that with your kitty kids. There's a lot less sweet and adorable and a lot more screeching, scratching, and wrestling furiously. Plus, bucking, thrashing, and more scratching. Yeah, not so easy. </div>
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2. Changing a wee baby's diaper. Okay, maybe not the MOST fun of parenting duties (haha, doodies!), but often there's cooing and more blinking-in-wonder business. Not so when dealing with the cats' "business." There's filthy, gritty litter underfoot, horrific odors, the cat who insists on waiting until the box is clean before trotting in and soiling it immediately. </div>
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3. Baby clothes. Is there anything more adorable? Yes! There is! Cat clothes! But will my cats wear the sweet little outfits I buy them? NO! There's squirming and mewling and chasing and hiding... Just once I'd like to see one of my precious little kitties wear the jaunty bonnet, cape, and booties I bought them. Sigh. I guess I'll have to look at pictures of my niece and nephew in their adorable little clothes instead. </div>
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4. Oopsie! Did that little baby just spit up? Oh, it's all over his bib and my new shirt and in my hair. That's okay! Look at him blinking in wonder. Nothing gross about baby <strike>puke</strike> spit up (have you noticed it's always <strong>spit up</strong>, never <strong>puke</strong> or <strong>vomit?</strong>)! But the cats? Different story. First there's a fleeting, bug-eyed look of unease. That's swiftly followed by a lurching onto the nearest carpet or piece of furniture. Then the hunched back. And then the heaving and retching. No time for mommy to grab a towel or toss the kitty onto a tile floor. Nope! There's the hairball, surrounded by barely ingested food. Off marches the cat, leaving you scrubbing and cursing in his wake. Plenty gross about hairballs and cat puke. </div>
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Friends, I rest my case. As I've so clearly demonstrated with excellent case studies and scientifically based, empirical, ummm, peer-reviewed evidence, raising cats is a royal pain in the a$$. Raising kids, especially with 'round-the-clock help from the cricket coach and the governess? Piece of cake! </div>
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Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-87329233285687128382013-07-19T16:04:00.002-04:002013-07-19T18:55:18.600-04:00My Top 5 Weirdest MS SymtpomsI want to talk about weird MS symptoms, even though it makes me -- an avowed hypochondriac -- a little nervous. Whaaaat? Here's why: in my mind, someone is going to look at my list of weird symptoms and say, "WAIT, Ms. CrankyPants! <strong>That's</strong> not MS you're describing! Those are all symptoms of [<em>insert hideous, fatal disease here</em>]." And it won't matter a whit that whoever makes this proclamation isn't a doctor, hasn't seen my MRIs or other tests, and could be drunk and/or mentally unstable. Nope! I'll immediately begin worrying that this know-it-all is right, as I've secretly nurtured a fear that I've been misdiagnosed this whole time. Yep, since 2005. Irrational? Indeed! <br>
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But I am going to do it anyway, because [<em>insert wobbly voice</em>] if there's a chance I can help one, just ONE, person [<em>orchestra swelling</em>] recognize a weird symptom they've been quietly freaking out about, then it'll be worth it. Okay, that's atcually kind of true, as cliche and embarrassing as it sounds. That's because it happened to me. There was a totally scary symptom I was having, and I didn't feel better about it until I read that it is something that can happen when you have MS. When I read that -- quite by accident; I was perusing <a href="http://ms.about.com/" target="_blank">this blog</a>, in fact -- I literally sat at my desk and cried with relief. I'm not a big crier, so this was a big deal, but that's how much I'd been freaking out. <br>
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Onward, ho! Here are my Top 5 Weird MS Symptoms (and, YES, they're MS -- please, if you like me even a little bit, don't tell me they're also symptoms of something else). Oh, and you can't read further until I remind you that I am not a doctor, so obviously any of the things I talk about below are personal experiences and in no way constitute anything resembling actual professional medical advice: <br>
