So, the good news is that I’m not going to die of skin cancer yet. And no, it hasn’t escaped me that this isn’t necessarily good news for everyone, but I don’t really care what Cory thinks. Just kidding. I am sure that if anything ever happened to me he would cry all the way to match.com. JUST KIDDING! Sheesh, people. Calm down. The point is, when I left my dermatologist’s office the other day with part of my chest in their Petri dish the doctor said they would call me with the results in about a week, and that he was pretty sure he would be seeing me again to excise the mole (not to be confused with “exercising” a mole, which, from what I hear, is no picnic). But the office called me this afternoon and reported, “Good news, your results are back and it looks like it was just scar tissue. We don’t need to take any further action at this time.”
So, I guess the moral of the story is, buy your drugs online from Ecuador. Not only did it cure my ailment, but I’d like to think that somewhere in South America a man is on his way home from work, fanning his crisp, new bills and smiling over a good day of internet sales; soon he’ll burst through the front door and grab his wife in a hug, swing her around and say, “Honey, guess what?! We don’t have to eat the dog for dinner!” And it’s nice to know I was a part of that.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
Weekend Quotes And TMI
- “Clay Aiken and Chaka Khan can’t both be wrong.” ~ Phineas & Ferb
- “It’s kinda sad to come home and find your Dad watching Clone Wars by himself in the dark.” ~ Samantha
- During her first week of school Samantha was asked to share something about herself in a class. As she relayed her experience, she said, “Yeah, lots of kids were saying boring things like, ‘I like ice cream’ but I wanted to say something cool, so I told them about how I am a descendant of Pocahontas.” Apparently Drew didn’t know this, so he perked up and said, “We are?! So THAT’S where I get my awesome hunting skills.”
I considered my options for how to explain.
Oh, forget it, just cut to the chase. “Skinny dipping is when you go swimming naked,” I blurted out. Eyes the size of quarters doesn’t even begin to describe it. Try plates, Pamela Anderson’s implants, or UFO’s. That’s how big their eyes got, and then Samantha said, “Yeah, you should have just said you liked ice cream.”
Thursday, August 26, 2010
For 25 Bucks (Part II)
Unlike the other moles which were taken care of by my new magic potion of Ecuadorian proportions, this one never really went away. So I buckled and made an appointment with the dermatologist, and decided that while I was at it I would go ahead and have them do my annual full body mole check. (Almost as exciting as it sounds - think “Whack-A-Mole” for nerds, and replace the hitting with a magnifying glass.)
The office assistant at the counter checked me in, “It looks like your co-pay will be $25.” I handed over my credit card and tried to ignore the fact that I was about to get naked and let a guy look me over with a magnifying glass and I was paying HIM! I could just see all the hookers in Denver, standing in a corner watching me, shaking their heads and mumbling, “*Tsk*Tsk* What a rookie.” I took a seat, then somewhere between the 3-year-old blond girl head butting the couch next to me and page 293 of InStyle magazine’s interview with Anne Hathaway, the nurse called me in. As we entered the room she took a seat across from me, let out a sigh and began firing her questions, “So, have you ever had any blistering sunburns?”
The next fifteen minutes consisted of a microscopic violation, a picture taken of my back (Say, “cheese”! Not you, silly. YOU.), a needle to my face to remove a small cyst, a shot to my chest to numb the area (so let me get this straight, you’re going to prick me with the sting of death (“little poke” my *%@!), and force me to clench my fists until my palms bleed SO THAT IT WON’T HURT?), followed by a biopsy and a promise not to post my photos on the internet.
All for twenty-five bucks.
It’s not that I’m not grateful to have the insurance that allows me to only pay $25 for an office visit, it’s just that as I lay there with a strange man checking me out with his specs, saying things like, “This mole is misbehaving,” and me responding, “Then put it in time out,” I couldn’t help but think that I would rather buy 4 Chipotle burritos with that money. I could buy lunch for FOUR DAYS! Heck, for twenty-five bucks I could pay to get my bike fixed, ride around the reservoir, and still afford 7 slurpees. I could download 20 iTunes songs, visit a state park and rent a paddle boat, or buy chocolate and a David Sedaris book at Borders. At the very least, surely I could hire a maid to come clean a toilet, wipe a window or two, and bribe her with a diet Coke to stay and watch a movie with me to make it appear that I have friends. Sure, the white collar and black dress might give her away, but what about all those other maids who would be like, “You got paid to do WHAT?” And she’d be like, “I know!” and then they would be lining up all the way down the block, which could greatly enhance my image. But that is not the point. The point is, it would only cost me twenty-five bucks.
Instead, the only thing I have to show for it is a Cetaphil sample, a couple of packets of polysporin and a few bandaids. Oh yeah, and a shirt from Costco. $24.99. What’s fair is fair.
