My job affords me many an opportunity to do things that I would not have otherwise had the chance to do: I've witnessed the birth of a baby up close and personal; I've held the hand of a person as she passed away; I've served as family to a client attending the services of his estranged mother; I've been in full hospital scrubs providing words of comfort & encouragement as a client received an angio-gram; I've successfully redirected a client in the process of being taken down by a pile of police officers. (We won't mention the opportunity I had to "rescue" a client off of the merry-go-round at Great America, although that should probably be included.) Now, a tone of you can say the same thing--after all, people are in delivery rooms all the time--but, you probably didn't do these things with persons with schizophrenia. I tell you that fact only because it changes the game.
It makes doing these things filled with even more gratitude than I could have possibly experienced otherwise.
This week, I drove a client out of town so he could attend the visitation and funeral of his mom. I can't tell you many details but, I can tell you that this particular person with schizophrenia asked many an interesting question and behaved in a manner that would catch most of your attention. Most of you wouldn't loudly ask questions about the coffin or the embalming process as you are standing in front of the casket. You probably wouldn't say aloud the things you were thinking, especially on a microphone in front of the mourners in attendance and you wouldn't be yipping the entire time you were serving as a last-minute pall bearer....
...those are all things I anticipated would happen--and, as anticipated, they did.
That's not what made being part of a client's experience so special and what touched me to my very core. I have tons of hilarious stories (told with not one shred of disrespect to those I serve), but that's not what these experiences are about. Here's a guy who experiences life in what I would consider a non-emotional, factual, logical, almost robotic fashion. There's data, facts, figures, questions, questions, questions, often what we would consider incongruent to the situation. There's a weird, odd slant to life that is grounded in some other place than where the majority of the world lives. So, when he was at the funeral, I was not surprised or bothered or concerned about his questions and relative-to-the-situation inappropriate behaviors. I stood in the foyer, ready to intervene or provide support or do whatever it was I thought I was going to need to do or what he asked me to do. I was the expert, present to ensure something of what I am not sure. The family knew who I was and why I was there, so really nothing was surprising whatsoever. As I settled in to my seat in the foyer, I heard something. It was loud and unmistakable. I stood up and went to the door.
All those things I anticipated....but, I didn't anticipate this...
...he sobbed. He sobbed openly and loudly and genuinely and completely....an incredibly appropriate and angst-filled response to seeing his mother for the first time in years.
I was taken aback. Here's a guy who shows no emotion on a daily basis and he's sobbing in front of the casket. I am ashamed to admit that I hadn't anticipated this or had thought otherwise--why I thought a person with schizophrenia would react in a manner any different than anyone else was just as judgmental and tainted with stigma as an a person uneducated about mental illness. Because he has schizophrenia and has a whole different take on the world doesn't make him less human, less capable of pain or feeling or angst or grief.
It was in that moment that I was completely and totally filled with emotion and reminded of why I am the luckiest person on earth to have a job as I do.
Another moment in life that I will never forget.
(It also served as a reminder that I can be an arrogant, judgmental, condescending ass. Sometimes the Universe needs to slap the humility back into me.)
After he finished with the intense and genuine display of his most personal emotion, he settled back in to his "normal" self. After the service, I drove him to the grave site and watched from my car, giving him the space and dignity that he so much deserved. I watched as they handed him a shovel. I could see he was thinking about this. He tentatively threw a shovelful of dirt onto the casket. And then, quite to my utter delight, he continued to throw more shovelfuls of dirt--others had thrown only one shovelful of dirt but he was gonna throw as many as he damn well pleased. When done, he handed the shovel to the next person and then wiped his hands on his pants.
He came back to my car, dirt all over his pants, hopped in and wondered aloud where he and I were doing for dinner. I took one look at his pants and laughed. This was the guy I know and love and anticipated.
I thanked him for the opportunity to be present at such a moment in his life. His response? "No problem."
I then silently thanked the Universe for the best job on the planet. I'm a better human being because of people like him.
*********************************************************
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
Ode to a Geriatric Pup
When I took Freckles Warrior Princess & Lucy Bark of Poteidaia to a new groomer last week, I provided a written description about which dog is which--although the two dogs look nothing alike (well, at least not to me and the wife--they are two years apart and are not even the same breeds), other people can't tell them apart or at least get mixed up enough they can't figure it out. Poor Freckles. Her description, albeit true, was not a picture of beauty: "Freckles is the lumpier, smellier, crustier, older dog with the booger-filled blind left eye, can't hear a thing and has skin that crawls when you touch her."
Lucy's description just mentioned her horrific bad breath and inability to stand still. She got the much better end of the deal.
The owner of the kennel provided an additional descriptor, noting that Freckles is "the dog with nine lives." 'Tis very true--this dog has most thankfully and almost unbelievably cheated death on more than one occasion. I have the vet bills and pained memories to prove it. We still talk about the Spring of 2011 like we had gone to battle.
The wife and I have been staring a lot at Freckles as of late. She is old and lumpy and crusty and smelly. Really smelly. She doesn't hear the alarm in the morning nor does she notice when we turn on the light. She just keeps snoring, enjoying her blissful sleeping state. It's almost impossible to wake her up in the morning without scaring the shit out of her because she doesn't notice you approaching. She can't go down the stairs on her own and she can't go up the stairs on more occasions than not. It takes us 25 minutes to go a half mile during our walk. Sometimes, she just stares at the wall--we've decided she either (1) sees dead people; or, (2) has doggie dementia. She gets up every night and demands to go out and pee. (You bet your ass we get up and let her out--no need to have her peeing in the house and how can you deny a most appropriate request, no matter the time of night?) Her back legs tremble when she's standing around. Freckles sleeps more than anything. She is growing disgusting things on (and under) her skin and she has gained weight, most likely from a decrease in activity and an increased demand for treats. She no longer makes it up onto the couch in one leap--often, she takes a running start but just ends up splatting into the side of the couch.
We accept her for what she is: an old lumpy, smelly, crusty, blind, deaf, balding stuffed sausage of a canine.
Yet, she is happy. Really happy. They say that dogs don't have emotions, but this is one happy dog--much happier now than she ever was when younger. You can tell she isn't in pain. She still does tricks, she still tries to chase Lucy around, she still loves going for rides in the car or visiting her favorite people. She remembers people and knows their names. All I have to do is say (in a very loud voice, of course), "Grandma" or "Jackie" or "the girls" and the dog perks right up and runs to the door. Some days, she surprises us and goes down the stairs. On other days, she hears the mail lady and gives her a loud greeting. I swear there are days she is smiling. I swear this dogs knows it's on its ninth life and she is going to enjoy every minute of it.
Here she is wearing a babushka. I was bored on Monday, so I decided we should wear babushkas. I'm not sure she was happy or smiling during the wearing of the babushkas but it sure was fun and it sure made me happy. We're simple folk in the Addiverse.
When I get up in the morning, I peek over the side of the bed and take a gander at Freckles, trying to see if she is breathing or not. It sounds morbid, but what else can I do? She honestly doesn't move from the light or the sound or the motion. I wait and watch. Some days, I can't really tell. I hate to scare her but I have to wake her up to go out for our daily walk. I wait and hope, get out of bed, trying to stomp around a bit, but the snoring continues. It's not until I actually touch her that I get a response--and, it's a startled response. She just about jumps vertically out of her bed.
Right now she is sleeping, just as she was doing an hour ago...just like she will be doing an hour from now. She often looks hilarious, as her tongue peeks out and her blind eye stays open and her hair gets all tangled. I can't help taking photos of her when she looks like that. If she had any teeth, she'd probably bite me.
Knowing Freckles, she will live many more years. One never knows. I suppose you can survive as a smelly and lumpy animal for years on end. Yesterday, I thanked her for living long enough for me to get my money's worth out of her after her last brush with death. When I pointed to the new living room furniture last night and told her she cost more than that, she snorted on me. Seriously. She snorted all over my glasses. I think that was her way of saying, "thanks, bitch--I'm worth it."
Ode to a Geriatric Pup
Canine of Old
Lumpy
Smelly
Shaky and trembling
Eyes that do not see
Ears that do not hear
Yet, love that still shines for the master.
Faithful
True
Smart as a fifth grader.
Tricks and treats do not escape her.
Another day, another skin growth...
...What the hell is that?
Snoring
Scratching
Pacing
Let me out, dammit!
Clean my eye!
Is that poop stuck on my butt?
Canine of Old
Loving
Smiling
Caring.
I see dead people.
I see Lucy.
I see you.
Paws up, little canine!
Your loyalty fills me up.
Lucy's description just mentioned her horrific bad breath and inability to stand still. She got the much better end of the deal.
The owner of the kennel provided an additional descriptor, noting that Freckles is "the dog with nine lives." 'Tis very true--this dog has most thankfully and almost unbelievably cheated death on more than one occasion. I have the vet bills and pained memories to prove it. We still talk about the Spring of 2011 like we had gone to battle.
The wife and I have been staring a lot at Freckles as of late. She is old and lumpy and crusty and smelly. Really smelly. She doesn't hear the alarm in the morning nor does she notice when we turn on the light. She just keeps snoring, enjoying her blissful sleeping state. It's almost impossible to wake her up in the morning without scaring the shit out of her because she doesn't notice you approaching. She can't go down the stairs on her own and she can't go up the stairs on more occasions than not. It takes us 25 minutes to go a half mile during our walk. Sometimes, she just stares at the wall--we've decided she either (1) sees dead people; or, (2) has doggie dementia. She gets up every night and demands to go out and pee. (You bet your ass we get up and let her out--no need to have her peeing in the house and how can you deny a most appropriate request, no matter the time of night?) Her back legs tremble when she's standing around. Freckles sleeps more than anything. She is growing disgusting things on (and under) her skin and she has gained weight, most likely from a decrease in activity and an increased demand for treats. She no longer makes it up onto the couch in one leap--often, she takes a running start but just ends up splatting into the side of the couch.
