Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Snowshoe Hell


Before I start babbling further about "The Secret," I want you to know where I've been. Let me give you a clue. It has to do with the wife, a computer, the Internet and......

.....snowshoes.

That's right. Snowshoes. Those things that look like tennis rackets on your feet.
See, the wife went snowshoeing with her friend Keith Bischon a week or two ago and since then it's been snowshoe overload.


As you avid readers know, the wife can become very obsessed with a project. Since going snowshoeping with Keith, she has been on a mission to find a pair of her very own. (She had borrowed Keith's husband's shoes. Who knew snowshoes could be shared?)
Last weekend, the wife literally spent two days of searching the Internet for snowshoes. This is not one of my exaggerations--this is literal. Who knew there was so much to know about snowshoes? She gleaned the web and learned about what kind of shoes there are, what brands are best known, what size is needed for what terrain, what crampon to look for (that IS crampon, not tampon). I don't even know what a crampon is, but the wife is sporty and obsessive, so I'm guessing she knows. I have a feeling I will know soon as I'm thinking the wife will be dragging my sorry ass through the wooded trails soon enough....(do you think a crampon is a tampon for when you have cramps???)


The wife thoroughly stalked ebay, amazon.com, etc in search of the best-priced snowshoe. Every time I looked at her, her face was stuck in the laptop and she was muttering about styles and prices and availability. She talked about snowshoes, she showed me pictures of snowshoes, she took me to stores to look at snowshoes, she lamented how hard it is to find snowshoes this time of year, she agonized over which pair--if any--she should buy. Me, being the supportive (and very patient) one, was like: JUST BUY THE DAMNED SHOES AND GET ON WITH IT!

Finally, on Tuesday (that's yesterday evening), she made her decision and committed to buying a very nice pair of snowshoes via eBay. (Well, she tells me they are very nice. They could be made of newspaper and poop and I wouldn't know the difference.) I helped her with the purchase, as I am the one with the eBay account and eBay prowess. Two minutes to go in the auction and she's still chewing on it. One minute to go and I'm staring at her. 22 seconds and counting--it's now or never--and she tells me to BID! I click on that puppy with mere seconds to go....and wa-la! She is a snowshoe owner.

You know where this is going, don't you?

You CAN'T snowshoe alone, you know. What fun would that be?

This means that I will become an owner of snowshoes, too. I'm not too opposed, as I do need to get out and get some exercise in the winter, I don't ski, I don't sled, I don't mountain climb. I realize that I will need a pair of snowshoes even though I have NEVER gone snowshoeing in my life. (I am a klutz extraordinaire but I figure I should be able to walk on snow. Right?)


Note the picture to the left: this will NOT be what I look like when snowshoeing. I will not be smiling nor will I be running. I will be whining and complaining and lagging behind and eating chocolate that I've hidden in my pocket. I will not have skinny tights on, either: I'll be the one in the giant black snowpants and will have frozen boogers on my face.


Actually, I am rather excited about learning something new, as long as I'm not injured during the process. And, so I ordered a pair of snowshoes on line right before getting to this blog entry. By the time they get here, there will be no snow left, but that will give me time to wear them around the house and practice walking in them.

I'm kidding, dear wife.

I'll have to get back to you about this newest sporty endeavor. I'm either going to be kissing Keith Bischon's feet or I'm gonna be slapping her.....
Before I do, a tidbit of gossip: Terri Clark has divorced again. Someone PLEASE tell her she's a lesbian so she stops getting remarried!

Anyhoo, if you are looking for a little inspiration, click here and watch a groovy little inspirational diddy about how fabulous you are. (Unless you are Keith Bischon and find this whole Secret thing to be a crock of poo; then, do not click on this. Go snowshoe by yourself or something.) You have to have Quicktime to see the little slideshow, but it's free and easy so just say yes and watch it over and over and over again until you feel orgasmically tingly and warm and fuzzy all over. The Law of Attraction is bringing me all sorts of wonderful things these days and I am NOT being a smarty pants. It's true. I mean, running into my art therapy mentor and Mediator Rat at today's conference was meant to be. (The Mediator Rat is NOTHING like the mouse surgeon, although both nicknames involve rodents. Mediator Rat is not a rodent, nor does she think she can do rodent surgery or any other delusional thing. I love the Rat.) The Universe is so with me! How can I fail at snowshoeing or anything else when I am attracting all these awesome things? Sweet! So, get a kleenex and get ready to love yo'self....

http://thesecret.tv/secret-to-you/

Monday, February 19, 2007

News Flash from the Addiverse.