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<strong>1. One pupil bigger than the other.</strong> This earns the top spot on my list because this is the one that was so damn scary. I'd very recently had a bout of <a href="http://www.nationalmssociety.org/about-multiple-sclerosis/what-we-know-about-ms/symptoms/visualSymptoms/optic-neuritis/index.aspx" target="_blank">optic neuritis</a>, which was affecting my right eye. Later, my neurologist explained the optic neuritis was why I had that !($&ing big pupil. But that talk didn't happen until a couple of months after I first noticed this freaky symptom. Until I knew it was related to MS, I was a mess. I vividly remember being in the mall one day and stopping at every other mirror to check my pupils. Yep, the right one was still bigger! Forget about being alone in a bathroom. There, I could examine my pupils for as long as I wanted, while imagining the horrible reasons for the different sizes. Even though I was in anguish, I was too scared to go to the doctor -- just in case he or she confirmed my worst fears. Irrational? Indeed! So it was by pure chance that I stumbled across a reference to this phenomenon in the blog I linked to above. The relief was overwhelming. Thank you, <a href="http://ms.about.com/bio/Julie-Stachowiak-Ph-D-25262.htm" target="_blank">Julie Stachowiak</a>. You'll never know it, but you took an enormous weight off my shoulders (and made me cry!). <br>
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<strong>2. Water dripping on me.</strong> This one is more annoying than scary. But I had about a week where I could swear water was dripping on me. The first few times, I looked up. Nope, not raining in my living room! The urge to wipe off the invisible "water" was irresistible. No amount of wiping helped. Drip, drip, drip. Then a long pause. Drip. It was so strange. That little gem hasn't returned. <br>
<br>
<strong>3. Head zaps.</strong> Oh, this one sucked. I was out of town for work when the first zap happened. It was an intense, shooting, split-second pain in the back of my head. Naturally, I thought I had a brain tumor or an aneurysm. After conferring with my neurologist by phone, I went to the ER, where I got a CT scan (so if I didn't have a brain tumor then, just give it a few years what with the radiation and all). The scan showed nothing. But the head zaps became my buddy that week. I could count on one to happen every morning as soon as I stood up from bed. Next one: in the shower, right on schedule. The third? After breakfast. And on and on. When I finally got home, my neurologist ordered an MRI. It showed lots of new lesions, and bloodwork indicated very low levels of Vitamin D. A course of steroids and some mega, prescription-level doses of Vitamin D nipped the zaps in the bud. They've come back a couple of times, but only once or twice, and never for a week. Thank God. <br>
<br>
<strong>4. Muffled hearing.</strong> In the midst of the gross heatwave we're experiencing on the East Coast this week, I've noticed this one recently. If go outside in the heat, when I come back indoors my hearing is muffled -- as if I were underwater. It takes about 10 minutes in the air conditioning for my ever-so-keen hearing to return to normal ("Captain Nap?! Are you vomiting in there?"). <br>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYQv9lDJZ6wZhhbKabSJvJb10MXvs0Tv1uKTmVpFO-uk825mp8tTHxL37BXjNnMvgCNhDOw7yTuJrxzg-DnO_fVg7L6epBoQinr1hn9V-FvdpCRQcPz55SkCHa7Wv1vwihpjfc-upyNPY/s1600/Captain+Nap.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" iya="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSYQv9lDJZ6wZhhbKabSJvJb10MXvs0Tv1uKTmVpFO-uk825mp8tTHxL37BXjNnMvgCNhDOw7yTuJrxzg-DnO_fVg7L6epBoQinr1hn9V-FvdpCRQcPz55SkCHa7Wv1vwihpjfc-upyNPY/s1600/Captain+Nap.jpg"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"It was Squeaky."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<strong>5. Skin burning.</strong> This has happened only once, but it was fairly unpleasant. Whenever I brushed against something, or someone touched me, my skin felt as if it were on fire. The sensation lasted only seconds, but it was enough for me to leap away in horror when someone seemed to be entering the Radius of Fire. <br>
<br>