We accept her for what she is: an old lumpy, smelly, crusty, blind, deaf, balding stuffed sausage of a canine.
Yet, she is happy. Really happy. They say that dogs don't have emotions, but this is one happy dog--much happier now than she ever was when younger. You can tell she isn't in pain. She still does tricks, she still tries to chase Lucy around, she still loves going for rides in the car or visiting her favorite people. She remembers people and knows their names. All I have to do is say (in a very loud voice, of course), "Grandma" or "Jackie" or "the girls" and the dog perks right up and runs to the door. Some days, she surprises us and goes down the stairs. On other days, she hears the mail lady and gives her a loud greeting. I swear there are days she is smiling. I swear this dogs knows it's on its ninth life and she is going to enjoy every minute of it.Here she is wearing a babushka. I was bored on Monday, so I decided we should wear babushkas. I'm not sure she was happy or smiling during the wearing of the babushkas but it sure was fun and it sure made me happy. We're simple folk in the Addiverse.
When I get up in the morning, I peek over the side of the bed and take a gander at Freckles, trying to see if she is breathing or not. It sounds morbid, but what else can I do? She honestly doesn't move from the light or the sound or the motion. I wait and watch. Some days, I can't really tell. I hate to scare her but I have to wake her up to go out for our daily walk. I wait and hope, get out of bed, trying to stomp around a bit, but the snoring continues. It's not until I actually touch her that I get a response--and, it's a startled response. She just about jumps vertically out of her bed.
Right now she is sleeping, just as she was doing an hour ago...just like she will be doing an hour from now. She often looks hilarious, as her tongue peeks out and her blind eye stays open and her hair gets all tangled. I can't help taking photos of her when she looks like that. If she had any teeth, she'd probably bite me.Knowing Freckles, she will live many more years. One never knows. I suppose you can survive as a smelly and lumpy animal for years on end. Yesterday, I thanked her for living long enough for me to get my money's worth out of her after her last brush with death. When I pointed to the new living room furniture last night and told her she cost more than that, she snorted on me. Seriously. She snorted all over my glasses. I think that was her way of saying, "thanks, bitch--I'm worth it."
Ode to a Geriatric Pup
Canine of Old
Lumpy
Smelly
Shaky and trembling
Eyes that do not see
Ears that do not hear
Yet, love that still shines for the master.
Faithful
True
Smart as a fifth grader.
Tricks and treats do not escape her.
Another day, another skin growth...
...What the hell is that?
Snoring
Scratching
Pacing
Let me out, dammit!
Clean my eye!
Is that poop stuck on my butt?
Canine of Old
Loving
Smiling
Caring.
I see dead people.
I see Lucy.
I see you.
Paws up, little canine!
Your loyalty fills me up.
Sunday, October 07, 2012
I think, therefore I am....I think
This morning when we woke up, the wife asked me what I was thinking about. I must have looked especially reflective or distracted or as if I were lost in thought. Why she would ask me this, I do not know. She knows better. All sorts of things are always swirling around in my little brain--this morning was no exception. You have no idea what goes on in there. My thoughts are birthed in a mighty weird, busy, noisy place. Since she asked, I spewed. This is what I was thinking about.....
Today is the Chicago Marathon. As it's 32 degrees out, I'm thinking about the Kenyans. I'm thinking what the Kenyans are thinking. I mean, does it ever get cold in Kenya? Do they go to Canada to practice for cold weather runs? It's not usually this cold for the marathon--in fact, a year or two ago it was so hot that runners were dropping like flies from the heat. Do they give the Kenyans gift mittens or do they have to bring their own? MJagger and I went out for some exercise yesterday and we wore mittens. Do you think the Kenyans would like to borrow our mittens? I'm thinking about how it's still my goal to complete a marathon while I'm 50. I didn't say run--I said finish. I'm thinking about how I'm going to do this, considering I can only go four miles at this time. Do you think the Kenyans would be willing to coach me if I give them my mittens?
Last night was the break-up show. I'm thinking about how painfully sad the Glee 'break up" episode was. We spent our Saturday night catching up on DVR'd programs and Glee happened to be one of them. (Glee will always win out over the housewives and boo boos in my corner of the Addiverse.) I haven't been very impressed with this season, so I was only lukewarm-interested in watching the episode on a Saturday night. Oh my. I'm thinking a bottle of anti-depressants and a carton of ice cream would have come in handy. It made watching "Evita" (which I did after the Glee episode was over) seem bright and cheery. Seriously--everyone breaks up. Everyone. Well, kinda sorta everyone. Well, I think they broke up. Oh, the angst over a stupid show featuring singing nerds. Pass me the Moose Tracks and a spoon.
(Please, baby jesus--don't take Santana off the show. If you are going to kill the show, please let her go down in a blaze of glory, with oodles of screen time.)
Yesterday, it was Adam and Eve & Carlos Santana. I'm thinking about MJagger's unfailing advocacy & need for a new purse. Out of respect to her, I won't say much. Suffice it to say that last night she got so pissed off in Church that she tried to walk out. The only thing that kept her in the pew was her husband--he literally physically kept her there, despite her efforts to get up and walk out. "If I had been on the end, I would have walked right out." Instead, she was stuck in the second row...but, she was free to scowl at the priest, arms crossed, defiance glaring out of her being, so that made it at least a little worth while to be stuck there. Everyone should have an ally as strong as her. I mean, who blatantly texts from church to express their anger about the topic at hand? This leads me to laughing about her asking me yesterday to look for a purse while out shopping with the wife. I know nothing about purses besides I have a small one so I can carry my swiss army knife, panty liners & cell phone. A baggy would work just as well. (Heck, I HAVE used a baggy in the past.) MJaggers wants one of those seriously large, looks-like-a-suitcase purse and was hoping to score one or two for a reduced price from the wife's favorite place on earth. She showed me some examples and sent me on my way. I stood in the purse section of the Maxx and just laughed. Thankfully, I saw nothing even remotely related to what she had described and thus I was freed of my purse duties. Maybe I can get her a gallon-sized baggy.
Other thoughts? Seriously: Laundry, blogging, grocery shopping, vacuuming, organizing my car trunk, cleaning Freckles' boogery eye, time cards, the coffee in the frig. Oh, there is leftover DD coffee in the frig! Washing my dark blue, sure-to-fade new jeans. Is this a hot flash, the Flu, anxiety, a heart attack, wearing too many clothes (damn those mittens) or if it really is 105 degrees in here? Cereal, bread, raisins. Why won't Lucy stop licking? Cereal, bread, raisins and what? WHAT? Damn, what are the other things I have to get? Cereal, bread, raisins and I don't know what. What time is the Packer game? I need to pay the wife for my Packer ticket. When is that game? Did I write that down? I don't think I wrote it down. Cereal, bread, raisins, why am I now cold? What am I thinking about? Does she really want to know what I'm thinking about? I gotta go heat up that coffee.
And that, dear wife, is what I was thinking about.
Glad you asked.
Monday, October 01, 2012
Gone. Gone. Gone.
I just finished writing an entire blog, full of fantasy football babbling, profound thoughts on the California law prohibiting reparative therapy for gays and angst-filled whining about the last remaining box of ultra O.B. tampons.....and, when I went to publish it, I pushed some wrong button(s) and poof....it was gone. I thought it to be some freak issue, so I took a gander at what I had been saving along the way--I've learned to save as I go, having lost one too many documents or papers--everything was blank. How this is possible, I do not know. I tried just about everything to get it back but it was not to be. So, all that work, all those deliciously described stories, all the facts and figures, all that taunting of persons in the football pools and those viewing Honey Boo boo--gone without effort, despite being saved along the way.
Gone, gone, gone. The baby Jesus was nowhere to be found at a time in which I needed to be saved. Sigh. I thought I had been saved.
Honestly, I'm too tired and too defeated to re-write the dang thing, which is too bad because I thought I was pretty witty and entertaining along the way. When I broke a nail while banging on the keys trying to retreive the now-lost blog, I took it as a sign from the blogging gods that I should surrender and turn my eye to Monday Night Football and DWTS instead of recreating what I had originally birthed.
I leave you instead with this illustration from my book de la face page, which is credited to jokobo. It fits my theme of "the last purple box of O.B. tampons has been opened" angst. It does nothing to much of anything except my love of tampons.
What's not to love about Tampons, anyways?
Gone, gone, gone. The baby Jesus was nowhere to be found at a time in which I needed to be saved. Sigh. I thought I had been saved.
Honestly, I'm too tired and too defeated to re-write the dang thing, which is too bad because I thought I was pretty witty and entertaining along the way. When I broke a nail while banging on the keys trying to retreive the now-lost blog, I took it as a sign from the blogging gods that I should surrender and turn my eye to Monday Night Football and DWTS instead of recreating what I had originally birthed.
I leave you instead with this illustration from my book de la face page, which is credited to jokobo. It fits my theme of "the last purple box of O.B. tampons has been opened" angst. It does nothing to much of anything except my love of tampons.
What's not to love about Tampons, anyways?