Just so there is no further confusion:

I am the father of Anna Nicole Smith's Baby.

Thank you.

Sunday, February 18, 2007

Secretly No so Secret


The secret to life is.......
 
....the Hokey Pokey.....

.....cuz that's what it's all about.
******************************************************************************************************
I originally wrote this blog on February 18, 2007. I'm updating it on October 29, 2015 because it is really fun to see how this stuff actually came to fruition. So, you can read it in 2007 AND in 2015. It is like time traveling without ever leaving the comfort of your computer. My 2015 responses will be in purple. You may not think this stuff is "big," but it's big to me. You should try it. The Secret AND the Hokey Pokey. --Addi
 ****************************************************************************************
Indulge me for a moment, won't you? I'd like to yip about "The Secret." After all, if it's good enough for Oprah, it's good enough for me. It's hokey and it's nothing new, but it's repacked and Oprah-fied, so let's figure out the secret to life together.

I was hoping the secret to life was chocolate, but I hear that it is not. Sigh.

The Secret is a movie....a book...an Oprah session....a way of life. It basically says the secret to life is the Law of Attraction. Call it "think, feel, act" for the common man. It's about intention and attracting to your life what you want.

You know those people who say, "Create a nice day?" I love it. That's what the Secret is basically about. We create our own nice days.


So, to employ this not-so-secret-Secret:
you make your intentions known,
you THINK about those intentions,
you FEEL how it will feel to have those intentions come to fruition, and,
you ACT to make those intentions come to you.

It's not new at all. This stuff has been around forever. It's not new to me. It's not new to Oprah--for god's sake, it's what she's been preaching all these years. It's not new to anyone who's been hanging out with our friends. It's just neatly bound and pretty and mass-marketed. I'm all for that.


So, you make this Intention board and via the Law of Attraction, you bring those intentions to life. Literally. I figure putting my intentions on a blog will work just as well as putting them on a piece of paper....thus, I put forth my intentions in this public format AND I am putting it on paper by making a intention board. My life is already whole, happy, healthy and fun, but it's nice to attract even more to this wonderful life.

I have the Mouse Surgeon's job on or before January 2008. NO, NO! Not her mouse surgery job. Her REAL job. She can go get busy doing mouse surgery somewhere else. I can suck a newspaper into a snowblower just as well as she can. Step out of the way, bitch. The job is MINE.  Woo Woo! We are SO going to have fun during all of this, too.
Addendum 2015: Um, I did indeed get the Mouse Surgeon's job in 2014. I just wasn't specific enough--I got ONE of her previous jobs. Oops! Be specific, dang it. The Universe has a good sense of humor. I'm super happy to have this particular job, thank god. The Secret scores one.
I am debt free on or before January 31, 2008. All those bills are gone, gone, gone. And the best part is that I remain debt free. I love it. Money comes to us like water. The wife and I are in the money and it I love comes to us in a positive, healthy, fun way. I love being able to give my family some money, too, as they have been so supportive (monetarily and otherwise) over the years.
Addendum 2015: I am indeed debt free. I'm not sure if it was by the due date but it's been quite a while. I support many charities. I need to step it up in the family department, but other than that all I can say is Thank you, Universe. Thank you, me!



