Bad patient

There's never a good time for a panic attack.

Sitting at my desk at the office typing a dictation wasn't any better or worse than any other time. I went from clickety-click-click to holy shit, why can't I catch my breath? And why does my arm hurt?

I tried deep breathing but OMG I CAN'T BREATHE, MUCH LESS DEEP BREATHE.  I rubbed my arm, took a gulp of water. The old tricks weren't working. I hadn't had a doozy like this since 1988 when I actually had to leave a They Might Be Giants concert, in a small venue no less, because I felt like my chest was going to explode.

I called Ginger who works across the lobby.  "Do you have any aspirin?"

Her gaze shifted from her screen to me. "What's going on?"

"It's nothing."

She didn't believe me.

After half an hour and much jackassery on my part about medical insurance, we were in her car which was clamoring for gasoline and gliding through one of the sketchier neighborhoods of Cincinnati.  Locals will know it as Over the Rhine or OTR.

Have you ever tried to buy gas in a rough neighborhood? Society and commercial enterprises do not cut those folks a break.

The line was too long and Ginger didn't want me to escape from the car and run pell mell through the cracked streets back to the office so we drove on.

All the while I was telling her I was fine, take me back to the office, it's nothing.

"And what happens when you have a heart attack at the wheel, crash your car, kill three people including yourself?" I love an optimist, don't you?

And there I was with a wristband, the dreaded hospital gown, a bruised arm (the fabulous nurse thought I was joking about my veins), and 3 plus hours to kill with one of the best friends a panicked chick could hope for.

Thankfully it was nothing, but the ER doctor was clear - women should not ignore their symptoms. Heart attacks in women mimic the symptoms of an ordinary (ha!) panic attack. It's always better to be safe than sorry. Ginger was right to force me to go.

If only we'd found the surgical masks.

You give me a reason to live

I spent the day trying out my medical benefits. I'm pleased to report they work. In fact, everyone should have it this good. No really. I mean it.

First there was the flu shot. Then the nice nurse came in and gave me a paper gown and a sheet and asked me if I knew what to do with them. I looked up from the novel I'm reading and nodded but refrained from something like I've been in more stirrups than John Wayne. She's a new nurse. Best she gets me in small doses.

I hummed You Can Leave Your Hat On and stripped down to my socks.The perennial question - leave them on or not? The room was chilly, but I'd gone to the trouble of painting my toenails to match my fingernails. Some decisions are so difficult.

I hummed You Can Leave Your Socks On while I tried to tug the paper gown into some semblance of a garment that didn't show more skin than was medically necessary. I sat on the table and went back to reading the Agatha Christie novel I'm desperate to finish because I cannot figure out who did it.

I didn't get very far because I become fascinated with the size of the paper gown's shoulders. I looked like a Shogun Warrior. I was in the middle of taking a photo of myself  when cute Doctor Jayson knocked on the door. I tossed my phone into my purse and tried to act cool.

We chatted, as per usual, before getting down to business. Right before feeling me up, he noted how pretty my fingernails looked. Damn it. I'd kept my socks on so he'd miss the joy of seeing my sexy toes.

I told him about being published (he's been very encouraging of my writing endeavors over the years) and, unlike my mother who responded to news of the publication with "well, (pause) how's the weather down there, he congratulated me. He asked if I was still working on my novel and I groused that it's moldering on a hard drive. As it should be. It's crap.

Tell me again what it's about?

I did and that led to our discussion of WWII while he did what he had to do and I stared at the ceiling. I've had some interesting interactions in my time, but that is the first time I've talked of snipers and Omaha Beach while someone is looking at my cervix.

Once that bit of fun was over, I was shot full of tetanus and sent on my way with a prescription for happy pills and an appetite suppressant. After a stop in to submit to the phlebotomists aka non-sparkly vampires, I strolled across the hall where I was instructed to strip to the waist, rid myself of any trace of deodorant and powder and don a cape.

From Shogun Warrior to braless super hero. Who cared if I ever finished reading that Poirot?