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Late but Great: Madonna 2012
MJagger and I went to the Madonna concert Wednesday night as scheduled. This is our seventh Madonna concert together--we are true Madonna whores. (This was my tenth time seeing Madonna in concert. Can I claim this on my tax returns?) After weeks of anticipation, the day had come. We survived our work day, got into my stick-shift car and headed to Chicago, tickets and money in hand. Thankfully, MJagger had taken motion sickness pills, as there is NOTHING like being the passenger in a stick shift car in stop-n-go Chicago traffic. I did my best to keep her from getting "stick-shift-induced-car sickness" but with the rush hour traffic, anything I tried was a feeble attempt....it literally took us one hour to go nine miles. That is not a typo. The 1.5 hour trip took us three hours. So much for being early. (Thankfully, we had heard that Madonna was starting her concerts later than advertised, so we didn't feel stressed. Worse come to worse, we'd miss the opening DJ and I can't say either of us gave a rat's ass about that.)
We took our traffic-tortured selves for dinner at a nice Chicago restaurant, seated in one of the better window seats. I think it was my Madonna t-shirt that inspired the hostess to give us such a nice window seat--or, maybe it was my stick shift car...the valet guy seemed very impressed that I drove a stick shift car--"One in a thousand" he claimed. Dinner was indeed delicious, very enjoyable, perfect preparation for the concert. Word to MJagger: when they say "the special," this refers to what they are featuring, not the price. Oh, to see MJagger's face when the bill came...although the special was indeed very special, it was not on special. Yum!
We parked our car in the "crack lot" and got to the venue without incident. We were pleasantly surprised by our seats--much closer to the stage than anticipated, a clear view of the catwalk, sure to be able to see Madonna without issue, even via my trifocals. We settled in and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Madonna didn't take the stage until 10:30 PM. This on a weeknight--a school night! TEN THIRTY.
I'm used to waiting for bands to start--they are almost always somewhat late...but 2.5 hours late? It just seemed rather disrespectful. I hate to say that--I hate to say anything even remotely negative about the lady who's changed the music world--but it seemed very disrespectful toward her fans. For Pete's sake, I am usually asleep for an hour by the time 10:30 PM rolls around. Doesn't Madonna know that half her audience belong to AARP? Look around--we're her people. MJagger was probably the youngest female there and she's 40. (Gay guys don't count--many were in their 20's--the gays of all ages have a healthy respect the Queen of Pop.) I was so tired by the time Madonna took the stage that I could barely stand up and cheer. I think my agitation kept me awake. Sure, there was a DJ for a half hour (around 9 PM or something) but I didn't pay to hear some Rick Astley looking DJ. I paid to see my beloved Madonna, preferably more on time than not.
Thankfully, I loved the show. Madonna will never be a great singer--that's not why you go to one of her concerts. You go because she is an amazing show woman. Amazing. There is nothing like a Madonna concert--it is an experience, a happening, an artistic event. It's lights and technology and music and visual overload. It's wonder. You don't go because you want to hear her greatest hits--that's not going to happen. Madonna is true to her most recent album, in this case MDNA. If you bought your ticket with the hopes she'd sing all her songs from the 80's and 90's, you were one mighty disappointed ticket holder--that's not what she does or has ever done. (Well, besides the Re-Invention Tour, but that long ago and unusual for Madge. You missed your chance for greatest hits if you missed Re-Invention.) Here's a blurry photo of the opening act (all my photos are blurry--what can I say--camera phones can only do so much), complete with the largest Catholic Incense thingy I have ever seen. Praise the baby Jesus, Madonna is still struggling with her Catholic roots. Someone get her an exorcism!
People have been complaining that her opening act is too violent and too bloody. Um, have you people watched TV in the past 25 years? This was no worse than those crime shows on television, so don't be having a double standard. Did I like that she had guns and blood and yuck splattering everywhere on the big screen? Not particularly. Did I get upset or disturbed by it? Not at all. It had a point and it really wasn't worse than anything on Prime Time. Here's a really blurry photo of Madonna striking a gun pose, complete with posse of gun-toting women. Bang, bang!
(Don't even get me started about the double standard about age--why is it that men in music can easily be 60 or more years old and no one says a word but bring on a 54 year old woman who happens to be in amazing shape and can run circles around most 20 years olds and you get a bunch of criticism that she's too old to be doing this or that. Grrrrr.)
She sang several of my favorite songs during the not-so-shocking-supposedly-horrible-blood-bath Act One, so I was all good with everything even more-so than I would have been. I happen to like her old and new music. I listened to the new album non stop in preparation for the concert. I checked out the set list. I read reviews. I did my homework. I embrace the ever-changing world of this genius. Anyone who features Lil Wayne in a pop song is all right with me.
My favorite part of the show was when the "marching" drummers came out, suspended over the crowd, banging out a killer cadence. MJagger says my jaw dropped open and I believe her. Being a drummer and a marching band nerd, I was in hog heaven. All that marching and baton twirling and loud snare drumming....I didn't think it could get better, despite it being 11:30 PM. I wasn't a big fan of this song prior to the concert but I have to say, this rendition made it a favorite.
Leave it to Madonna to make baton twirling cool.
Thankfully, Madonna's concert was two hours in duration. Although that left me incredibly sleep deprived, provided a challenge of driving so late at night & made it almost impossible to think/function/speak/perform while at work the next day, I was glad she gave us our money's worth once she bothered to take the stage. The concert itself was exactly what I was expecting and for that I am grateful. The chance to go to another Madonna concert with MJagger was completely appreciated. The audacity of Madge being so late was disappointing. I gave it four out of five stars in my official review (I know, what a nerd--I do concert reviews on line. What ARE we going to do with me?) I took away a star for her starting so late.
Would I go to another Madonna concert? Are you kidding me? Did you even just ask that question?
Yes, of course I would. Next time, though, we'll skip dinner and take a nap instead.
*********************************************************************
We took our traffic-tortured selves for dinner at a nice Chicago restaurant, seated in one of the better window seats. I think it was my Madonna t-shirt that inspired the hostess to give us such a nice window seat--or, maybe it was my stick shift car...the valet guy seemed very impressed that I drove a stick shift car--"One in a thousand" he claimed. Dinner was indeed delicious, very enjoyable, perfect preparation for the concert. Word to MJagger: when they say "the special," this refers to what they are featuring, not the price. Oh, to see MJagger's face when the bill came...although the special was indeed very special, it was not on special. Yum!
We parked our car in the "crack lot" and got to the venue without incident. We were pleasantly surprised by our seats--much closer to the stage than anticipated, a clear view of the catwalk, sure to be able to see Madonna without issue, even via my trifocals. We settled in and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Madonna didn't take the stage until 10:30 PM. This on a weeknight--a school night! TEN THIRTY.
I'm used to waiting for bands to start--they are almost always somewhat late...but 2.5 hours late? It just seemed rather disrespectful. I hate to say that--I hate to say anything even remotely negative about the lady who's changed the music world--but it seemed very disrespectful toward her fans. For Pete's sake, I am usually asleep for an hour by the time 10:30 PM rolls around. Doesn't Madonna know that half her audience belong to AARP? Look around--we're her people. MJagger was probably the youngest female there and she's 40. (Gay guys don't count--many were in their 20's--the gays of all ages have a healthy respect the Queen of Pop.) I was so tired by the time Madonna took the stage that I could barely stand up and cheer. I think my agitation kept me awake. Sure, there was a DJ for a half hour (around 9 PM or something) but I didn't pay to hear some Rick Astley looking DJ. I paid to see my beloved Madonna, preferably more on time than not.
People have been complaining that her opening act is too violent and too bloody. Um, have you people watched TV in the past 25 years? This was no worse than those crime shows on television, so don't be having a double standard. Did I like that she had guns and blood and yuck splattering everywhere on the big screen? Not particularly. Did I get upset or disturbed by it? Not at all. It had a point and it really wasn't worse than anything on Prime Time. Here's a really blurry photo of Madonna striking a gun pose, complete with posse of gun-toting women. Bang, bang!(Don't even get me started about the double standard about age--why is it that men in music can easily be 60 or more years old and no one says a word but bring on a 54 year old woman who happens to be in amazing shape and can run circles around most 20 years olds and you get a bunch of criticism that she's too old to be doing this or that. Grrrrr.)
She sang several of my favorite songs during the not-so-shocking-supposedly-horrible-blood-bath Act One, so I was all good with everything even more-so than I would have been. I happen to like her old and new music. I listened to the new album non stop in preparation for the concert. I checked out the set list. I read reviews. I did my homework. I embrace the ever-changing world of this genius. Anyone who features Lil Wayne in a pop song is all right with me.
My favorite part of the show was when the "marching" drummers came out, suspended over the crowd, banging out a killer cadence. MJagger says my jaw dropped open and I believe her. Being a drummer and a marching band nerd, I was in hog heaven. All that marching and baton twirling and loud snare drumming....I didn't think it could get better, despite it being 11:30 PM. I wasn't a big fan of this song prior to the concert but I have to say, this rendition made it a favorite.Leave it to Madonna to make baton twirling cool.
Thankfully, Madonna's concert was two hours in duration. Although that left me incredibly sleep deprived, provided a challenge of driving so late at night & made it almost impossible to think/function/speak/perform while at work the next day, I was glad she gave us our money's worth once she bothered to take the stage. The concert itself was exactly what I was expecting and for that I am grateful. The chance to go to another Madonna concert with MJagger was completely appreciated. The audacity of Madge being so late was disappointing. I gave it four out of five stars in my official review (I know, what a nerd--I do concert reviews on line. What ARE we going to do with me?) I took away a star for her starting so late.