The office assistant at the counter checked me in, “It looks like your co-pay will be $25.” I handed over my credit card and tried to ignore the fact that I was about to get naked and let a guy look me over with a magnifying glass and I was paying HIM! I could just see all the hookers in Denver, standing in a corner watching me, shaking their heads and mumbling, “*Tsk*Tsk* What a rookie.” I took a seat, then somewhere between the 3-year-old blond girl head butting the couch next to me and page 293 of InStyle magazine’s interview with Anne Hathaway, the nurse called me in. As we entered the room she took a seat across from me, let out a sigh and began firing her questions, “So, have you ever had any blistering sunburns?”
The next fifteen minutes consisted of a microscopic violation, a picture taken of my back (Say, “cheese”! Not you, silly. YOU.), a needle to my face to remove a small cyst, a shot to my chest to numb the area (so let me get this straight, you’re going to prick me with the sting of death (“little poke” my *%@!), and force me to clench my fists until my palms bleed SO THAT IT WON’T HURT?), followed by a biopsy and a promise not to post my photos on the internet.
All for twenty-five bucks.
It’s not that I’m not grateful to have the insurance that allows me to only pay $25 for an office visit, it’s just that as I lay there with a strange man checking me out with his specs, saying things like, “This mole is misbehaving,” and me responding, “Then put it in time out,” I couldn’t help but think that I would rather buy 4 Chipotle burritos with that money. I could buy lunch for FOUR DAYS! Heck, for twenty-five bucks I could pay to get my bike fixed, ride around the reservoir, and still afford 7 slurpees. I could download 20 iTunes songs, visit a state park and rent a paddle boat, or buy chocolate and a David Sedaris book at Borders. At the very least, surely I could hire a maid to come clean a toilet, wipe a window or two, and bribe her with a diet Coke to stay and watch a movie with me to make it appear that I have friends. Sure, the white collar and black dress might give her away, but what about all those other maids who would be like, “You got paid to do WHAT?” And she’d be like, “I know!” and then they would be lining up all the way down the block, which could greatly enhance my image. But that is not the point. The point is, it would only cost me twenty-five bucks.
Instead, the only thing I have to show for it is a Cetaphil sample, a couple of packets of polysporin and a few bandaids. Oh yeah, and a shirt from Costco. $24.99. What’s fair is fair.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
For 25 Bucks (Part I)
My boob hurts.
Too much too soon?
Let me back up.
Once upon a time there was a poor, white girl who grew up near the beach. One day when she was innocently rocking her Op bathing suit that faded from black to pink with silhouette palm trees, she forgot that it had been approximately 17 hours since she applied sunscreen. She got blisters, so her mom applied calamine lotion, but her shoulders were so hot that it cooked the lotion right into her skin, making it look like Barstow in August. She wanted to die, her mom felt bad, and the girl grew up getting cozy with dermatologists who now ask her every time she has to go in if she sustained many sunburns as a child. That’s when she formally introduces herself, “Hi. Most people call me Vern, but you can call me your Next Mortgage Payment if you prefer.”
I’ve had many rogue, cancerous moles removed from my body since that day, but none of the really scary variety. I’m getting pretty skilled at spotting them – a few months ago I saw something forming on my face that looked suspicious, but before making an appointment with the doctor I remembered an ointment that my mom told me about that was rumored to be highly effective and less invasive. I asked my mom for the name of it, searched for it on the internet, and promptly bought a small container of it for $25 online. A week later Cory called home from work, “Uh, honey? I’m just looking at our Visa statement. Did you buy something from…Ecuador?” Yes. Yes I did. It’s not FDA approved, it’s black, and you rub it on your skin to take the cancer away. I put it on my face and within 10 days my issue was gone and healing.
I was so thrilled with this new and easy discovery, that I knew just what to do when another mole appeared on my chest a few weeks later. I rubbed on the ointment, and the immediate burn signaled that I was already attacking the cancerous cells. Victory! Except 10 days later it was still huge, and burning, and gross. So I thought, “Let’s get this over with and apply a second coat.” Here’s how that turned out. Imagine, if you will, that Jack Bauer tried to cut your heart out with a sharp melon baller, then instead of sewing you up he just poured cayenne pepper and lemon juice into the open wound to cauterize it. And then he lit a match and threw it inside and held it shut with his bare hands, just for good measure.
I think it felt something like that. (to be continued…)
Too much too soon?
Let me back up.
Once upon a time there was a poor, white girl who grew up near the beach. One day when she was innocently rocking her Op bathing suit that faded from black to pink with silhouette palm trees, she forgot that it had been approximately 17 hours since she applied sunscreen. She got blisters, so her mom applied calamine lotion, but her shoulders were so hot that it cooked the lotion right into her skin, making it look like Barstow in August. She wanted to die, her mom felt bad, and the girl grew up getting cozy with dermatologists who now ask her every time she has to go in if she sustained many sunburns as a child. That’s when she formally introduces herself, “Hi. Most people call me Vern, but you can call me your Next Mortgage Payment if you prefer.”
I’ve had many rogue, cancerous moles removed from my body since that day, but none of the really scary variety. I’m getting pretty skilled at spotting them – a few months ago I saw something forming on my face that looked suspicious, but before making an appointment with the doctor I remembered an ointment that my mom told me about that was rumored to be highly effective and less invasive. I asked my mom for the name of it, searched for it on the internet, and promptly bought a small container of it for $25 online. A week later Cory called home from work, “Uh, honey? I’m just looking at our Visa statement. Did you buy something from…Ecuador?” Yes. Yes I did. It’s not FDA approved, it’s black, and you rub it on your skin to take the cancer away. I put it on my face and within 10 days my issue was gone and healing.