The wife and I will go on a cruise by 2009. The wife and I will love the stress-free, perfectly wonderful cruise we go on in the next year. Best part is not gaining any weight while on the cruise despite enjoying all the tasty tidbits on the trip. Chocolate. The chocolate is drippingly, sinfully, orgasmically delicious.
Addendum 2015: We did indeed go on a cruise. This Secret thing is starting to freak me out. We hadn't planned on a cruise--well, beyond me saying so here. We'd never even tried to plan on cruise. Better? It came to us. We were invited to go on a cruise by some friends--who don't read this blog, so it's not like they knew this was on my intention list. I spent a lot of time eating chocoate on that stress free trip.
You will all buy copies of my newly published book, on or before April 1, 2009. I'll autograph your copy.
Addendum 2015: A book was published. It wasn't specifically mine but it featured my drawings, so that's awesome and I did indeed autograph them. Close enough, Universe.
I LOVE that my cholesterol stays under 200. All that Dove Dark Chocolate is paying off.
 Addendum 2015: My cholesterol was under 200 during my last lab work. I don't think you realize how monumental this is. My cholesterol had been fighting me for years. 
Take that, you little blobs of LDL! I've got your number. LIterally and figuratively. 
I am so proud to stand next to my goddaugher as I serve as her sponsor this spring. It turned out to be no problem. Gotta love those Catholics.
 Addendum 2015: Seemed like a no-brainer.... but, one never knows, so it was important for me to put this out there and affirm the truth. Yup. Despite having a rough start to the process (thanks for nothing, Mr. Priest), I was able to be sponsor. Take that, Catholic church!
You keep reading my blog and doing the Hokey Pokey because you learned "The Secret" and were serious about it and understood that that's what it's all about.
 Addendum 2015: If you're reading this, I guess you are reading the blog. Yippee Secret Skippy! I hope you are hokeying and pokeying as then this entire blog came to frution. I best get on to the 2015 List of Truths.
....uh, I gotta go. I'm attracting a Fannie May Pixie to my life right now....

Friday, February 16, 2007

Tasty Tidbits for the Weekend...

Ah yes, the mouse surgeon has struck again. (See previous blog, you naughty non-regular readers.) Seems part of her very important doings includes re-programming work cell phones for the minions. She asks me for my cell phone, indicating that she needs to "re-program" it. This in actuality means: "Uh, I've gotta add area codes to the numbers in your phone because everyone's doin' it." Re-program, my ass. This sounds like a simple procedure, as she IS a mouse surgeon and this is so much simpler than rodent revival....

She leaves the room (I guess re-programming phones takes privacy and complete concentration or something) and doesn't come back for a few minutes. When she finally does return, she half- heartedly apologizes to me for deleting all the phone numbers "by accident" that had been stored in my cell phone.

I don't know about you, but if I've programming them into my phone, I do NOT have them written down somewhere else. I don't have some stinkin' phone book or some EXCEL spread sheet with all those cell phones, home phones, work phones. I don't even know where to begin looking for half the numbers I had entered into that phone.

As you can imagine, I am NOT amused.

Incredibly, the mouse surgeon apologizes. This is quite a feat as she is not the apologizing type. (Apologizing acknowledges that she may have done something not so perfectly. Rat bastard. Er--I mean Mouse Bastard.) In fact, she apologized a few times. I made no eye contact as I was too disgusted and trying hard to keep my mouth shut. What I want to scream is: YOU MORON! YOU COULDN'T SAVE A MOUSE IF YOU CAN'T EVEN RE-PROGRAM MY PHONE WITHOUT SCREWING IT ALL UP!

Let's move on to a more serious subject: Grey's Anatomy. Right now, the star of the show is DEAD. That's never good. You don't want your star dead. The show is named after her, for Pete's sake. I don't think they will kill off the star of the show, but one never knows. I mean, they killed off Valerie Harper and the show was named after her. And, let's not forget Bobby Ewing on Dallas--his whole death was a DREAM. I am SO going to be crabby if this is a dream. They did do a kind of dream/unconscious thing on HOUSE recently, so I guess if it's good enough for one medical TV show, it's good enough for another. The wife and I are rather traumatized by this recent event on the show. (We were more traumatized by the fact that it is a three parter and we didn't realize this until 45 minutes into the second show.) My guess is that Christine is going to come along, get pissed off, start beating on Meredith's chest and Meredith is going to come back SHOOTING into her body and she will be saved and fine because her body temp was so low that she won't have any brain damage. Check back next week to see if I was right....

Finally, let's end on a romantic note, shan't we? The wife and I have a basic agreement that cards are enough for holidays like Valentine's Day. We get a card, write nice things, exchange cards, look lovingly into each other's eyes and then go watch TV or something. So, imagine my surprise when I looked up at work (while running a valentine's day lunch with 40 or so mentally ill clients sucking down their viddles) and see the wife standing in front of me. She hands me a Fannie May Bag--filled with one very lovely heart-shaped box of Pixies (a big favorite of mine). She is not the type to leave work to do such romantic, spontaneous acts nor is she the type to bring gifts when gifts are not on the menu and she's certainly has never done anything quite like this before..... I was very touched by this act of kindness and I think I even may have blushed a little bit. A co-worker made sure to point this act out to everyone in attendance and had everyone clap. Oh dear! This very nice gesture was not met by any romantic gifts from me, as who woulda thunk she'd bring me candy when gifts are not part of the plan?! What a woman. I'll have to be extra-well-behaved this weekend to repay her: shoes off before entering the house, help with laundry, put belongings semi-away.....