So there you have it. Of course, I've had the gamut of more "normal" MS symptoms: drop foot, the MS "hug," fatigue, numbness, memory problems, the need to be always near a bathroom, cellulite*...MS really is the gift that keeps on giving. <br>
<br>
Stay cool!<br>
<br>
Ms. C-P<br>
<br>
*Ignore what I said earlier about not being a medical professional. I've changed my mind, and I've determined that MS causes cellulite. Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-29289818565609075692013-07-17T11:05:00.000-04:002013-07-17T17:27:35.943-04:00An Awkward Moment in the Bathroom
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiEbunDJzpyfoDv2sjqb1aL0ujxXlzCpFz7ysLY6GS8eT43eNOb2EtlBDXjTVNWDa45k9ViHP62EhbsuLNNLUELfSExDtHHz996yT5xCv3ixv1qPUHlMQgF976tJYtuhtXjh6DSHo_QqEa/s1600/photo+%252842%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" iya="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiEbunDJzpyfoDv2sjqb1aL0ujxXlzCpFz7ysLY6GS8eT43eNOb2EtlBDXjTVNWDa45k9ViHP62EhbsuLNNLUELfSExDtHHz996yT5xCv3ixv1qPUHlMQgF976tJYtuhtXjh6DSHo_QqEa/s320/photo+%252842%2529.JPG" width="320"></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That mess on the floor? A rudely discarded paper seat cover! I can't explain the toilet paper roll. No, there aren't any bored cats roaming around the workplace. (Full disclosure: this was taken at my previous job. But still.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So I just came back from the bathroom at work. While in the bathroom, I had an Awkward Moment (although, really, is there any other kind in a bathroom?). A woman had entered immediately before me. As I strode toward my stall (remember, people, the one closest to the door has the fewest germs!) I passed her. She had stopped to disengage one of those rustly paper seat covers. As she struggled noisily with it, I marched on past and into the stall, sans paper seat cover. I immediately felt self-conscious. What was she thinking? Was she smugly wrestling with the blasted seat cover, privately praising her attentiveness to hygeine while recoiling at my lack of the same? <br>
<br>
Oh, yeah? Well I am plenty hygenic, damnit, and I also am very mindful of waste. Not *that* kind: the paper kind. Those flimsy paper things seem to me like a big fat waste of resources, and I think I read somewhere once that they don't really accomplish anything in the way of protecting you from germs. The real gross stuff in bathrooms is lurking on the door handles and the toilet flusher, and I'll have you know I always flush with my foot. So THERE! I was all indignant in my stall, imagining what Ms. Paper-Rustler was thinking about me as she primly sat on her paper-covered toilet seat, making dainty little crinkling noises. <br>
<br>
I hurried out of the stall and raced to the sink, trying to avoid that Awkard Moment where the two of us would meet at the sink at the same time. Even were it not for the awkwardness I'd conjured up surrounding the seat cover, there's always a little weirndess at the sink. Do you acknowlege each other? In our case, being on opposite sides of the Great Paper Seat-Cover divide, I thought not. She probably was thinking I was disgusting, and I was thinking I'd like to get myself out of the bathroom before I was forced to meet her withering expression in the mirror. <br>
<br>
I noisily washed my hands (see: "I am plenty hygenic, damnit," above) and bolted, recycling the paper towel I'd dried my hands with to open the door (see: "gross stuff lurking on door handles" and "I am very mindful of waste," above). <br>
<br>
<em>A quick blog maintenance & responsiveness to others' blogs note</em>: I've been out of commission for a couple of weeks, owing to a tremendous bout of fatigue. Not sure if it's the MS plus the horrific heat, or a terminal illess (or all three), but it's kept me largely inert -- like a dirty, scratchy sack of old potatoes with those white things sprouting out of them. Sometimes just the <em>idea</em> of getting on the computer makes me tired. So, really, it's not you, it's me! Hang in there with me, unless my old-sprouty potato description, plus the fact that I don't use paper toilet seat covers, means you don't want to be my friend anymore. <br>
<br>