Would I go to another Madonna concert? Are you kidding me? Did you even just ask that question?
Yes, of course I would. Next time, though, we'll skip dinner and take a nap instead.
*********************************************************************
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Getting things off my chest
As long-time readers know, I am a fifty year old with a subtle (okay, not so subtle) flair for the dramatic. I wasn't going to write about this but I decided it's only fair. I tell all to my readers. (Correction: almost all. The wife has requested a few boundaries be kept. In her words, "is NOTHING sacred?") I write this for entertainment value and to show solidarity with the peri-menopausal, anxiety-ridden hypochondriacal women of the world of which I am sure exist. Stay strong, sisters of the middle age!
No need to panic. I am alive, well and healthy and have been cleared by Western Medicine and by myself...without the help of a surgical-scrubbed doctor, I have been able to rule out all diseases and conditions that require fever, rash, sweating, weakness, fatigue, blood, phlegm, incontinence, foul smelling urine, diarrhea, constipation, weight gain, weight loss, recent trip to a third world country, loss of appetite, feminine itching, coughing, involuntary movements, distended belly, hair loss, hair growth, eye crossing, gas, hallucinations, voting for Republicans, anal pressure, rectal burning and/or swelling of any body part. Scurvy, syphilis and dandruff have been 100% ruled out.
It was quite surprising. About ten days ago, I was minding my own business, walking down the stairs at work, when the unidentified pain started. I didn't know how to decipher this pain. As I didn't feel like something was squeezing the piss out of my chest and I didn't have any pain radiating into my left arm, jaw or back, I decided to rule out a heart attack. Still, it was rather disturbing--I stopped walking and grabbed my chest in wonder...
Instead of plain old hysterical panic, I quickly thought about my underwear and arm pit hair--if I'm having a heart attack or other bodily emergency, I need to have on clean underwear. I winced with regret upon the realization that I did not shave my armpits early in the day. (Heck, I did not shave my armpits earlier in the month.) My mother always stressed the importance of clean underwear but I don't remember her saying much about armpit hair. I took a gander and checked that yes, I had on a pair of my brand new undies, very much fresh and pretty. Good for me. Despite the clean, new undies, I couldn't fix the armpit thing. Sigh.
(I'm not kidding. I lifted my shirt and took a gander down my pants to see what underwear I had on. Didn't care that I was standing on the stairs at work. One must have priorities.)
I come from a family full of clean underwear and heart disease. My father, a man who I am sure ALWAYS had on fresh tidy whities, had bypass surgery when in his 40's. That does nothing to soothe the soul of a 50 year old person experiencing the advent chest pain, clean underwear or not. A glimmer of histrionic, distorted thinking began to ooze to the surface, which of course did nothing to abate the mounting anxiety....
Ah, anxiety! I'm not sure I've ever been happy to have anxiety but I have to say that I am all good with anxiety when comparing it to other potential medical issues. After removing myself from the stairwell, I tried out some of the coping skills I teach my clients. I used all that self talk I profess. I challenged my thoughts. I slowed my breathing. I went to a safe place in my mind. I was one in the moment. I reassured myself and tried not to think about how ineffective these skills seemed to be....
Yeah, that didn't work. What a crock of shit! (Remind self to apologize to clients.)
...As I contemplated my certain doom, I wondered if hormones could play a factor here--after all, everything is in flux in my body. I may still be able to shoot out a baby but I'm guessing I'm shooting out all sort of other nonsense instead of bouncing babies. As many of us know, hormones can do just about anything to rational women, turning them into psychotic freaks, which in turn fuels anxiety, which in turn could cause just about anything (well, except scurvy--I don't think changing hormones can cause scurvy).
Thoughts turned to Gertrude Goiter, my beloved thyroid. Now, you might think this is a weird train of thought, but it's really not. Have you ever thought about what it's like in my brain? This is a clearer train of thought than usual. I have the thyroid from hell. God only knows what the hell Gertie Goiter is up to. I haven't had her checked out for awhile. She could probably the cause of just about anything, bitch that she is....
I quickly diss Gertrude and wondered what if it IS the return of pleurisy? That'd suck but it would still be better than other options. (I'm still happy about the clean underwear while considering all this. Big points for my love of new, clean underwear.) I tried to remember what pleurisy was really like. I have to admit that in my blog came in handy--I was able to go back and read about it. Huh. Same kind of thing I'm having but it seems different somehow. Maybe it's my armpit hair multiplying the feeling.
Fast forward to eight days later. The stupid chest pain has gotten worse, coming and going with no rhyme or reason. Seriously--I go for a two mile jog with MJagger and I'm no worse for the wear. I sit down to enjoy some brain-cell-losing television and it starts again. Everyone who is in the know believes it is anxiety and I don't argue with them. Oh yes, people know--I didn't want people to know but you can't walk around work clutching your chest while sporting a weird look on your face. These people know me and my drama-soaked brain well. The wife stares at me and indicates she isn't worried.
Now, it's last night. (That's kind of a weird sentence. NOW it's LAST night. I'm leaving it. I have no time to edit in the Addiverse.) I barely slept at all, stupid pain that it was. I tossed and turned, flipped and flopped, unable to get comfortable. I went to the couch and realized that my left arm was bothering me and that my heart was pounding and that my neck was tight. Imagine how comforting all that was. I listened to music, played video games and tried to ignore my predicament. I sat up, I laid down, I rolled on my side, I stood up. Had I any anti-anxiety meds, I would have taken them. (Note to self: get some good drugs and keep them on hand. Mark them: for emergency use only. Do not become addicted or sell on the black market.) I thought about taking Benadryl, Norco (leftover from the wife's hysterectomy four years ago--she didn't use them), aspirin, muscle relaxers (left over from the wife's back surgery--again, she didn't use them, what a trooper), ibuprofen, Ex-Lax or stool softeners (they were the only other things left to try in the "medicine bucket") but figured none of these would solve the problem. I got about two hours of sleep and that's being generous.
So, the wife gets up at 5:30 AM and asks me what I'm doing and why I'm on the couch. I give her the "oh-my-god-what-if-this-is-a-heart-attack" look and softly announce, "I need to go the ER. The pain kept me up all night." She stares at me, alerting me that she has seen "THIS LOOK" on my face before and that although she is sure I am fine, she knows that I must do what I must do. I mumble something about my left arm bothering me and she gets a fleeting look of terror. She agrees to take me to the ER. I remind myself how it is much better to be embarrassed by being wrong than being dead from a heart attack.
Now, most people would just get up and go to the ER. Not me. This time I am going to have shaved arm pits! So, I took my time and took a shower and shaved my arm pits. I also shaved my legs for good measure. I washed and scrubbed and put on newly purchased, clean undies, all the while having low-grade chest pain.
If you want immediate service when going to an ER, just say the words, "I'm having chest pain" when you walk up to the receptionist. Geez, it was a blur from the moment those words came out of my mouth. Electrodes flying, buzzers buzzing, IVs inserted, blood samples taken, questions blurting out from here and there, the doctor in the room immediately instead of like three hours later, in the "real" ER world. EKG, blood work, chest x-ray, quick physical. The whole time I am telling everyone I see, "I have a history of anxiety. This might just be anxiety." They smile and nod but pay no heed. I have uttered the word "chest pain" and that is all that is needed to be heard.
Oh, the questions--the questions are enough to give you more anxiety. Yes, my left arm is bothering me. No, there is no rhyme or reason. Yes, I just jogged two miles yesterday without incident. Mostly "no" answers to the questions, which I take as a good sign. The poor wife looked green and had to leave the room several times as she does not "do" blood. I tell the nurse that I am embarrassed to be there. I also tell him that I think my counseling ideas are a crock of shit. He laughed.
Guess what I was diagnosed with? I bet a whole bunch of you are going to say, "anxiety."
You are wrong. I was diagnosed with "chest pain" and given a prescription for Norco.
WTF???? Norco? A pain killer? I'm not in "that kind" of pain. I think most people would be giddy with delight to score some Norco. Not me. I've got a vat of that at home and I don't ever want to take that if I can help it. I am left with "chest pain." Duh. I knew that.
The great news is, no surprise to the wife (or, to MJagger, I am sure), that I "have a text book EKG" and that all the tests came back negative. I'm fit as a fiddle. I am told that I should follow up with my primary care physician in case he wants to do a stress test, although being able to go two miles without issue suggests I don't need one of those. He asks if I get heartburn often. Oh brother. I am rather insulted by this. I would know what heartburn is. No, no I do not get heartburn--I can eat anything and I never get heartburn. (Knock on wood.) Off come the monitors and out comes the IV. I am sent home with papers that say I have chest pain.
I can't complain too loudly about my diagnosis: after all, the wife's birthday is in three days and the Madonna concert is in four days. I have no time for heart transplants or other dramatic medical interventions. I have to buy a present and figure out an outfit for the concert. MJagger and I have to memorize the set list and try to figure out traffic so we are not late. I have to take the wife out for dinner.
I have to shave my armpits for Madonna.
I will probably go see my PCP for shits and giggles (and maybe a prescription for some more appropriate drugs) and he'll give me that concerned doctor look, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will nod in a consoling way and say reassuring things, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will write "anxiety" in my chart. He'll patronize me and ooze support. He'll tell me to come back if the pain doesn't decrease and he'll send me for a stress test. He will write this in the chart but he'll be thinking "anxiety." Mental illness always trumps potential medical issues.