I was so thrilled with this new and easy discovery, that I knew just what to do when another mole appeared on my chest a few weeks later. I rubbed on the ointment, and the immediate burn signaled that I was already attacking the cancerous cells. Victory! Except 10 days later it was still huge, and burning, and gross. So I thought, “Let’s get this over with and apply a second coat.” Here’s how that turned out. Imagine, if you will, that Jack Bauer tried to cut your heart out with a sharp melon baller, then instead of sewing you up he just poured cayenne pepper and lemon juice into the open wound to cauterize it. And then he lit a match and threw it inside and held it shut with his bare hands, just for good measure.
I think it felt something like that. (to be continued…)
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Besides, there's NOTHING on TV at that hour anyway
Part of our new routine this school year includes adding early morning Seminary (essentially, Bible Study) to our calendar. Once a Mormon teenager enters high school, he/she is encouraged to attend this class every morning before school and around these parts, it begins at 6:00 am. BEGINS. I think it's our own special way of trying to "one up" other religions. What's that? You're giving up chocolate and meat for 40 days? Big deal. I'M WAKING UP AT 5 AM TO TAKE MY KID TO CHURCH EVERY DAY FOR FOUR YEARS. What else you got?
When I was a teenager my mom woke up every morning to whip up a hot breakfast before we left. I KNOW! I had no idea how good I had it at the time. A shame, really. You would think she set a good example for me, but instead I usually just feel guilty that I'm not as cool as she was. Don't get me wrong, I woke up the FIRST day and made a hot breakfast but I think we all know how long THAT'S going to last. I'm sure I will have more to say on the subject in the future, but in the meantime, I guess it's not ALL bad....
When I was a teenager my mom woke up every morning to whip up a hot breakfast before we left. I KNOW! I had no idea how good I had it at the time. A shame, really. You would think she set a good example for me, but instead I usually just feel guilty that I'm not as cool as she was. Don't get me wrong, I woke up the FIRST day and made a hot breakfast but I think we all know how long THAT'S going to last. I'm sure I will have more to say on the subject in the future, but in the meantime, I guess it's not ALL bad....
Sunday, August 22, 2010
That's The Problem With Summer Lovin', It Happens So FAST!
School starts tomorrow. I’m usually turning cartwheels right about now (if I knew how to do a cartwheel, that is - work with me) ((it’s not that I’m lame, okay it is, but it’s ALSO because there was this one time I was trying to do flips on my bed and I sort of almost killed myself and I shrank from all forms of gymnastics after that)) (((plus, I’m only two inches shy of six feet tall, which sounds taller than saying I’m 5’10” and therefore a more reputable excuse for avoiding hurling my body in circles on the grass))) anyway THE POINT IS, I’m not only not turning cartwheels right now because I CAN’T but because I DON’T WANT TO. As it turns out, all those messages in my yearbook from 1987 have come true – I’ve had a rad summer. Not just because my DVR has recorded all the episodes of “Modern Family” (And I have watched them all. TWICE. And the one about ADD three times.), but because it’s been relaxing, enjoyable, filled with little bickering, a fabulous road trip, and several runs to Sonic happy hour. So, as my final hours of summer wind down, I would like to share some of my favorite summer moments.
FAVORITE SIGN: (Spotted at my local vet’s office) “WE LIKE BIG MUTTS AND WE CANNOT LIE”
FAVORITE LESSON LEARNED: When making macaroni and cheese, Vanilla Soy Milk is not a suitable substitute for regular milk in a pinch. For reals, do not try this at home.
FAVORITE DELIVERY: My friend Cheryl’s cinnamon rolls – they were still warm when her daughter brought them to my door and I felt like Esther from the Bible: “And who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” After the first bite, I knew - I have fulfilled my purpose. (What? She’s using Biblical references to make jokes now? What is WRONG with this woman?)
FAVORITE MOCKING OPPORTUNITY: The Rodeo Queen Pageant in Montana. Specifically, the interview portion. I have to say, the part when the interviewer had to explain to the contestant what she meant by asking about her “greatest asset” was a highlight. (Her answer? “Snowboarding”. I guess a solid foundation in moguls is really helpful experience when trying to rope a steer.) (Now she’s making fun of young girls trying to make a difference through Rodeo? Has she NO CLUE how long it took that poor girl to Bedazzle her collar?
FAVORITE PART OF OUR ROAD TRIP: Leaving I-80 in Wyoming. Though I’ve never heard it mentioned, I swear some of our pioneer ancestors must have died of boredom during that leg of their journey. I had air conditioning, jolly ranchers and season 2 of “The Office” and I barely made it. P.S. IF THIS DRIVE WAS ANY LONGER, I WOULD BE IN MENOPAUSE BY NOW. Wait…. (Making light of our pioneer heritage?! That’s IT! She has CROSSED. THE LINE.)