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Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-81868195121295896642013-07-03T07:01:00.000-04:002013-07-03T07:02:11.149-04:00The Cat's Out of the BagAs many of you know, I started a new job last month. The people I work with are quite nice, and at the end of my first week a couple of them invited me to get a drink after work. I was caught off guard by the invitation. The very nice young man who issued the invitation, seeing me sit there slack-jawed and unable to formulate a sentence in response, obviously sensed my hesitation.<br />
<br />
"You can think about it," he said, before walking back to his cube. "But we'd love to have you join us."<br />
<br />
"Okay!" I bleated to his back. "Let me think about it!"<br />
<br />
I sat there, stymied (and embarrassed by my noncommittal response, which I thought probably came across as weird at best, and quite possibly rude). I was in a pickle. See, owing to the 4,782 different medications I'm on, I am not supposed to drink alcohol. I began envisioning different scenarios playing out with my co-workers.<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>I decline the invitation. This confirms the impression I made with the "I'll think about it" response and they think I'm rude. I will not be getting another invitation. </li>
<li>I accept the invitation and order a tall frosty glass of lemonade, while everyone else guzzles beer. I am the prim and proper (and disapproving) NON-DRINKER. That's the last time I'm invited to a happy hour. </li>
<li>I accept the invitation and order an actual alcoholic drink. I get instantly and disgustingly drunk and cause a massive scene. Medics and the police are called to haul me away. I am invited to every happy hour from that point on, as I provide unbeatable entertainment. </li>
</ol>
<div>
If you guessed that Number 3 is how it played out in real life, you are absolutely correct. Now I am known as the office Life of the Party and have even been offered money to come to people's homes and drink for the sheer amusement I provide other partygoers. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Okay, fine. That's not really what happened. I went...and ordered a non-alcoholic beer. I thought I could sneak it past the others, but one of them noticed. And commented. It was innocently done. He actually thought it was a regular beer and made some impressed noise as if to say, "Well done! Here we are drinking light beer and you've gone and ordered this Very Manly Strong Beer!" At least, that's how I interpreted his noise. It may have been that he was clearing his throat. Regardless, I seized the moment.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Oh, nonono! It's not a real beer!" I shouted, over the din created by fellow revelers and a rather sad man playing guitar and warbling songs into a microphone about two feet away. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"WHAT?" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It's a FAKE BEER! I CAN'T DRINK!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"WHAT?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hoisted the beer into his line of sight and pointed to the label. He looked at me as if I were an idiot, which surely I was by this point. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"FAKE!!" I bellowed. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He looked at the label and nodded. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
During a lull in the warbling, I felt compelled to press on. By then, the others were talking about basketball scores. I reinserted my beer into the conversation. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"About the beer," I began. They looked at me blankly. Why was I still talking about it? In an embarrassed rush I explained that I wasn't drinking fake beer by choice. I had to. Because of medication I was taking. Shit. That last bit hung in the air. Now they'd think I was on some antibiotic for a disgusting infection of some kind. Shit again. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"It has to do with MS. I have MS. Multiple sclerosis," I said, relieved to be done with the explanation. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
They asked a couple of questions, and then we all moved on. It was that simple. I felt better (once I had finished with the awkward and embarrassing shouting). Sometimes, it's unwise to reveal such things. Time will tell. For now, I am okay with being the non-drinking person in the office who happens to have MS. </div>
Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-23530887278038892642013-06-24T18:10:00.000-04:002013-06-24T18:14:22.884-04:00The Bra-Fitting EpisodeLadies (Gents?!?), have you ever been fitted for a bra? I hadn't. Until last weekend. Tee hee! Now before anyone gets all comfy with some popcorn and settles in for a titillating (get it?!) tale, let me give you a few important facts:<br />
<ol>
<li>The lady who did my bra fitting was not particularly attractive and talked with her mouth full</li>
<li>Just prior to the fitting, I ate a massive bowl of garlicky pasta</li>
<li>As a result of #2 (hee hee!), I quite likely had garlic breath and herbs in my teeth</li>
</ol>
Okay, so we've got that straight. It shouldn't be remotely sexy any more. On with the story. My husband and I had just eaten a late lunch at an Italian restaurant. This particular restaurant is in a town center-type of area. You know: a square surrounded by cute shops and restaurants, and, in the middle, a giant fountain that kids run through and probably pee in? Yeah, that kind. Anyway, having stuffed our faces, we lurched out and, lo and behold, I saw a lingerie store next door.<br />
<br />
"Huh," I thought, absentmindedly adjusting my constantly loose bra straps, "I COULD use a new bra."<br />
<br />
I suggested we pop in and my husband heartily agreed. (Perv.) The store was empty apart from the saleslady, who ambled toward us eating something with her mouth open. (Grapes, as it turned out.)<br />
<br />
She looked at me. Her gaze drifted down, where, through my tee-shirt, she could plainly see the outlines of my ill-fitting bra. This amazing bra had stretched to the point where it was completely separate from my flesh, leaving a bagged-out tent in the front of my tee-shirt. I fidgeted with the straps again, but no amount of tightening was going to fix that stupid gap.<br />
<br />
The saleslady used her tongue to push a half-chewed wad of grapes to one cheek.<br />
<br />
"Need a fitting?" she smirked.<br />
<br />
"Hahahaha! Yes, I guess so!" I giggled, like a mentally unstable 12 year old. "You can probably see the one I'm wearing doesn't fit so well!! Hahaha!"<br />
<br />
"Mmm-hmmm," she mumbled through the grapes. She motioned listlessly for me to follow her to the back.<br />
<br />
"He can sit over here," she tossed over her shoulder, indicating some black leather chairs in the middle of the store. My husband was mesmerized by the full-size pictures of women in their undergarments and didn't hear her.<br />
<br />
"HONEY!" I shouted, as the saleslady and I made our way to the back of the store. He peeled his eyes reluctantly from one of the pictures. He wasn't even able to formulate a response. He just raised his eyebrows at me.<br />
<br />
"SIT! HERE! WHEN YOU GET TIRED OF STANDING THERE!" I pointed to the chairs. He nodded and didn't budge.<br />
<br />
Well, I didn't have time to worry about my husband's sudden regression to adolescence. It was Time for the Fitting! The saleslady and I squashed into a minuscule dressing room. She finished her grapes with a loud gulp and asked me to take off my shirt.<br />
<br />
"Oh, BOY!" I laughed manically. "I'm so embarrassed about the bra I wore today! See, all of the others are in the wash..." I trailed off. She was looking at me pityingly.<br />
<br />
"Yeah, everyone says that."<br />
<br />
I silently took off my shirt and stood, pale and vulnerable, in front of her, my grayish-brownish bra bagging out in front of me. I easily could have stored a half-dozen of her grapes in the gap in front of each cup. <br />
<br />
"Lift." She gestured to my grotesquely flabby arms.<br />
<br />
I lifted. Out of nowhere she whipped a measuring tape and measured just above and just below my bra.<br />
<br />
"I'll be back," she said, flinging the curtain aside. Fortunately, the store was still empty; no one saw me hunched in shame in my shapeless, dingy bra. I noticed my husband had managed to unroot himself from in front of the half-nekkid lady pictures and had settled in to one of the leather chairs. He was fiddling with his phone. I prayed that he wasn't going to do something embarrassing like take pictures inside the store.<br />
<br />
The saleslady shuffled back, having apparently refreshed her supply of grapes, which she was chewing with relish.<br />
<br />
"BVJGDHJSGY," she said, thrusting a pile of bras my way.<br />
<br />
I took "BVJGDHJSGY" to mean, "TRY THESE ON, BAGGY-BRA LADY, AND BEGONE WITH YOU!"<br />
<br />