It will be up to me to take true action. While I'm not ready to give up coffee or Dove Dark Chocolate, I am willing to make concessions. I will eat one pound less of sugar per day. I'll keep exercising. I'll eat something green every other day. I'll eat seven less scoops of ice cream a week. (That one is going to be very hard.) I'll remember that my thoughts are prayers and we are always praying. I'll make fun of my thoughts and focus on the positive. I will hang out with friends more and with work less. I will work with the wife on lower our cholesterol (might as well drag her along for the ride). I will continue to maintain my sense of humor and commend myself for being insightful enough that I have quite the flair for the dramatic. I will honor my pain and ask it what it needs, wondering what I need to get off my chest. I will balance my chakras and envision a big green ball spinning brightly in my chest. I will stop telling my clients to envision a happy place--I'm going to tell them to take medication and go out and have fun. I'm going to make sure my clients know they need to wear clean underwear every day and, if women, shave their armpits at least once a week.
Okay, once a month. It's all good if you shave your armpits once a month as long as you are always wearing clean underwear and are agreeable to medication.
Madonna or bust, clean underwear here I come.
*******************************************************************
No need to panic. I am alive, well and healthy and have been cleared by Western Medicine and by myself...without the help of a surgical-scrubbed doctor, I have been able to rule out all diseases and conditions that require fever, rash, sweating, weakness, fatigue, blood, phlegm, incontinence, foul smelling urine, diarrhea, constipation, weight gain, weight loss, recent trip to a third world country, loss of appetite, feminine itching, coughing, involuntary movements, distended belly, hair loss, hair growth, eye crossing, gas, hallucinations, voting for Republicans, anal pressure, rectal burning and/or swelling of any body part. Scurvy, syphilis and dandruff have been 100% ruled out.
It was quite surprising. About ten days ago, I was minding my own business, walking down the stairs at work, when the unidentified pain started. I didn't know how to decipher this pain. As I didn't feel like something was squeezing the piss out of my chest and I didn't have any pain radiating into my left arm, jaw or back, I decided to rule out a heart attack. Still, it was rather disturbing--I stopped walking and grabbed my chest in wonder...
Instead of plain old hysterical panic, I quickly thought about my underwear and arm pit hair--if I'm having a heart attack or other bodily emergency, I need to have on clean underwear. I winced with regret upon the realization that I did not shave my armpits early in the day. (Heck, I did not shave my armpits earlier in the month.) My mother always stressed the importance of clean underwear but I don't remember her saying much about armpit hair. I took a gander and checked that yes, I had on a pair of my brand new undies, very much fresh and pretty. Good for me. Despite the clean, new undies, I couldn't fix the armpit thing. Sigh.
(I'm not kidding. I lifted my shirt and took a gander down my pants to see what underwear I had on. Didn't care that I was standing on the stairs at work. One must have priorities.)
I come from a family full of clean underwear and heart disease. My father, a man who I am sure ALWAYS had on fresh tidy whities, had bypass surgery when in his 40's. That does nothing to soothe the soul of a 50 year old person experiencing the advent chest pain, clean underwear or not. A glimmer of histrionic, distorted thinking began to ooze to the surface, which of course did nothing to abate the mounting anxiety....
Ah, anxiety! I'm not sure I've ever been happy to have anxiety but I have to say that I am all good with anxiety when comparing it to other potential medical issues. After removing myself from the stairwell, I tried out some of the coping skills I teach my clients. I used all that self talk I profess. I challenged my thoughts. I slowed my breathing. I went to a safe place in my mind. I was one in the moment. I reassured myself and tried not to think about how ineffective these skills seemed to be....
Yeah, that didn't work. What a crock of shit! (Remind self to apologize to clients.)
...As I contemplated my certain doom, I wondered if hormones could play a factor here--after all, everything is in flux in my body. I may still be able to shoot out a baby but I'm guessing I'm shooting out all sort of other nonsense instead of bouncing babies. As many of us know, hormones can do just about anything to rational women, turning them into psychotic freaks, which in turn fuels anxiety, which in turn could cause just about anything (well, except scurvy--I don't think changing hormones can cause scurvy).
Thoughts turned to Gertrude Goiter, my beloved thyroid. Now, you might think this is a weird train of thought, but it's really not. Have you ever thought about what it's like in my brain? This is a clearer train of thought than usual. I have the thyroid from hell. God only knows what the hell Gertie Goiter is up to. I haven't had her checked out for awhile. She could probably the cause of just about anything, bitch that she is....
I quickly diss Gertrude and wondered what if it IS the return of pleurisy? That'd suck but it would still be better than other options. (I'm still happy about the clean underwear while considering all this. Big points for my love of new, clean underwear.) I tried to remember what pleurisy was really like. I have to admit that in my blog came in handy--I was able to go back and read about it. Huh. Same kind of thing I'm having but it seems different somehow. Maybe it's my armpit hair multiplying the feeling.
Fast forward to eight days later. The stupid chest pain has gotten worse, coming and going with no rhyme or reason. Seriously--I go for a two mile jog with MJagger and I'm no worse for the wear. I sit down to enjoy some brain-cell-losing television and it starts again. Everyone who is in the know believes it is anxiety and I don't argue with them. Oh yes, people know--I didn't want people to know but you can't walk around work clutching your chest while sporting a weird look on your face. These people know me and my drama-soaked brain well. The wife stares at me and indicates she isn't worried.
Now, it's last night. (That's kind of a weird sentence. NOW it's LAST night. I'm leaving it. I have no time to edit in the Addiverse.) I barely slept at all, stupid pain that it was. I tossed and turned, flipped and flopped, unable to get comfortable. I went to the couch and realized that my left arm was bothering me and that my heart was pounding and that my neck was tight. Imagine how comforting all that was. I listened to music, played video games and tried to ignore my predicament. I sat up, I laid down, I rolled on my side, I stood up. Had I any anti-anxiety meds, I would have taken them. (Note to self: get some good drugs and keep them on hand. Mark them: for emergency use only. Do not become addicted or sell on the black market.) I thought about taking Benadryl, Norco (leftover from the wife's hysterectomy four years ago--she didn't use them), aspirin, muscle relaxers (left over from the wife's back surgery--again, she didn't use them, what a trooper), ibuprofen, Ex-Lax or stool softeners (they were the only other things left to try in the "medicine bucket") but figured none of these would solve the problem. I got about two hours of sleep and that's being generous.
So, the wife gets up at 5:30 AM and asks me what I'm doing and why I'm on the couch. I give her the "oh-my-god-what-if-this-is-a-heart-attack" look and softly announce, "I need to go the ER. The pain kept me up all night." She stares at me, alerting me that she has seen "THIS LOOK" on my face before and that although she is sure I am fine, she knows that I must do what I must do. I mumble something about my left arm bothering me and she gets a fleeting look of terror. She agrees to take me to the ER. I remind myself how it is much better to be embarrassed by being wrong than being dead from a heart attack.
Now, most people would just get up and go to the ER. Not me. This time I am going to have shaved arm pits! So, I took my time and took a shower and shaved my arm pits. I also shaved my legs for good measure. I washed and scrubbed and put on newly purchased, clean undies, all the while having low-grade chest pain.
If you want immediate service when going to an ER, just say the words, "I'm having chest pain" when you walk up to the receptionist. Geez, it was a blur from the moment those words came out of my mouth. Electrodes flying, buzzers buzzing, IVs inserted, blood samples taken, questions blurting out from here and there, the doctor in the room immediately instead of like three hours later, in the "real" ER world. EKG, blood work, chest x-ray, quick physical. The whole time I am telling everyone I see, "I have a history of anxiety. This might just be anxiety." They smile and nod but pay no heed. I have uttered the word "chest pain" and that is all that is needed to be heard.
Oh, the questions--the questions are enough to give you more anxiety. Yes, my left arm is bothering me. No, there is no rhyme or reason. Yes, I just jogged two miles yesterday without incident. Mostly "no" answers to the questions, which I take as a good sign. The poor wife looked green and had to leave the room several times as she does not "do" blood. I tell the nurse that I am embarrassed to be there. I also tell him that I think my counseling ideas are a crock of shit. He laughed.
Guess what I was diagnosed with? I bet a whole bunch of you are going to say, "anxiety."
You are wrong. I was diagnosed with "chest pain" and given a prescription for Norco.
WTF???? Norco? A pain killer? I'm not in "that kind" of pain. I think most people would be giddy with delight to score some Norco. Not me. I've got a vat of that at home and I don't ever want to take that if I can help it. I am left with "chest pain." Duh. I knew that.
The great news is, no surprise to the wife (or, to MJagger, I am sure), that I "have a text book EKG" and that all the tests came back negative. I'm fit as a fiddle. I am told that I should follow up with my primary care physician in case he wants to do a stress test, although being able to go two miles without issue suggests I don't need one of those. He asks if I get heartburn often. Oh brother. I am rather insulted by this. I would know what heartburn is. No, no I do not get heartburn--I can eat anything and I never get heartburn. (Knock on wood.) Off come the monitors and out comes the IV. I am sent home with papers that say I have chest pain.
I can't complain too loudly about my diagnosis: after all, the wife's birthday is in three days and the Madonna concert is in four days. I have no time for heart transplants or other dramatic medical interventions. I have to buy a present and figure out an outfit for the concert. MJagger and I have to memorize the set list and try to figure out traffic so we are not late. I have to take the wife out for dinner.
I have to shave my armpits for Madonna.
I will probably go see my PCP for shits and giggles (and maybe a prescription for some more appropriate drugs) and he'll give me that concerned doctor look, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will nod in a consoling way and say reassuring things, all the while thinking, "anxiety." He will write "anxiety" in my chart. He'll patronize me and ooze support. He'll tell me to come back if the pain doesn't decrease and he'll send me for a stress test. He will write this in the chart but he'll be thinking "anxiety." Mental illness always trumps potential medical issues.