....but stay away from my Pixies. THEY'RE MINE! And, keep that damned mouse surgeon away from me and my Pixies....I might put a Pixie right up her ass if she bothers me today....

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

The Curse of the Snow Blowin' Mouse Surgeon


It's been snowing like a bitch outside the last few days. At work, the "Mouse Surgeon" is in charge of directing snow removal. I know, I know--why is a mouse surgeon directing snow removal? Ah, we all have our trials and tribulations and hers is to do menial things like point at snow piles and give orders. 

Mouse Surgeon announced that we all had to move our cars so the parking lot could be plowed. Okay, no problem--I mean, I am all about having a plowed parking lot. I drag my sorry ass out to my car, fire it up and roll backward into a new stall along the fence, far out of the way of the plow. 

As I'm sitting in my car contemplating the meaning of life and snowflakes, I notice that the Mouse Surgeon is all bundled up and standing behind a snow blower. It may have been a snow THROWER or a snow BLOWER--I don't know the difference, but suffice it to say it was a pretty big machine. Much bigger than the puny Mouse Surgeon. Much bigger than anything I've ever used. It's professional grade. The king of kings.
.............................................................
This intrigues me.
..............................................................
What IS she doing? This is a lady who does relatively nothing but work an hour a day, pushing papers, having injuries, giving orders. Mouse surgeons don't snow blow...do they? Aren't they afraid of frost-biting their precious little mouse-surgeoning hands? She does not strike me as the snow blowing type.

She's got her little peanut head all tucked into a winter cap and she's got her booties on and her mittens are securely in place. She fires up the machine and looks like she is ready for action......she begins by pushing the machine slowly up where the sidewalk. Actually, the machine is basically dragging her behind--she is hanging on for dear life.

As she goes and blows up the sidewalk.... 

....there is suddenly a god awful screeching sound...just like when I sucked the neighbor's Christmas lights into our snowblower.

Then, bizarrely enough--newspaper is flying EVERYWHERE.

This is followed by a sickening moan--a last gasp--out of the machine. 

Flakes of Newspaper swirl about, right along with the snow flakes. It is a sight to behold. 

The snow plow guy FREAKS out. He screams at the Mouse Surgeon to TURN.IT.OFF!!!!!

There is no need to turn it off, as she has OBVIOUSLY sucked something into the thing and the snowblower is no longer in working condition.

Come to find out she has sucked the entire Sunday newspaper into the snowblower and has thus not only shredded the paper but also jammed the snowblower. 

I kid you not.You can't make this stuff up. Have a visual, won't you?

I am sitting in my car HOWLING in laughter. 

This is not professional nor is it supportive but it sure is funny to me. There is shredded newspaper flying everywhere. I can see the look on her face--she doesn't immediately know what happened, she doesn't know what to do and she certainly has no idea she has just ruined (at least temporarily) this fine piece of machinery. I can tell the Mouse Surgeon has been stunned into frozen confusion. I wish you could see the paper. 

Deadpan, she turns to the truck and says to the plower driver:
"Sunday Paper." 

She points as if he doesn't know what she is talking about.

I laid down in my car so she couldn't see how hard I was laughing. After all, I am guilty of the same snow blowing crime. But, I'm no mouse surgeon and that is what makes it all that much funnier to me.

I.am.going.to.rodent.hell. I just know it.

There was no more snow blowing to be done on this day. Heck, I'm not sure there will be any more snow blowing this season. 

Forget about reading the Sunday paper. Just sayin.'

Monday, February 12, 2007

And they wake up....and it's snowing....


There is a Dar Williams song called "February." It's a really depressing song, but that's not the point....the point is the lyrics sums up our existence at this very moment:

"and then the snow,
and then the snow came,
we were always out shoveling,
and we'd drop to sleep exhausted,
then we'd wake up, and it's snowing..."

UGH! The wife woke up this morning--and it was snowing. AGAIN. Now, I'm all for snow and if it's gonna be cold, I want there to be snow, but it just.....won't.....stop! So, we bundled up and snow shoveled AGAIN! We hear it's gonna snow again tomorrow. 