I snatched the bras and snapped the curtain closed. I tried the first one on. Not bad.... I could see the saleslady lurking just outside the curtain.<br />
<br />
"It fit?" she barked.<br />
<br />
"Yes..." and before I could finish she had crammed herself back into the tiny dressing room.<br />
<br />
"That's a 32D," she announced. "What size is...THAT one?"<br />
<br />
She grimaced and pointed to the bra I had discarded on the floor.<br />
<br />
"32B," I peeped.<br />
<br />
"Yep, most women don't have a clue what size they really are. Try the rest on," she ordered and left again.<br />
<br />
I was still reeling from the fact that I was fitting in to a 32D. A *D*!! Ha! I whipped off the bra and tried on the next one: a C. It, too, fit. Then I picked up an improbable-looking 32DD. Okay, was this lady on drugs? I put it over one shoulder and could tell there was not a chance in hell it would fit. I flung it aside and tried on another D. It fit! What the hell? I peeked out from the curtains. She was still hovering nearby. My husband appeared to be dozing in the chair.<br />
<br />
"Um, excuse me?" I began. "How is it possible I'm fitting into a D?"<br />
<br />
She rambled something about the cup size relative to the other measurements she had taken. It didn't make a bit of sense. Plus, it vaguely involved math (well, numbers anyway), so I automatically tuned out. Who cares, anyway? I was going home with a damn 32D bra! I didn't care if physically I hadn't changed one iota from the "carpenter's dream" some total a-hole had once called me (...'cause I was flat as a board...HAHAHAHA, get it? His wit knew no bounds.)<br />
<br />
I even have the pictures to prove it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ7Nu1dP6ilEBJDAkk7Ej2Qw9vRjmvkyfmxgY6HFiWii8H5Y7xDe1QEfsjjEvc4EQh6eBJ32Hda_HkX0Jh9AeGocSr5lU8MxcNBfTf0RmXklzx02y12-n3VVaOPFZ9vcUL_a2xqSZyH6FC/s1600/photo+(82).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ7Nu1dP6ilEBJDAkk7Ej2Qw9vRjmvkyfmxgY6HFiWii8H5Y7xDe1QEfsjjEvc4EQh6eBJ32Hda_HkX0Jh9AeGocSr5lU8MxcNBfTf0RmXklzx02y12-n3VVaOPFZ9vcUL_a2xqSZyH6FC/s320/photo+(82).JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I will now be strolling about town in SEDUCTIVE COMFORT in my new size...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2J23UEZo-S0dEXrsBLZZ1VVHoNP0GYKG_A6aDGz7PHyNwq1PvbPv3KT4N82z0xeZvA0ZfAdu-uRzqUgcTjxP9X2TQVxWDzHdAY6t7lbgY1GEF4SisadpLj41khQfCK-Jf8kVqg9sU9e2g/s1600/photo+(80).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2J23UEZo-S0dEXrsBLZZ1VVHoNP0GYKG_A6aDGz7PHyNwq1PvbPv3KT4N82z0xeZvA0ZfAdu-uRzqUgcTjxP9X2TQVxWDzHdAY6t7lbgY1GEF4SisadpLj41khQfCK-Jf8kVqg9sU9e2g/s320/photo+(80).JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">D!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Oh, and here I am wearing it.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJD4cKsp1ETVIbSSaNI4RVMuhaGgm27XuWNdTqKJiGePEzVomvkq89sx2W9Dl1q7m-YkWY9yc923w4ZoVP1EbztaqZ5Vz5cS0CHaPtANP1UjHlvT7aRQebMHDJt7M2hbnP1e2M0kk99s7/s1600/photo+(79).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgJD4cKsp1ETVIbSSaNI4RVMuhaGgm27XuWNdTqKJiGePEzVomvkq89sx2W9Dl1q7m-YkWY9yc923w4ZoVP1EbztaqZ5Vz5cS0CHaPtANP1UjHlvT7aRQebMHDJt7M2hbnP1e2M0kk99s7/s320/photo+(79).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This may LOOK like a tag I ripped off the bra, but it's totally not.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There's an epilogue to this tale. There I was, strolling in, yes, seductive comfort yesterday when I noticed a...jabbing.<br />
<br />
"Hey, THAT'S not particularly comfortable," I said to myself, seductively.<br />
<br />
Turns out, the stupid bra had a wire thingy that was starting to poke into the flesh that gathers in a dough-like bulge just under my armpit. So I returned it. And wept. But once, yes once, I wore a D!<br />
<br />Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1976128754487941498.post-21830558650580997812013-06-15T09:24:00.000-04:002013-06-15T09:24:20.143-04:00Who Decided WORKING Was a Good Idea?Holy crap, going from no work to a full workweek has been a rough adjustment. It's been two weeks now and yesterday was the first day I didn't come home and collapse on the bed in a quivering heap. (The absence of end-of-day-quivering-heapness MAY have something to do with the fact that I exercised for the first time in two weeks yesterday (Friday) morning, but I'm not going to give this "exercise" business too much credit until I can detect a pattern, regardless of what "experts," "doctors," and "pretty much everyone on the planet" say.)<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How to explain this recent overwhelming fatigue? I have various theories:</div>