It will be up to me to take true action. While I'm not ready to give up coffee or Dove Dark Chocolate, I am willing to make concessions. I will eat one pound less of sugar per day. I'll keep exercising. I'll eat something green every other day. I'll eat seven less scoops of ice cream a week. (That one is going to be very hard.) I'll remember that my thoughts are prayers and we are always praying. I'll make fun of my thoughts and focus on the positive. I will hang out with friends more and with work less. I will work with the wife on lower our cholesterol (might as well drag her along for the ride). I will continue to maintain my sense of humor and commend myself for being insightful enough that I have quite the flair for the dramatic. I will honor my pain and ask it what it needs, wondering what I need to get off my chest. I will balance my chakras and envision a big green ball spinning brightly in my chest. I will stop telling my clients to envision a happy place--I'm going to tell them to take medication and go out and have fun. I'm going to make sure my clients know they need to wear clean underwear every day and, if women, shave their armpits at least once a week.
Okay, once a month. It's all good if you shave your armpits once a month as long as you are always wearing clean underwear and are agreeable to medication.
Madonna or bust, clean underwear here I come.
*******************************************************************
Sunday, September 09, 2012
Fourth and Four
Ten more days until the Madonna concert. What to wear, what to wear?
It's my absolute favorite time of year. Well, besides my birthday week, but that's a given. I suppose I could say it's my favorite time because it's the time of the wife's birthday and the falling leaves and the closing of the white pants season, but I would be lying. Those are all really nice things but it's not what makes September rock. It's my favorite time of the year because professional football is back.
Pathetic, I know.
I can't help it. I love football. I cannot think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon. (No disrespect to the baby jesus.) I can't think of one thing I don't like about it. If the wife can watch reality TV all day and night without too much whining from me, I can watch one day of football without judgment.
(By the way, what IS that mess of a honey boo boo? Oh, the lost thirty minutes I'd like to have back.)
This year, I have taken football to a whole 'nother level: I am in four fantasy leagues. What WAS I thinking? It sounded like a good idea at the time but now I'm not sure. I am super confused and it's hard enough just remembering to check my players' injury status let alone decide who to start. Thankfully, one of the leagues is "only" a confidence pool, so I suppose I should call blog this Fourth and three, but I still have to remember and complete my confidence picks so at four I shall stay.
Thankfully, I was able to figure out how to have two of the leagues on my smart phone, so I can keep track of them from wherever I might be on any given Sunday (pun intended). It doesn't work out as well as I thought it would, though--I accidentally waived one of my starting running backs when trying to move him up on my list. It's hard to read on a smart phone when you're 50 years old--that tiny print will get you every time. I was sick over that and couldn't get him back. Something about have to wait about the waiver.
This was the first time I participated in a "live draft;" meaning, a bunch of us got together and sat around some stranger's living room while wearing our favorite team jerseys. We stuffed our face with food and chose our teams, one by one, player by player, all picks displayed on the big screen. MJagger invited me to the league and she knew the majority, if not all, of the people at the draft. It happens to be an all-women league, which is really not here nor there except for it's important for blogging purposes: I ask you to envision 14 middle-aged women (sorry, MJagger, you are now middle aged upon crossing that 40 mark) sitting in a living room, 12 of which are wearing Bear jerseys. (I was rocking my McFadden Raider jersey and some poor lady was wearing an Alabama t-shirt. So you can envision how good I looked, here is a photo of me wearing said jersey at a Packers game last year. I've got balls to wear the opposing team's jersey while at Lambeau.) I sat on the couch, cheat sheet in hand, quietly surveying the crowd. They were obviously well versed not only about football but also about fantasy football. MJagger had a fantasy football magazine in front of her and it was clear that she had been studying. Me? I had a few new apps on my phone and decided to go with technology for my information. We sat by each other and whispered things to each other in an attempt to make sure we didn't end up picking players that were injured, released, on strike or in jail. The Alabama lady picked a guy that was waived and a guy that was no longer on any team. I didn't have the heart to tell her.
Okay, I'm lying--I was giddy with delight that she picked those people because that means I have a better chance of beating her.
The thing that left me incredulous is that these Bears fans are so hard-core that none of them would pick Aaron Rogers for their quarterback. I mean, come on--here's the top-rated quarterback in the league and they are all passing him up. I was number 12 in the draft and almost got Rogers as my starting quarterback. That's unbelievable. The wife would have been pissed off had I gotten him (it's true that every player I ever pick ends up getting hurt) but I would have been a rock star. Unfortunately, someone finally decided they'd rather win than be true to the orange and blue, so I just missed my chance.
The ladies sounded sincere and polite, gently cheering on each person's picks. One lady would say, "good pick!" after every pick made by MJagger. I found this strange and turned to MJagger, who explained to me that was this lady's way of saying "F*ck you." Oh my. There was indeed some competition going on. Sure enough, once MJagger had alerted me of this, I watched carefully and I could tell that the lady was being a complete and total ass.
This was pretty serious stuff. Too serious. I thought there might be a cat fight if things didn't lighten things up, so I took things into my own hands: I announced I was taking a kicker in the second round. I thought they were all going to die. I'm sure they thought I was a moron, but I knew what I was doing. It is fun to toy with the draft. (I actually didn't take a kicker until the third round, which was terrifying enough for these ladies. I love messing with people. Keep 'em off balance, that's what I say.)
The draft took over three hours. I was exhausted by the end.
The next draft was a live on-line draft; meaning, we were all sitting at our computers in the comfort of our homes doing everything electronically. I was number nine, which meant I had a wee bit better choice of first pick but not much better. They had a live chat going on so I joined in. MJagger was also in this pool-- again, these were a bunch of her friends--so, I asked if we could say whatever we wanted in the chat. MJagger said "of course!" so I typed in some naughtiness, trying to get some banter going.
Silence.
Thanks for nothing, MJagger.
The live computer draft only took an hour, which seemed like drafting on crack in comparison to the live in-person draft. I thought about drafting the exact same players for both teams, helping me keep track of my Sunday antics, but this was not possible as many of my players were drafted for other teams. I suppose I should be happy, as my computer draft scored me a whole bunch better players. If I don't do well in that pool, it's my fault for starting the wrong players.
So, today I will study my three teams (the confidence pool was done and locked by Wednesday, thank god) and try to figure out who to start, where. I will have NO idea who to cheer for today, as I have players scattered across the league; in fact, I believe I have no "team-duplicates" on my rosters (meaning I have one player per team per league). I am going to have to rely on the NFL channel, my computer, my phone and the wife to figure out what I'm doing, if I'm winning, if my players are even playing. The remote control is going to be ON FIRE!
I'm gonna need an assistant to keep track of all this. An assistant and a bookie.
Today, I will not think of Madonna; rather, I will think about cheering for players on teams I hate. It's the weirdest thing to do that, but I will do what I must do to cheer my players to individual victory.
If things get ugly, I can go back to thinking about Madonna, but I'm hoping to stay focused, not distracted by Madge. I can think about Madonna on Tuesday....after Monday Night Football.
It's fourth and four....I'm ready for some football!
*******************************************************************
It's my absolute favorite time of year. Well, besides my birthday week, but that's a given. I suppose I could say it's my favorite time because it's the time of the wife's birthday and the falling leaves and the closing of the white pants season, but I would be lying. Those are all really nice things but it's not what makes September rock. It's my favorite time of the year because professional football is back.
Pathetic, I know.
I can't help it. I love football. I cannot think of a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon. (No disrespect to the baby jesus.) I can't think of one thing I don't like about it. If the wife can watch reality TV all day and night without too much whining from me, I can watch one day of football without judgment.
(By the way, what IS that mess of a honey boo boo? Oh, the lost thirty minutes I'd like to have back.)
This year, I have taken football to a whole 'nother level: I am in four fantasy leagues. What WAS I thinking? It sounded like a good idea at the time but now I'm not sure. I am super confused and it's hard enough just remembering to check my players' injury status let alone decide who to start. Thankfully, one of the leagues is "only" a confidence pool, so I suppose I should call blog this Fourth and three, but I still have to remember and complete my confidence picks so at four I shall stay.
Thankfully, I was able to figure out how to have two of the leagues on my smart phone, so I can keep track of them from wherever I might be on any given Sunday (pun intended). It doesn't work out as well as I thought it would, though--I accidentally waived one of my starting running backs when trying to move him up on my list. It's hard to read on a smart phone when you're 50 years old--that tiny print will get you every time. I was sick over that and couldn't get him back. Something about have to wait about the waiver.
Okay, I'm lying--I was giddy with delight that she picked those people because that means I have a better chance of beating her.
The thing that left me incredulous is that these Bears fans are so hard-core that none of them would pick Aaron Rogers for their quarterback. I mean, come on--here's the top-rated quarterback in the league and they are all passing him up. I was number 12 in the draft and almost got Rogers as my starting quarterback. That's unbelievable. The wife would have been pissed off had I gotten him (it's true that every player I ever pick ends up getting hurt) but I would have been a rock star. Unfortunately, someone finally decided they'd rather win than be true to the orange and blue, so I just missed my chance.
The ladies sounded sincere and polite, gently cheering on each person's picks. One lady would say, "good pick!" after every pick made by MJagger. I found this strange and turned to MJagger, who explained to me that was this lady's way of saying "F*ck you." Oh my. There was indeed some competition going on. Sure enough, once MJagger had alerted me of this, I watched carefully and I could tell that the lady was being a complete and total ass.