Most people probably don't shovel as much as we do. The wife likes a clean and snow-less driveway. It's like a sport to her. You can eat dinner off how clean that driveway remains during the winter. She even does the sidewalks--not just a path, but the whole sidewalk. She is the envy of the neighborhood. 

The other day, the next door neighbor saw us shoveling AGAIN...she opened her window and yelled, "I'M NOT GIVING INTO PEER PRESSURE!" She was not going to shovel to keep up with the wife, as NO ONE can keep up with the wife.

I guess it's good exercise but I'd much rather snow blow and have a mug of hot chocolate instead of worrying about having a perfectly snowless driveway and dropping dead of a heart attack. Not that I'm knocking the condition of the driveway--it's delightful--nor do I want the wife to drop dead of a heart attack...because then I would have to do all the shoveling.

Tee hee!

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Lisa Rinna-fied and no place to go

I went to see my lock-lady Harry-the-Hairstylist today. Harry, being the talented hair connoisseur that she is, has me looking like Lisa Rinna....In fact, she has done such a stupendous job that it is almost impossible to tell me from the real Lisa. If I put a photo of me next to a photo of Lisa, do you think you could tell us apart?

I don't think so.... 

...but, here's a hint: I'm not the one with the cleavage.

And, my lack of lips will probably give me way.

I'm very depressed now that I was Rinna-fied, as I was all Rinna-fied with no place to go. That's the problem with getting your hair done in the middle of a work day, in the middle of the week, on a snowy day that will lead to snow shoveling which leads to wearing a hat which leads to the mass destruction of Lisa Rinna hair.

It sucks to have great hair with no place to go....

....I mean, here I am looking all hot and Rinna-fied and I have no one to share it with. It's wrong. It's a waste of a good hair doing. It borders on being criminal...
.
There were very few people at work, so I couldn't prance around in Dancing-with-the-Stars-styled beautiful locks there The lady at the drive-thru didn't even give my hair a second look. I don't have a hot date for the evening as the wife is going to play volleyball at 9 PM and that is WAY past my bedtime so I refuse to go there, even if my hair is hot, hot, hot.....

So, what do I do? I go to the group home I supervise...I thought maybe one of the clients might notice my beautiful Lisa Rinna hair, but the only thing one of them said was,  

"What's that smell?"

At first, I thought he was talking about the gas-smelling snow bibs I was wearing (don't ask why I was at work while wearing snow-blower-gassed-snow bibs) but he said, 

"No, it's smells different. Like cologne."

I thought about it for a second and then smiled. "It's my hair!" I said. Harry has my hair looking and smelling good....

"I don't like it," he said...and he walks away.

I should have stuck with the gas smelly pants...I gave up, put the hat on and went out and shoveled snow.....

Anywhoo, here are some beans sent to me by Harry the Hairstylist. No, she didn't really send me beans; she sent me this picture of beans.  

The object is to find the man in the beans. If you find him within 3 seconds, your right brain is wicked good. If it takes 3 seconds to one minute, you're normal. 

If it takes longer than a minute to find him or if you find Lisa Rinna instead of the man, you should stop drinking so much cuz you're killing too many brain cells. 

I was a little confused by the directions (I know, they are simple--I was reading way too much into it) so it took me more than 3 seconds but less than a minute. Damn! I thought I had a kick-ass right brain. So, find the man:


If you don't find him, don't come whining to me because it means if you can't find the man in the beans you probably wouldn't have noticed how fabulous my hair looked today and that would make me want to stick the beans up your nose....

Sunday, February 04, 2007

Stay off the sidewalks: the wife's behind the wheel!


It all started so innocently. The wife was minding her own business, driving down the street and WHAM! She gets hit from behind. Now, this is a rather entertaining thing, as she was moving FORWARD and got hit from BEHIND. Go figure. So, she pulls over, gets out of the car, sees there is little damage--just some banged up bumper--takes a look at the other driver's car--oh dear, crushed hood problem--and wonders what the hell just happened. As there was little damage and nothing to get excited about, the wife benevolently waves the incident off and lets the driver go.... 

Within days, the wife is zipping down the street and for some reason decides to check her cell phone messages while driving. This is something I have NEVER known her to do, but with her recent hectic schedule, she's been doing all sorts of weird multi-tasking. She looks up just in time to see the stopped Toaster (aka the Scion that looks like a toaster) and....tap! 