FAVORITE T-SHIRT: Discovered on a group of polygamist brothers getting ready to run a marathon together, they got matching shirts that said, “Our Moms Can Beat Up Your Mom”. True story. I’m not a fan of polygamy, but how can I not love that?
Some of my FAVORITE FRIENDS who moved away and made my life suck:
FAVORITE CONTRADICTION = THIS GUY...
FAVORITE SIGN: (Spotted at my local vet’s office) “WE LIKE BIG MUTTS AND WE CANNOT LIE”
FAVORITE LESSON LEARNED: When making macaroni and cheese, Vanilla Soy Milk is not a suitable substitute for regular milk in a pinch. For reals, do not try this at home.
FAVORITE DELIVERY: My friend Cheryl’s cinnamon rolls – they were still warm when her daughter brought them to my door and I felt like Esther from the Bible: “And who knoweth whether thou art come to the kingdom for such a time as this?” After the first bite, I knew - I have fulfilled my purpose. (What? She’s using Biblical references to make jokes now? What is WRONG with this woman?)
FAVORITE MOCKING OPPORTUNITY: The Rodeo Queen Pageant in Montana. Specifically, the interview portion. I have to say, the part when the interviewer had to explain to the contestant what she meant by asking about her “greatest asset” was a highlight. (Her answer? “Snowboarding”. I guess a solid foundation in moguls is really helpful experience when trying to rope a steer.) (Now she’s making fun of young girls trying to make a difference through Rodeo? Has she NO CLUE how long it took that poor girl to Bedazzle her collar?
FAVORITE PART OF OUR ROAD TRIP: Leaving I-80 in Wyoming. Though I’ve never heard it mentioned, I swear some of our pioneer ancestors must have died of boredom during that leg of their journey. I had air conditioning, jolly ranchers and season 2 of “The Office” and I barely made it. P.S. IF THIS DRIVE WAS ANY LONGER, I WOULD BE IN MENOPAUSE BY NOW. Wait…. (Making light of our pioneer heritage?! That’s IT! She has CROSSED. THE LINE.)
FAVORITE T-SHIRT: Discovered on a group of polygamist brothers getting ready to run a marathon together, they got matching shirts that said, “Our Moms Can Beat Up Your Mom”. True story. I’m not a fan of polygamy, but how can I not love that?
Some of my FAVORITE FRIENDS who moved away and made my life suck:
FAVORITE CONTRADICTION = THIS GUY...
...WEARING THIS SHIRT:
FAVORITE KIDS:
FAVORITE CANDID SHOT:
Still, my FAVORITE REASON TO GET UP IN THE MORNING, EVEN IF IT IS TO THE SOUND OF AN ALARM:
Goodbye summer. K.I.T.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Everyday People's Entertainment Guide
A little over 10 years ago I was lying in bed with flu-like symptoms, sleeping in on a Saturday morning when the phone rang. Cory picked it up, and when the voice on the other end introduced himself I saw Cory sit up a little straighter signifying an interest in paying closer attention. I listened to Cory’s side of the conversation half-heartedly, curious about the cause of his sudden good posture but not feeling well enough to decipher it. After all, “uh-huh…okay…that sounds great…” didn’t offer very concrete clues. I waited until he hung up for the explanation.
He didn’t have to say much.
“That was Reggie McDaniel,” he said. And then I understood.
If you are a Denverite you may have heard Mr. McDaniel, a.k.a. “The Everyday People’s Entertainment Guide” give his critiques on movies as well as restaurants during his career on the news and radio here in Colorado’s capital. He even conducted an interview with my brother back in 2001 to help promote his movie and gave it rave reviews (as he should have!). One afternoon while driving in the car, we were listening to Reggie regale his listeners with succulent details about a recent restaurant visit when Cory said, “Someday I would love to go out to eat with Reggie McDaniel. Don’t you think that would be fun?” Yes I did. Cory’s birthday was coming up, so I wrote Reggie a letter, told him what my husband had said, and made my request. Reggie called the day after he received my letter to surprise my husband and invited our whole family to lunch. Sweet!
Over our meal he explained why he fulfilled our request. “I get a lot of people telling me that they want to go out to eat with me, but yours is the first letter I’ve ever received making a request for someone ELSE that they cared about.” He predicted that our relationship would last, (incidentally, I do too. Not because I scored him lunch with a food critic, but because he gives good, good love) which I found endearing. We had a great time that day, and I have loved listening to his reviews, movies, restaurants or otherwise for all the years we’ve lived here. Reggie passed away this morning - now I’m not sure who to trust to tell me if Angelina Jolie turns a good performance or if the Rainbow Asian Grill serves up tasty frog legs. One thing I do know? Nobody rocked a purple suit with more flair, and he will be greatly missed.
He didn’t have to say much.
“That was Reggie McDaniel,” he said. And then I understood.