This was pretty serious stuff. Too serious. I thought there might be a cat fight if things didn't lighten things up, so I took things into my own hands: I announced I was taking a kicker in the second round. I thought they were all going to die. I'm sure they thought I was a moron, but I knew what I was doing. It is fun to toy with the draft. (I actually didn't take a kicker until the third round, which was terrifying enough for these ladies. I love messing with people. Keep 'em off balance, that's what I say.)
The draft took over three hours. I was exhausted by the end.
The next draft was a live on-line draft; meaning, we were all sitting at our computers in the comfort of our homes doing everything electronically. I was number nine, which meant I had a wee bit better choice of first pick but not much better. They had a live chat going on so I joined in. MJagger was also in this pool-- again, these were a bunch of her friends--so, I asked if we could say whatever we wanted in the chat. MJagger said "of course!" so I typed in some naughtiness, trying to get some banter going.
Silence.
Thanks for nothing, MJagger.
The live computer draft only took an hour, which seemed like drafting on crack in comparison to the live in-person draft. I thought about drafting the exact same players for both teams, helping me keep track of my Sunday antics, but this was not possible as many of my players were drafted for other teams. I suppose I should be happy, as my computer draft scored me a whole bunch better players. If I don't do well in that pool, it's my fault for starting the wrong players.
So, today I will study my three teams (the confidence pool was done and locked by Wednesday, thank god) and try to figure out who to start, where. I will have NO idea who to cheer for today, as I have players scattered across the league; in fact, I believe I have no "team-duplicates" on my rosters (meaning I have one player per team per league). I am going to have to rely on the NFL channel, my computer, my phone and the wife to figure out what I'm doing, if I'm winning, if my players are even playing. The remote control is going to be ON FIRE!
I'm gonna need an assistant to keep track of all this. An assistant and a bookie.
Today, I will not think of Madonna; rather, I will think about cheering for players on teams I hate. It's the weirdest thing to do that, but I will do what I must do to cheer my players to individual victory.
If things get ugly, I can go back to thinking about Madonna, but I'm hoping to stay focused, not distracted by Madge. I can think about Madonna on Tuesday....after Monday Night Football.
It's fourth and four....I'm ready for some football!
*******************************************************************
Saturday, September 01, 2012
Have stitches, will travel
After nine (or, is it ten?) days, I decided it was time for my stitches to come out. You didn't think I was going to pay anyone a penny to do something that easy, did you? No, it was my duty to remove them myself. Before you get freaked out, I have to tell you: I've taken many a stitch out of myself and I've even taken stitches out of the wife's back (she wouldn't let me take her staples out despite the doctor offering me the opportunity--kill joy). I figured this would be an easy ordeal--snip, snip, rip. The only thing of concern was the angle but I figured I could work around it.
The first order of affairs was to post my intention on Book de la Face. One must have priorities.
The second order of affairs was to find implements with which to remove the staples. I thought I had used my Swiss Army knife in the past, but wasn't sure. I can't imagine I used the army knife to take the stitches out of my face but couldn't remember anything else, so shrugged my shoulders and kept moving on. I gathered up various implements such as the army knife, a sewing kit "ripper thing," an exacto knife, a steak knife and some tweezers. For good measure, I grabbed a lighter and a bottle of rubbing alcohol (in hindsight, probably not a good idea to have both these items within inches of each other). I heated up each of the tools (okay, so the steak knife was for looks--I never intended to use it), then used the rubbing alcohol to "super-sterilize" the tools. I splashed a bunch of rubbing alcohol onto the stitches and leaned back.
In the middle of all this, the wife came screaming in the door, hopping and yelling and howling and grimacing and crying. "I got stung by a bunch of bees!" She was in understandable, sheer-terror-type pain. She was unable to identify where or how many times she had been stung. I put down my implements and made her a baking soda paste. I know how to make a good first aid paste with the best of them. (She's fine, just in pain. Those bees are so screwed. I see chemicals in their short-bee-lives.)
It didn't exactly go as planned. I returned to the kitchen table and grabbed the first stitch. Those puppies had no intention of coming out of there. I pulled. I sawed. I yanked. I cut. Nothing budging. I think it was that my skin was stuck to everything. Maybe I waited too long to try to get them out. So, I returned to Book de la Face to get more info. One guy suggested I use cuticle scissors, but after a quick check with the wife, it was determined we own no such implement. Another tour of the house left me empty handed.
I decided to do what any upstanding American would do: I drove to Wally World.
I went to the World of Wally in search of cuticle scissors or other small cutting device. I grabbed some band-aids and rubbing alcohol (I figured I should probably get more of that) and then wandered toward the chocolate (I was a bit unfocused). That's when it occurred to me: Wally World has a doctor's office! I meandered toward the small office and read the sign. Yup, they take stitches out....for $78. (It was rather bizarre--almost every service they offered was $78.) Who knew? I mean, who the hell would think that a chain store would have removal of sutures as an option? I knew my insurance would cover the cost besides the co-pay and I really didn't want to take time off of work to go back to Dr. Derma (it's way across town and would require at least 2 hours of my work day, considering wait and travel time). Even if my insurance didn't cover the cost, it would be worth it. I bellied up to the bar and waited for the nurse to head my way.
I am here to tell you that I got my money's worth and that the nurse had one hell of a time getting those stitches out of there. She's digging and pulling and cutting and digging. "Oh my, that doctor really made these tight!" She tried from one angle, then another. She moved to the other side of the exam table. It was quite clear I wouldn't have gotten those things out on my own, no matter how hard I tried. It was pretty uncomfortable, I must admit. I was one happy grrrrrl when she was finally done. I think she was sweating.
When she was finally done, she handed me the scissors and tweezers. "Do you want these? I'm just going to throw them away."
Score!
I am now ready to remove YOUR stitches....and, I'll do it for free. No need to cough up $78 or sterilize your exacto knife. I've got the implements and a new bottle of rubbing alcohol......
The first order of affairs was to post my intention on Book de la Face. One must have priorities.
In the middle of all this, the wife came screaming in the door, hopping and yelling and howling and grimacing and crying. "I got stung by a bunch of bees!" She was in understandable, sheer-terror-type pain. She was unable to identify where or how many times she had been stung. I put down my implements and made her a baking soda paste. I know how to make a good first aid paste with the best of them. (She's fine, just in pain. Those bees are so screwed. I see chemicals in their short-bee-lives.)
It didn't exactly go as planned. I returned to the kitchen table and grabbed the first stitch. Those puppies had no intention of coming out of there. I pulled. I sawed. I yanked. I cut. Nothing budging. I think it was that my skin was stuck to everything. Maybe I waited too long to try to get them out. So, I returned to Book de la Face to get more info. One guy suggested I use cuticle scissors, but after a quick check with the wife, it was determined we own no such implement. Another tour of the house left me empty handed.
I decided to do what any upstanding American would do: I drove to Wally World.
I went to the World of Wally in search of cuticle scissors or other small cutting device. I grabbed some band-aids and rubbing alcohol (I figured I should probably get more of that) and then wandered toward the chocolate (I was a bit unfocused). That's when it occurred to me: Wally World has a doctor's office! I meandered toward the small office and read the sign. Yup, they take stitches out....for $78. (It was rather bizarre--almost every service they offered was $78.) Who knew? I mean, who the hell would think that a chain store would have removal of sutures as an option? I knew my insurance would cover the cost besides the co-pay and I really didn't want to take time off of work to go back to Dr. Derma (it's way across town and would require at least 2 hours of my work day, considering wait and travel time). Even if my insurance didn't cover the cost, it would be worth it. I bellied up to the bar and waited for the nurse to head my way.
I am here to tell you that I got my money's worth and that the nurse had one hell of a time getting those stitches out of there. She's digging and pulling and cutting and digging. "Oh my, that doctor really made these tight!" She tried from one angle, then another. She moved to the other side of the exam table. It was quite clear I wouldn't have gotten those things out on my own, no matter how hard I tried. It was pretty uncomfortable, I must admit. I was one happy grrrrrl when she was finally done. I think she was sweating.
When she was finally done, she handed me the scissors and tweezers. "Do you want these? I'm just going to throw them away."
Score!
I am now ready to remove YOUR stitches....and, I'll do it for free. No need to cough up $78 or sterilize your exacto knife. I've got the implements and a new bottle of rubbing alcohol......
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Turn that Frown Upside Down
It's MJagger's 40th birthday. That said, she will not understand what I am about to write. She's still youthful and has young skin. She will not understand what I mean when I say:
My belly button has turned into a frown.
I'm serious. I knew gravity would bring the girls toward the floor, but my belly button? I had no idea.