She taps the person's bumper. 

A tap but an accident non-the-less. 

Of course, this lady is NOT benevolent and thus calls not only her insurance agent but also the police. The wife is understandably horrified, as there is really no visible damage to the wife's car and there are these two microscopic scratches to the Toaster's bumper. The police show up and the officer is rather disgusted--he can't believe he's been called to this ridiculous semi-accident. The wife says he repeatedly asked, "Do you REALLY want to file a report?" He told the Toaster Lady that he didn't need to be involved many a-time, but Toaster Lady was insistent. Hence, the wife got a ticket and a foul mood. Heck, that's what insurance is for, right?

Well, too bad the wife hit the Toaster Lady from Hell, who now has filed a claim for a ridiculous amount of money but also for rental car costs AND for personal injury. Injury! The wife probably had more injury from how mad she was than this lady could have ever sustained in the car tap. Toaster Lady needed a heating pad for two days after the one mile an hour crash. Can you say "full of shit?" No wonder insurance premiums skyrocket on a yearly basis. 

This Toaster-Lady-full-of-poo-incident only infuriates the wife further when she realizes her car has much damage from the first accident and she let that driver get away. No amount of consoling was of help until I employed the services of Master Reiki and Blue Eyes--they were able to calm the wife and help her see it from the Universe's eyeballs. We all keep telling her the Universe is trying to send her a message: 

SLOW DOWN AND DO ONE THING AT A TIME!!!!
 
(or, Stop ruminating about the Bears being in the Super Bowl and let it go! Brett Favre will come back. For the love of God, you LIVE IN ILLINOIS!) I don't think she likes this universe message (or this Bears Rule message) but she seems to be considering that we may have a point and thus she should only do 12 things at a time instead of 37. 

If the Secret is good enough for Oprah, it's good enough for the wife. Maybe the secret for the wife is to stay off the sidewalks while driving and to stay away from Toaster cars......

Friday, February 02, 2007

Addiverse Anatomy


This blog entry is dedicated to Suzuki DiFranco, god love her poop-loving soul. I don’t think she watches Grey’s Anatomy but she was there during the appendectomy….and she appreciates a good poop story almost as much as I do….

For creative blog purposes and in homage to my favorite TV show, I’ve decided to combine the true story of my appendicitis in 2003 with the characters of Grey’s Anatomy. If you don’t watch the show, you will still be able to glean the true facts of the appendectomy but it won’t be half as fun. And, I really did get pictures of my ovaries and cervix out of all this.

Scene One: Feel like shit
Wife: what’s wrong? Why are you home so early?
Me: I dunno. Don’t feel right.
(Lay down on couch. Ugh.)
Izzie: You look like shit.
Meredith: You’re home early. It’s only 2 PM on a workday.
Wife: Don’t forget we have dinner plans with Phlange-a-slam, Little Debbie Sneezeclumper and Suzuki Di Franco.
Me: (to self) Gag. The thought of food makes me nauseous.
Me: “Perhaps it’s just a gas bubble.”
Izzie: Maybe a muffin will help. Eat a muffin. How about $8 million dollars? That might help. And a muffin.
Meredith: A gas bubble. I don’t think it’s a gas bubble.
Izzie: She just needs a muffin. I’ll bake some muffins.

Scene Two: Refuse Dinner
Wife: Aren’t you going to eat?
Me: No, something is wrong in my gut. I must have a giant poop stuck somewhere in my colon.
Me (thought): Always go with constipation or a gas bubble when experiencing gastro intestinal distress, that’s my motto.
George: Are you going to eat that? I’ll eat that.
Izzy: You look like shit. You should have had a muffin.
McAddi: Are you pregnant? If you’re pregnant, I can help you.
Me (to self): I am SO pregnant. You bet your ass you can help me.
George: Are you wearing clean underwear? You know, well, in case it’s not a gas bubble.
(Side note: My mom always preaches how important it is to wear clean underwear. This story will reinforce the importance of this. ALWAYS WEAR CLEAN UNDERWARE! And, for god’s sakes, shave your legs every once in awhile.)
McAddi: Are you sure you’re not pregnant.
Christina: She is SO not pregnant.