If you are a Denverite you may have heard Mr. McDaniel, a.k.a. “The Everyday People’s Entertainment Guide” give his critiques on movies as well as restaurants during his career on the news and radio here in Colorado’s capital. He even conducted an interview with my brother back in 2001 to help promote his movie and gave it rave reviews (as he should have!). One afternoon while driving in the car, we were listening to Reggie regale his listeners with succulent details about a recent restaurant visit when Cory said, “Someday I would love to go out to eat with Reggie McDaniel. Don’t you think that would be fun?” Yes I did. Cory’s birthday was coming up, so I wrote Reggie a letter, told him what my husband had said, and made my request. Reggie called the day after he received my letter to surprise my husband and invited our whole family to lunch. Sweet!
Over our meal he explained why he fulfilled our request. “I get a lot of people telling me that they want to go out to eat with me, but yours is the first letter I’ve ever received making a request for someone ELSE that they cared about.” He predicted that our relationship would last, (incidentally, I do too. Not because I scored him lunch with a food critic, but because he gives good, good love) which I found endearing. We had a great time that day, and I have loved listening to his reviews, movies, restaurants or otherwise for all the years we’ve lived here. Reggie passed away this morning - now I’m not sure who to trust to tell me if Angelina Jolie turns a good performance or if the Rainbow Asian Grill serves up tasty frog legs. One thing I do know? Nobody rocked a purple suit with more flair, and he will be greatly missed.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Check Out My Sexy Legs
First of all, I kind of feel sorry for you right now because if this post is intriguing to you based on its title, you are about to be disappointed. Also, if you believed for a second that I might be posting a picture of my legs you obviously don't know me. If you did, you would know that "sexy" and "legs" are never used together in a sentence to describe me. "Crazy" and "chick", however? Happens all the time. Instead, today's post is about my recent DIY project.
In short, I wanted some large, pillar candle holders but I didn't want to spend 3 therapy sessions worth of money to do so. A few days ago I was at Kohl's where they had pillar holders on clearance, but even on sale it would have cost me about $140 for three of them. Booooo...Hissss.... Plus, I think I have already paid for the CEO of Kohl's to send all of his kids to college. So then I remembered my obsession with this website, and I read a post a while back that gave me a brilliant idea. Now instead of giving up therapy and sending more kids to college that aren't mine, I found a way to display big candles in style without breaking the bank. Here's what you'll need to do.
In short, I wanted some large, pillar candle holders but I didn't want to spend 3 therapy sessions worth of money to do so. A few days ago I was at Kohl's where they had pillar holders on clearance, but even on sale it would have cost me about $140 for three of them. Booooo...Hissss.... Plus, I think I have already paid for the CEO of Kohl's to send all of his kids to college. So then I remembered my obsession with this website, and I read a post a while back that gave me a brilliant idea. Now instead of giving up therapy and sending more kids to college that aren't mine, I found a way to display big candles in style without breaking the bank. Here's what you'll need to do.
FIRST - Go to your nearest home improvement store and look in the lumber section for table legs. (Not to be confused with "turkey" legs. This is not the Renaissance Festival or Thanksgiving at your Grandma's. Home improvement people. HOME IMPROVEMENT.) Here are the three that I picked out:
SECOND: Turn them over.
See? Things are taking shape already. The biggest one cost me $19.98, the medium was $12.98, and the smallest was $9.98.
THIRD: I bought these toppers at Michael's for 59 cents.
Glue them to the tops (technically bottoms) of your legs and let dry completely.
FOURTH: I broke out some stain that I had leftover from a previous project, and applied it to the legs.
FIFTH: I sprayed a layer of clear spray paint (again, leftover from a previous project), and topped with cheap candles from Wal Mart. Here is the finished product:
Not bad, eh? I think they are awesome. Here's the cost breakdown:
Legs: $43
Toppers: $2
Candles: $5
Stain: FREE
Spray paint: FREE
GRAND TOTAL: $48
Not to mention that my total time invested was less than 2 hours. Except now that I mentioned that, I suppose I can't really say "not to mention". 'Cuz I just did. Why do we say that? Oh well, not the point. The point is, AREN'T THESE AWESOME?!
Monday, August 16, 2010
Tasty Tidbit From Dix - 2009 Installment
This little gem from my Dad arrived in my email inbox sometime around last Christmas. It's pretty self explanatory:
We received a delicious, dark brown, homemade, Panamanian Fruitcake from Lynn's visiting teacher who, as you may have guessed, is Panamanian. It was sitting on our pink, black, and white granite counter top where we sampled it each day a little at a time in order to minimize guilt, extend our tasting pleasure, and not overdue fruitcake intake.
The other day I stopped by, sampled a generous bite, made appropriate noises and noted that my tongue tingled at this tasty tidbit. Had I just not noticed that before? About an hour later Lynn mentioned that she discovered the remains of the fruitcake was covered with ants!!
Lessons learned:I don't know what else to say.
1) Our countertop is excellent camouflage for ants.
2) Eating ants makes your tongue tingle.
3) Ants seemingly have no uncles but like fruitcake.