<div>
<ol>
<li>I am dying (naturally, this one tops the list)</li>
<li>I have a Vitamin D deficiency</li>
<li>I have MS and the stress of the new job is triggering the fatigue</li>
<li>I am lazy and actually having to work overtaxes my frail mind and body </li>
</ol>
</div>
<div>
Personally, I find (1) and (4) pretty compelling. HOWEVER, I have an MRI and appointment with my neurologist in July, so we will soon see if my MS is flaring up in protest of this new schedule. In the meantime, I also will be exercising and am very hopeful that unrooting myself from the areas where I like to be planted (couch/other couch/bed) will increase my energy. It's annoying, really, that when you are super tired and cranky, and the very <i>notion </i>of exercise is hideous -- that's when you should do it. And, yes, you quite likely will feel much better and be glad you did. It's the getting-there part that sucks.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Take Friday morning, for example. You'll recall, this was my First Morning of Exercise. I had woken up early and shuffled downstairs to install myself in my pre-work, fetal position on the couch (not to be confused with my post-work, fetal position in bed, which features the cats on either side of me). It was 6:30 am. The night before, my husband and I had decided that we were going to WORK OUT the next morning, by gum, and if I were to get to work on time, we needed to start by 6:45. </div>
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I was being extra quiet, hoping that my still-in-bed husband wouldn't hear me breathing, wake up, and come vaulting downstairs so we could begin our workout. I was keeping a beady eye on the clock. 6:35 and all was quiet from upstairs. 6:40, still quiet. I had a slight pang of guilt; should I wake him up? No, no, what if he'd had a bad night's sleep and needed the rest? Waking him would be hugely inconsiderate. (Note that at no time did I seriously consider working out by myself, which I could have done quite easily.) 6:42...yes! He was going to miss the deadline and then I could say, "Oh, shoot! I don't have time! We'll work out tomorrow morning." 6:43...what was that?? I heard floorboards creaking. My beady eyes widened in alarm. The robust Capt. Nap was lolling on the carpet nearby, so I knew he wasn't the source of the creaking. It could mean only one thing: my husband was awake and on his way...unless he was too tired! Maybe he *had* slept poorly. I hastened upstairs where he was brushing his teeth. He looked disoriented and disheveled. Encouraging signs. </div>
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"Aww, you look really tired," I murmured sympathetically. </div>
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"Hskbkd houmnsgiyg yikbjkbtks!" he chirped through a mouthful of toothbrush. </div>
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The fact that he was chirping was vexing. He was supposed to be tired, damnit! He finished brushing and announced that he was super happy that he had woken up in time for our inaugural workout. I looked at him balefully and trudged down to the basement to turn on our video-game console. Moments later he joined me and...we had fun. It was a short workout (after 10 minutes I was gasping embarrassingly), but it was a start. And you know what? I DID feel better that day. Maybe it's a coincidence, or maybe there's something to all that "science" and "endorphins" stuff. Whatever the case, I am going to try to make exercise a part of the morning routine. Maybe it can take the place of the fetal-position-on-the-couch bit. If exercise can help with the crushing fatigue, even a little, then it'll be worth it. (Also, at work there are these incredibly unflattering florescent lights in the bathroom and I caught sight of my upper arms the other day; OMG are they in need of serious toning. So if I can be a little less tired and a little less jiggly, I will be happy. Stay tuned!)</div>
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p.s. I missed you guys! </div>
Ms. CrankyPantshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13639705108258882767noreply@blogger.com19