Scene Three: The moment of Insight

Me: A caffeine/chocolate-laced product might be a delightful way to feel better. Let’s go to “Books at Barnes.”
Suzuki: I’ll go.
Wife: Little Debbie, Phlange & I are going to shop at “Bull’s eye.” We’ll meet you at the bookstore.
Me: Jesus, get out of my way, I need a Frappaccino. Complete with whipped cream. Give me extra whipped cream, damn the cholesterol!
Me (crawling to a table, start sipping on the drink of the gods. Hunch over the table.)
Suzuki: You don’t look so good.
Me (thought): This sucks. I’m sorry I’m such lousy company. Boy, this is a tasty frappaccino.
Do what all good nerds do: Go get a medical textbook and bring it to the table.
Me (to Suzuki): Why go to the doctor when you can find the answer yourself? I’m going to get a medical textbook.
Bailey: What the hell are you doing in the medical textbook section? You don’t look so good.
Christina: I didn’t even know you knew how to read.
Izzie: She just needs a muffin.
Me (looking at textbook, scan the pages). Damn, it sure does look like it’s appendicitis—at least it is according to this textbook. NO! It HAS to be a gas bubble! Maybe an egg shooting out of an ovary.
McAddi: I can help you if it’s a problem with an ovary.
Me: I hope it’s my ovary. Growl!
I look at Suzuki and mutter “I think it’s my appendix.”
The guy at the next table overhears this and looks horrified. He scoots his table a few inches away from us.
I want to scream, “IT’S MY APPENDIX, ASSWIPE! YOU CAN’T CATCH THAT!”
Me (Continue to drink my Frappaccino. The shoppers are nowhere to be found.)
Me (to Suzuki, quietly): I need to go the emergency room.
Cristina: I am scrubbing in for this surgery.
Meredith: I had my appendix out in season three. It really wasn’t that bad.
Me: There is NO WAY I am having my appendix out. I am TOO OLD for this nonsense! Don’t like ten year olds get their appendix out?

Scene Four: Crawl to ER
Me (Crawl/hobble/waddleto the desk.)
Receptionist (looks at me, brings me right in.)
Me: Now, that’s service!
(Hint: always clutch your chest or bend over with an appendicitis, and there will be no sitting in a crowded ER waiting room.)
Enter wife and shoppers.
Me: If I’m going to have to be in an ER, I am SO going to have a good time.
Hear laughing. See us laugh, tell jokes, talk about stealing the cross off the wall, decide this is not a good thing to do when possibly facing surgery—you don’t want the ol’ J.C. pissed off at you.

Meredith: I’m going to get some blood for bloodwork.
Cristina: Duh. That’s what blood is for.
Izzie: Can I draw the blood?

Bailey: NO! You are under psychiatric care and can’t do a thing. DO…NOT….TOUCH….THIS…
PATIENT.
Wife goes green, almost passes out.
See Suzuki, Phlang, Little Debbie and the wife telling poop stories, having a delightful time
Bailey: What the hell is going on in here? You are going to get thrown out of that ER if you take that crucifix off the wall.
Me: You know you have true friends when they are willing to sit in a boring ER with you, hours on end.
Cristina: ER s are not boring. Do you need surgery? I want to do your surgery.
Izzie: Can I scrub in?
Bailey: NO!
Me: What about that McAddi? Can she scrub in? Growl Growl!
Alex: I am not doing an appendectomy. How about a rhinoplasty while you’re in there?

Pain. Laughter. Pain. Laughter.
Me: There is NO WAY this is my appendix. I’m just constipated. Or, an egg has shot out of an ovary the “wrong” way.
Bailey: Get a CAT scan. STAT.
George: You’ll have to drink volumes of luscious chalk shakes over the next two hours.
Me: Now, THERE’S a boring way to spend time late in the evening.
See wife, the poor thing, looking like she needs medical attention more than I did. See Suzuki watching me choke down the chalk.

Cristina: The CAT scan was an utter failure—why? Because you are so damned constipated, We literally can’t see anything but a bowel full of shit.
Shows me the xray.
George: Wow, that is a giant intestine of white matter blocking out the view of everything else. That’s a lot of shit.
ME: I TOLD you was constipated! And, for this I took out my belly button ring?

We are now into the wee hours of the morning and there is little I can do but come to my senses and admit that my appendix needs to come out. My friends are more than exhausted. They are true troopers. Everyone should have such good friends.
McAddi goes home because her shift ended.
Me: Damn.