The problem started when I went for my 'mole-mapping' at the dermatologist. Now, THERE'S a fun time! You stand there in your underwear while the doctor looks at your skin, up close and personal, with a magnifying glass, blemish by blemish, mole by mole. Those of you who know me recognize that this is a lengthy ordeal, as I have lots of freckles, blemishes and moles. It's kind of gross, if you ask me. So, there I am in my 50 year old skin being inspected by a 30 year old dermatologist. I know she's 30 because she told me so. She looked 30 and had perfect skin, which I suppose is good because that is what she does for a living. Dr. Derma and I had lots of time to talk about my tattoos, tattoos in general, tattoo removal, her ex-boyfriend's tattoos....I told you, I have LOTS of things to look at. We talked about if I regret my tattoos (I don't), why I called them tacky (because they are), if I'd ever want any of them removed (not so much) and when did I get "that new tattoo" (she gets a good eye award for noticing my new "I'm-now-50" tattoo). She was VERY thorough, which made me nervous because it was already very hot in the office and I was already sweating and the closer she kept looking, the more I would sweat. The entire time she's looking, she's talking and I'm sweating. (I think the nurse was dissociating. Seen one mole-mapping, you've seen them all.) You know, the wife has had many a mole mapping but her description never included a lifting (and subsequent flopping) of the boobs, a gander down my butt crack or a quick glance at parts of which I don't usually speak. Well, I got lifted, flopped, gandered and glanced. Imagine my surprise when she reached into my thankfully-new-and-fresh bra, grabbed one of the girls, lifted her up and checked for suspicious beings under my tiny town. I was mortified. We won't even talk about when she pulled my underwear from behind and met me cheek to cheek.
For the record, the wife claims her dermatologist has NEVER done anything like that. I'm not sure if I should be happy/got my money's worth or freaked out.
Needless to say, there was one suspicious mole on my upper belly. I'm not sure I'd call it a mole--it was more like a spot--a little black spot; in fact, it was little enough that I have never given it a second thought. I've got all sorts of other growths to look at--this one didn't even register on my mole-mind. I've got red moles, brown moles, big moles, flat moles, hair-producing moles. This thing? It looked like a flat spot, more like a little blob of black ink than anything skin related. So, she points it out and educates me on how this is suspicious and that we should watch it and remove it in a year or if it changes. I pondered this for a second or two and then remembered that the wife had a mole/spot/blemish just like this on her back and she had had it removed. I inquired if I could make an appointment to have it removed; after all, why wait when you can just get the thing removed and off the radar? Dr. Derma looked absolutely delighted. "No need to return--we can do it right now!" Before I knew it, the nurse was wheeling in tools, I was flat on my back and Dr. Derma was injecting me with numbing stuff. She's still yapping, I'm still yapping, and before you can say "little black dot," the little black dot was gone and I was the owner of two new stitches. "We'll send this to the lab. You'll hear from us in a week. I'm pretty sure this is going to come back abnormal but it will be nothing to worry about." Oh, okay. Glad for the warning.
I went home and tried to admire my new stitches and now-one-less-mole-covered belly, but I really couldn't see much from my vantage point. That's when I decided to try and take a photo of it so I could see it better. I figure my fancy camera phone might as well be good for something.....and, I thought it would be absolutely hilarious to post a photo of my stitches on Book de la Face.....
....this is how I learned that my belly button is now frowning. The photos do not lie. There it was. A frown.
Oh. My. God. If you listen to nothing else I have to say, listen to this: DO NOT TAKE A PHOTO OF YOUR 50 YEAR OLD BELLY BUTTON WITH A CAMERA PHONE FOR ANY REASON.
It's not pretty. I thought it was just the angle, so I tried again. That was worse. After 20 or so photos, I gave up. Each was worse than the first.
It doesn't matter that I am relatively average in the belly department. 50 year old belly buttons and surrounding skin areas should not be photographed, especially if you have a 50 year old belly button that has been pierced but no longer sports jewelry. I knew I had two holes in my skin (belly button piercing holes remain quite visible) and I knew I had moles and I knew I had a "inside my belly button scar" from my laproscopy and I knew my skin was becoming a little saggy but I had no idea how frownie-licious I had become. I was struck how the arrangement of the removed mole, belly button piercing and belly button lined up to make a face (albeit with only one eye).
I became terrified: one day I will look down and my belly button will be gone, lost in the land of sagging skin.
A few days later, I tried taking a photo again, as I wanted to post a photo of how the area had turned black and blue (don't ask me--I don't know why--it certainly didn't hurt). You would think that I would have learned the first time, but no. I had to try again.
It got no better. I did eventually keep one of the photos because it made me laugh.
For the right amount of money, I will post the photo.
Suffice it to say I am now left to embrace my frown. I must love my frown of which I can't turn upside down...well, unless I stand on my head....which might help in all sorts of ways, considering how rude gravity is.
Screw you, gravity--I'm taking me and my mole-mapped skin and going to bed. Maybe if I stay prone, gravity won't have such a dramatic grasp on my dermal affair.
*********************************************
P.S. Yes, I will be removing my own stitches. Was there a doubt? I can't let the doctors have all the fun.
**********************************************
My belly button has turned into a frown.
I'm serious. I knew gravity would bring the girls toward the floor, but my belly button? I had no idea.
The problem started when I went for my 'mole-mapping' at the dermatologist. Now, THERE'S a fun time! You stand there in your underwear while the doctor looks at your skin, up close and personal, with a magnifying glass, blemish by blemish, mole by mole. Those of you who know me recognize that this is a lengthy ordeal, as I have lots of freckles, blemishes and moles. It's kind of gross, if you ask me. So, there I am in my 50 year old skin being inspected by a 30 year old dermatologist. I know she's 30 because she told me so. She looked 30 and had perfect skin, which I suppose is good because that is what she does for a living. Dr. Derma and I had lots of time to talk about my tattoos, tattoos in general, tattoo removal, her ex-boyfriend's tattoos....I told you, I have LOTS of things to look at. We talked about if I regret my tattoos (I don't), why I called them tacky (because they are), if I'd ever want any of them removed (not so much) and when did I get "that new tattoo" (she gets a good eye award for noticing my new "I'm-now-50" tattoo). She was VERY thorough, which made me nervous because it was already very hot in the office and I was already sweating and the closer she kept looking, the more I would sweat. The entire time she's looking, she's talking and I'm sweating. (I think the nurse was dissociating. Seen one mole-mapping, you've seen them all.) You know, the wife has had many a mole mapping but her description never included a lifting (and subsequent flopping) of the boobs, a gander down my butt crack or a quick glance at parts of which I don't usually speak. Well, I got lifted, flopped, gandered and glanced. Imagine my surprise when she reached into my thankfully-new-and-fresh bra, grabbed one of the girls, lifted her up and checked for suspicious beings under my tiny town. I was mortified. We won't even talk about when she pulled my underwear from behind and met me cheek to cheek.
For the record, the wife claims her dermatologist has NEVER done anything like that. I'm not sure if I should be happy/got my money's worth or freaked out.
Needless to say, there was one suspicious mole on my upper belly. I'm not sure I'd call it a mole--it was more like a spot--a little black spot; in fact, it was little enough that I have never given it a second thought. I've got all sorts of other growths to look at--this one didn't even register on my mole-mind. I've got red moles, brown moles, big moles, flat moles, hair-producing moles. This thing? It looked like a flat spot, more like a little blob of black ink than anything skin related. So, she points it out and educates me on how this is suspicious and that we should watch it and remove it in a year or if it changes. I pondered this for a second or two and then remembered that the wife had a mole/spot/blemish just like this on her back and she had had it removed. I inquired if I could make an appointment to have it removed; after all, why wait when you can just get the thing removed and off the radar? Dr. Derma looked absolutely delighted. "No need to return--we can do it right now!" Before I knew it, the nurse was wheeling in tools, I was flat on my back and Dr. Derma was injecting me with numbing stuff. She's still yapping, I'm still yapping, and before you can say "little black dot," the little black dot was gone and I was the owner of two new stitches. "We'll send this to the lab. You'll hear from us in a week. I'm pretty sure this is going to come back abnormal but it will be nothing to worry about." Oh, okay. Glad for the warning.
I went home and tried to admire my new stitches and now-one-less-mole-covered belly, but I really couldn't see much from my vantage point. That's when I decided to try and take a photo of it so I could see it better. I figure my fancy camera phone might as well be good for something.....and, I thought it would be absolutely hilarious to post a photo of my stitches on Book de la Face.....
....this is how I learned that my belly button is now frowning. The photos do not lie. There it was. A frown.
Oh. My. God. If you listen to nothing else I have to say, listen to this: DO NOT TAKE A PHOTO OF YOUR 50 YEAR OLD BELLY BUTTON WITH A CAMERA PHONE FOR ANY REASON.
It's not pretty. I thought it was just the angle, so I tried again. That was worse. After 20 or so photos, I gave up. Each was worse than the first.
It doesn't matter that I am relatively average in the belly department. 50 year old belly buttons and surrounding skin areas should not be photographed, especially if you have a 50 year old belly button that has been pierced but no longer sports jewelry. I knew I had two holes in my skin (belly button piercing holes remain quite visible) and I knew I had moles and I knew I had a "inside my belly button scar" from my laproscopy and I knew my skin was becoming a little saggy but I had no idea how frownie-licious I had become. I was struck how the arrangement of the removed mole, belly button piercing and belly button lined up to make a face (albeit with only one eye).
I became terrified: one day I will look down and my belly button will be gone, lost in the land of sagging skin.
A few days later, I tried taking a photo again, as I wanted to post a photo of how the area had turned black and blue (don't ask me--I don't know why--it certainly didn't hurt). You would think that I would have learned the first time, but no. I had to try again.
It got no better. I did eventually keep one of the photos because it made me laugh.
For the right amount of money, I will post the photo.
Suffice it to say I am now left to embrace my frown. I must love my frown of which I can't turn upside down...well, unless I stand on my head....which might help in all sorts of ways, considering how rude gravity is.
Screw you, gravity--I'm taking me and my mole-mapped skin and going to bed. Maybe if I stay prone, gravity won't have such a dramatic grasp on my dermal affair.
*********************************************
P.S. Yes, I will be removing my own stitches. Was there a doubt? I can't let the doctors have all the fun.
**********************************************
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
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