I'm OK but I just want to walk fast, high five everybody I see, and crawl into cracks! ~ Dad
Friday, August 13, 2010
Tidbits From Dix - 2010 Installment
One of the things I love about my mom is that she is savvy and she keeps up with the times. She's not the kind who shrinks from a challenge, but rather hikes up her big girl panties, squares her shoulders and says, "I pity the fool." Not really. It's my DAD who says, "I pity the fool", but only when watching The A Team reruns. (You probably think I'm kidding.) ((I'm not.)) Another thing I love about my mom is that she entered my ugly photo contest, but only on the condition that I would post a good picture of her after she won. Bad news: Sorry, Mom. You weren't the ugliest. Good news: MOM! YOU WEREN'T THE UGLIEST! It seems only fair that I would post a good picture of her anyway, you know, to keep myself in the will and everything. Check it:
Don't let the corsage fool you - this lady is one cool chick. It's my mother who keeps us all apprised of family happenings by sending multiple emails a week, sustaining a blog, and maintaining her facebook account. Just last week I discovered an old boyfriend of my sister's on facebook, so natually I had to call her and tell her to look him up - which she did, and then called me back moments later to say, "Okay, so MOM is on his friend's list!" Classic.
My dad's name is Dix and he, on the other hand, avoids most computer related tasks. When my parents start their day my mom goes in the office to check email while my Dad makes breakfast. They have a system. It's called, "Holy crap, now that we're retired you are always here. And I am always here. And once upon a time we promised eternity to each other, and at the time I don't think either one of us realized how long that was, so if we're going to keep that promise you should probably start making me breakfast." I know this because Cory has Fridays off, and at first he was like, "So...what's for lunch?" And I was like, "Who are you? And what have you done with that guy who leaves for the day?" Anyway. The point is we don't "hear" as much from my Dad. But every once in a while he chimes in to the family email fray and writes something that cracks me up. For example, my mom recently shot us a message to update us on the cost to replace my Dad's pacemaker (over 50K, in case you were wondering). A few of us have responded back and forth but I woke up this morning to my Dad's annual email contribution regarding the case of the pacemaker:
Don't let the corsage fool you - this lady is one cool chick. It's my mother who keeps us all apprised of family happenings by sending multiple emails a week, sustaining a blog, and maintaining her facebook account. Just last week I discovered an old boyfriend of my sister's on facebook, so natually I had to call her and tell her to look him up - which she did, and then called me back moments later to say, "Okay, so MOM is on his friend's list!" Classic.
My dad's name is Dix and he, on the other hand, avoids most computer related tasks. When my parents start their day my mom goes in the office to check email while my Dad makes breakfast. They have a system. It's called, "Holy crap, now that we're retired you are always here. And I am always here. And once upon a time we promised eternity to each other, and at the time I don't think either one of us realized how long that was, so if we're going to keep that promise you should probably start making me breakfast." I know this because Cory has Fridays off, and at first he was like, "So...what's for lunch?" And I was like, "Who are you? And what have you done with that guy who leaves for the day?" Anyway. The point is we don't "hear" as much from my Dad. But every once in a while he chimes in to the family email fray and writes something that cracks me up. For example, my mom recently shot us a message to update us on the cost to replace my Dad's pacemaker (over 50K, in case you were wondering). A few of us have responded back and forth but I woke up this morning to my Dad's annual email contribution regarding the case of the pacemaker:
I went online and found I could have had the same surgery in India for $5400 and they guaranteed world class quality of the pacemaker...and as a matter of fact...if I buy one today they will send me two for the price of one and include a vegetable chopper and two Shamwows FREE. (I'm holding out to see if they will throw in the boiled egg slicer.) ~DadI've already put in my bid for the extra Shamwow. Stay tuned - the 2009 installment is coming shortly.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
How To Lose A Gut In 10 Days
I got a call a few days ago from someone heading in for the same procedure I endured back in October. She had one question: “Do you have any advice?” I stammered for a moment because I realized that I hadn’t thought about it in quite some time. It’s been a good 5 or 6 months since the effects of my abdominal hysterectomy have been keenly felt and I had to think hard about what I should tell her. Mostly I just kept stammering, but now that I’ve had some time to reflect, I’ve decided to share my pearls of wisdom with the lot of you. Here goes.
* When people ask what surgery you had, be sure to specify “abdominal hysterectomy” and not just “hysterectomy”. They need to know you were sliced open, that you would rather crawl naked over broken glass than try to get up and walk, and that you are deathly afraid of sneezing.
* When I say, “just a hysterectomy” I mean no disrespect. Regular hysterectomies are people too, but abdominal ones are harder. Kind of like I’m sure it was hard for Sandra Bullock to play Leigh Anne Tuohy in The Blind Side, but I bet it’s even harder to be in your 30’s and still known best for your role in Punky Brewster.
* Percocet causes constipation. Take it anyway.
* Metamucil tastes like someone used a PedEgg on their heel, dumped their shavings into your drink and flavored it with a Vitamin C. Drink it anyway.
* Memorize this chant for your hospital stay: “This happens all the time, they’ve seen this before. This happens all the time, they’ve seen this before.” Repeat silently in your head for 4 days.