McDreamy: You need surgery.
Me: Um, aren’t you a Neurosurgeon?
McDreamy: Yes. Why do you ask?
Me: So, why are you doing my surgery?
McDreamy: It’s a holiday. Besides, my hair looks so good, I want to show it off.
Meredith: You always look steamy. Even at 3 AM.
Burke: Derek, are you really going to waste your time with an appendectomy?
Me: Um, I can hear you!
George: She can hear you.
Burke: Shut up, faggot.
Meredith: Really. I had my appendix out. It’s really nothing.
Cristina: Did you just call him a fag?
Izzie: Can I scrub in now?
Bailey: NO!
Meredith: I’m sure he didn’t mean to call George a fag.
McDreamy pushes on my belly….holds it…and, when he lets go, I see stars. White light. Searing pain. The pain was absolutely horrific.
Me: I read about “rebound pain” being the hallmark of an appendicitis.
(Side note: see? Those medical text books at the bookstore do come in handy), I practically begged him to take the damned thing out….
Me: Please rip it out.
Chief of Surgery: Burke, did you just call George a Faggot?
Burke: (and I quote) I can neither defend nor explain my behavior.
Cristina: I so want to have sex with you.
McDreamy: Burke, any tremors? If not, I can make sure you have some.
George: I am gay, so what?
Burke: Faggot.
Me: Can we just take the damned thing out?Wife passes out.

Scene Five: Machine-gun-diarrhea
See them rolling me to surgery. Suddenly, see shit flying out of my butt. Serious amounts of shit.
Meredith: Uh oh, that barium chalk stuff is deciding NOW is the time to come out.
Cristina: THIS is why I want to be a cardiothoracic surgeon. No shit. Literally no shit.
Bailey: Izzie, clean this up.
Me (in bathroom, projectile, machine-gun diarrhea flying out of my butt.)
Bailey: Are you stalling in there?
Me: No, I’m having serious poop problems.
See the bathroom door open, the close again. See me dragging my IV thingy along in the bathroom.
(Side note: you know, I have always wondered how my clients at work miss the toilet…how does one miss the toilet when pooping? Now, I know. I know because I shot shit everywhere. It was an explosion matched by no other. Shit hit the toilet, the floor, the wall, my gown…..it was a veritable shit fest.)
See me doing the best I can to clean everything up. I’m wiping the walls as fast as I can and there is nothing I can do about my gown except get back on the gurney will the poop-stained gown and go to surgery like nothing is wrong.
Cristina: Is that poop on your gown?
Meredith: I’m sure her poop-stained gown won’t be the talk of surgery.
Ales: Hey, she forgot to take off her undies—allow me.
See Alex remove my dirty undies and place them in a garbage bag by my head on the gurney.
(Side note: See how important it is to wear clean undies?).
Izzie: There’s poop on her gown. Can I scrub in?Bailey: NO!

See me lying on the gurnee in the freezing-cold operating room. I look up at McSteamy and say,
Me: I want photos of my insides.
McDreamy: Photos.
Me: Yeah, photos. You’ll be doing the scope-thing-with-a-camera; the least I can get out of this is some pictures.
Meredith: Izzy, aren’t you glad she didn’t eat any muffins? She would have aspirated on them.
Enter Dr. McSteamy, plastic surgeon.
McSteamy: Someone need a nose job?
Me: No, an appendectomy.
McSteamy: that is one big honker you got there. Sure would look better with plastic surgery.
Enter Callie. (For no reason but because I like her and it’s my story.)

Scene Six: Recovery
Cut to me laughing and I’m talking to some nurse in the recovery room. See me looking at my very-ugly-red-black wormlike appendix. See me having a good time.
See me realize I am awake and the surgery is over and it’s…..hey! It’s like 9 AM!
Me: What the hell happened?
McSteamy: I gave you a nose job.
Me: No way!
McSteamy: Just kidding. Too bad, though. You could use one.
McDreamy: I couldn’t find your appendix--A simple surgery took over three hours long because your appendix was somewhere hiding by a kidney. I had to open you up the “old fashioned” way, remove your intestines, plop them on your belly, dig around, cut the pup off and shove your intestines back in.
Meredith: He looks so handsome while shoving those intestines back in you.
McDreamy: Meredith, You snore.
Meredith: Derek, you have bad breath.
Me: Can I eat? I’m hungry.

Fade out.
The rest of the story will have to wait….til the next episode....