* When you find yourself back in the ER in the middle of the night due to complications, and the nurse is patting your knee, trying to comfort you while the doctor prepares to treat you and says, “Of all the ER doctors to be here right now, you got the best one to do this – he’s done this at least 9 times,” it’s okay if that doesn’t make you feel better.
* Get my Dad to make you guacamole and my mom to find you the best tapioca pudding.
* One day, when you least expect it, someone will ask you how you’re doing and you’ll be like, “What are you talking about?” and they’ll say, “Remember that one time? When a guy put a mask over your face, told you to count backward from 10, and by the time you got to 9 you were knocked out cold like Lindsay Lohan on a Friday night and then woke up with 18 staples in your stomach and hot flashes?” and you’ll be all, “Riiiiight.”
That’s all folks. I hope you took good notes, because they won’t give you this info during your consult.
* When people ask what surgery you had, be sure to specify “abdominal hysterectomy” and not just “hysterectomy”. They need to know you were sliced open, that you would rather crawl naked over broken glass than try to get up and walk, and that you are deathly afraid of sneezing.
* When I say, “just a hysterectomy” I mean no disrespect. Regular hysterectomies are people too, but abdominal ones are harder. Kind of like I’m sure it was hard for Sandra Bullock to play Leigh Anne Tuohy in The Blind Side, but I bet it’s even harder to be in your 30’s and still known best for your role in Punky Brewster.
* Percocet causes constipation. Take it anyway.
* Metamucil tastes like someone used a PedEgg on their heel, dumped their shavings into your drink and flavored it with a Vitamin C. Drink it anyway.
* Memorize this chant for your hospital stay: “This happens all the time, they’ve seen this before. This happens all the time, they’ve seen this before.” Repeat silently in your head for 4 days.
* When you find yourself back in the ER in the middle of the night due to complications, and the nurse is patting your knee, trying to comfort you while the doctor prepares to treat you and says, “Of all the ER doctors to be here right now, you got the best one to do this – he’s done this at least 9 times,” it’s okay if that doesn’t make you feel better.
* Get my Dad to make you guacamole and my mom to find you the best tapioca pudding.
* One day, when you least expect it, someone will ask you how you’re doing and you’ll be like, “What are you talking about?” and they’ll say, “Remember that one time? When a guy put a mask over your face, told you to count backward from 10, and by the time you got to 9 you were knocked out cold like Lindsay Lohan on a Friday night and then woke up with 18 staples in your stomach and hot flashes?” and you’ll be all, “Riiiiight.”
That’s all folks. I hope you took good notes, because they won’t give you this info during your consult.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Pick Up A Phone, Save A Gnome
While watching the news the other night I happened upon this story, and thought I would wet my pants. I recorded it just for your viewing enjoyment (hence the poor quality). It's not as good as "Wiener Poopie", but it's right up there.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Having Been Born Of Goodly Parents...?
Last Sunday one of my co-conspirators paid me a lovely compliment. She said I was, “such a good mother”. It was very sweet and I knew she meant it, but I also knew she wasn’t there for the debacle of ’04 (or ’05, ’06, or ’07). I knew she wasn’t there the day my toilet was flooding all over my BRAND NEW hardwood floors and I said a bad word, and then I said it over and over again as I sloshed through the river heading from my bathroom to my basement to shut off the water, and then my 2 year-old repeated The Bad Word from the top of the stairs as she stared down at my frazzled form. She wasn’t there when I told a whining 4-year-old to “Shut. Up.” and then the next day lectured to him about how “We don’t say ‘shut up’.” And she wasn’t there when we invented The Soda Game.
A couple of years ago we had a coveted bottle of soda in our refrigerator. Not your average can of sugary beverage, this was the kind you paid more for, that only came in boxes of 4 and not 12. Everyone loved it, and so everyone wanted that last bottle. Cory decided we would share it…through games of chance. He got out a small glass and some dice, poured a conservative portion of the drink into the cup and explained, “Whoever rolls the highest number gets what’s in the cup.” The winner of that round would decide the rules for the next round until we finished the bottle. Thus, The Soda Game was born. Now, we each have our own shot glasses and our repertoire has evolved from dice to other games as well. It wasn’t until shortly after that first night that it occurred to me, “Holy crap. We just taught our kids how to live in a frat house.” We’re hoping they go to a church school and stick with soda.
We played this game the other night with a 6 pack of Jones pure cane (I highly recommend the Crème Soda and the Berry Lemonade) but we had one lone, remaining bottle of Green Apple on the door. Drew had some friends over and they all wanted some, so Drew piped up, “Hey! Let’s play the soda game!” To which his friends inquired, “What’s the soda game?” Drew went over to the cupboard and reached for the high shelf, “Well to start off, you’re each going to need your own shot glass.”
Have mercy. The only Mormon kid on the block is teaching drinking games he learned FROM HIS PARENTS. Stay tuned next week when I reveal our family picture on the cover of The Ensign.
A couple of years ago we had a coveted bottle of soda in our refrigerator. Not your average can of sugary beverage, this was the kind you paid more for, that only came in boxes of 4 and not 12. Everyone loved it, and so everyone wanted that last bottle. Cory decided we would share it…through games of chance. He got out a small glass and some dice, poured a conservative portion of the drink into the cup and explained, “Whoever rolls the highest number gets what’s in the cup.” The winner of that round would decide the rules for the next round until we finished the bottle. Thus, The Soda Game was born. Now, we each have our own shot glasses and our repertoire has evolved from dice to other games as well. It wasn’t until shortly after that first night that it occurred to me, “Holy crap. We just taught our kids how to live in a frat house.” We’re hoping they go to a church school and stick with soda.
We played this game the other night with a 6 pack of Jones pure cane (I highly recommend the Crème Soda and the Berry Lemonade) but we had one lone, remaining bottle of Green Apple on the door. Drew had some friends over and they all wanted some, so Drew piped up, “Hey! Let’s play the soda game!” To which his friends inquired, “What’s the soda game?” Drew went over to the cupboard and reached for the high shelf, “Well to start off, you’re each going to need your own shot glass.”
Have mercy. The only Mormon kid on the block is teaching drinking games he learned FROM HIS PARENTS. Stay tuned next week when I reveal our family picture on the cover of The Ensign.
Monday, August 2, 2010
A Nice Day For A White Wedding
I love looking at wedding pictures. It doesn’t matter whose they are, unless they are not people then I’m definitely not interested. You know what else? I don’t think people getting married who are not people are interested either. Take these two for example:
Have I mentioned that I can read animals’ minds? I bet you didn’t know that about me - I try to keep that kind of information on the down low because I don’t want to freak people out. It’s enough that I bake bread, go to church for three hours on Sunday and tell my kids that we shouldn’t say “freakin’”. And then I turn around and say dammit. Seriously though, I know what these cats are thinking. The one on the left: “I don’t even like Harry Potter OR Charlie Chaplin.” The one on the right just found out that her betrothed requested “Stray Cat Strut” for their first dance. Looks like someone just had their first cat fight.
These two are quite a lovely pair. This is a special case because not only can I read their minds, but I can ascertain their life history. The boy dog: Never had much luck with women. Passed dog school by a thin margin, boasting mediocre scores in digging holes and catching frisbees - higher test results may have been possible if not for his tendency to become easily distracted by squirrels. Completely unaware of his carelessness, but easily forgiven for smiling a lot. Stoked to be getting married. The girl dog: Was teased by a chihuahua once for being chubby. She took him down and nobody ever bothered her again, thus commencing her life of crime. Was headed down a shady path until she was recruited by a Doberman for his dog rugby team where she found her niche and made her peace. That's where these two met - the boy dog was her waterboy. His proposal: "It's a dog eat dog world and I'm wearing milk bone underwear. Wanna get a matching pair? For as long as we both shall live?" She said, "What color?" He said, "Black." She said, "Okay." And that's when he snuck in his request that she wear a little pink for the wedding. I think we can see how she feels about that. Now they're standing in their reception line; the boy dog sees the line dwindling down and is excited to start the honeymoon, and the girl just started her period. She hasn't told him yet. Still, something tells me these two will be quite happy together. (Don't try to tell me you don't see it.)
I originally started this post intending to talk about the Clinton wedding over the weekend, now I don't really want to go into it. I guess it's just as well - I suppose there's enough similarities to call it good.
Have I mentioned that I can read animals’ minds? I bet you didn’t know that about me - I try to keep that kind of information on the down low because I don’t want to freak people out. It’s enough that I bake bread, go to church for three hours on Sunday and tell my kids that we shouldn’t say “freakin’”. And then I turn around and say dammit. Seriously though, I know what these cats are thinking. The one on the left: “I don’t even like Harry Potter OR Charlie Chaplin.” The one on the right just found out that her betrothed requested “Stray Cat Strut” for their first dance. Looks like someone just had their first cat fight.
These two are quite a lovely pair. This is a special case because not only can I read their minds, but I can ascertain their life history. The boy dog: Never had much luck with women. Passed dog school by a thin margin, boasting mediocre scores in digging holes and catching frisbees - higher test results may have been possible if not for his tendency to become easily distracted by squirrels. Completely unaware of his carelessness, but easily forgiven for smiling a lot. Stoked to be getting married. The girl dog: Was teased by a chihuahua once for being chubby. She took him down and nobody ever bothered her again, thus commencing her life of crime. Was headed down a shady path until she was recruited by a Doberman for his dog rugby team where she found her niche and made her peace. That's where these two met - the boy dog was her waterboy. His proposal: "It's a dog eat dog world and I'm wearing milk bone underwear. Wanna get a matching pair? For as long as we both shall live?" She said, "What color?" He said, "Black." She said, "Okay." And that's when he snuck in his request that she wear a little pink for the wedding. I think we can see how she feels about that. Now they're standing in their reception line; the boy dog sees the line dwindling down and is excited to start the honeymoon, and the girl just started her period. She hasn't told him yet. Still, something tells me these two will be quite happy together. (Don't try to tell me you don't see it.)
I originally started this post intending to talk about the Clinton wedding over the weekend, now I don't really want to go into it. I guess it's just as well - I suppose there's enough similarities to call it good.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)