I waited in a little room with another caped crusader and fiddled with my phone. It's a little cold in here isn't it? she had a lovely southern drawl. Her name was called and I was alone again with Hercule. A few pages later, I was invited into the room housing the breast press. The very patient technician helped me to pose, contorting myself so that my knockers could be mashed with the utmost efficiency.

Okay, hold your breath......don't move.

I returned home with my nipple shields still in place. You never know when those things might come in handy.

Another year, another chance to prevent health problems. And if I have any sense at all, I'll be aware that I'm lucky to have the medical insurance coverage to do this. Not everyone is so fortunate.

Shaken and stirred

Wobbly. In between. Ookie. Like the time I took two doses of Dramamine instead of one. Hungover. Tingly in the head, my brain loose in my skull.

For reasons beyond my control, there was a two-day gap where I didn't take my anti-depressants or my appetite suppressant.

Not that one thing has anything to do with the other.

I lay in bed and felt I was melting into the mattress. It was like being comfortable, but it didn't feel right. It's hard to explain. Sleep seized me in its grip and a dream happened.

I was standing next to a wall having a conversation with someone unknown and then a hand was over my face and I was struggling to breathe. I woke up with a start. MathMan asked me what was wrong.

Bad dream.

I was drifting again even as my heart pounded.

Another dream. Nothingness then water closed over my head. Someone held me under water. I thrashed about, struggled to free myself. I wanted to break the surface, but couldn't.

Awake again. - What is wrong with you? - Another bad dream. Was I flailing around? - No. But you look sweaty.

My will to live is alive and kicking.

I was afraid to fall asleep. I fought it, but soon enough I was in another dream. The kind that seems to last a long time, fades into the next and the next and the next. Not a nightmare, thank goodness.

A new place to live. A rental in a mixed neighborhood. A house dead center of Gated Community meets The Projects. Nice neighbors, a kitchen with a tremendous amount of storage space. Commercial areas distributed around the neighborhood with shops, bars and restaurants. Elevators taking residents and the public up and down between the residential area and the commercial areas.

A cameo appearance by a past lover. A friend from high school. Washington Post columnist Jonathan Capehart wearing a bowtie and sitting a couple of tables away. He looks over and smiles. Don't I know you?  Yes. I'm friends with you on Facebook. A fan.

We make a date to visit a gay bar down the block. I hope you'll wear that bowtie.

The high school friend wants to show me something. A new iPhone app that shows you how many times a person looks at you. She wants to tell me how many times my old lover has looked at her over the course of the evening. Over 300 times. I am not surprised. He never stops looking.

All day yesterday, I waited for the dream details to fade. They lingered, littered my mind. I felt the occasional zap of electricity course through me. Felt faint a couple of times. Craved a  nap.

I picked up my prescriptions and took the anti-depressant before bed. I remember no dreams from last night.

I can't wait to reverse the process and get off these pills. What are they doing to my brain chemistry?

Not that one thing has anything to do with the other.

What's your Bunsen Burner?

Room Service

I call this Make Your Own Vacation

Taking a break to sit in my lawn chair and read that pile of books and Harpers magazines that keeps toppling over and getting underfoot.  It's so hot and buggy out that I've moved the lawn chair to my bedroom.  Luckily, it works with the decor.  Lately, I can't go outside without an encounter with aggressive stinging things.

Before I go, I want to remind you to check out my sidebar.  There's Lola's contest (click the sexy bunny) and lots of great stuff on the blogroll.

Also, a special wish for a safe and wonderful move to susan who has recently retired and will be leaving the Pacific Northwest to go to her new home in Nova Scotia.  That's a lot of change and I can't wait to see what art and stories come from it.

Thanks for the supportive and encouraging comments about the weight gain and IUD.  I called to make an appointment to have the IUD removed and was informed that it would take up to a week to check my insurance benefits.  After that, they'd make an appointment for the simple procedure.  Good thing we don't have that vile socialized medicine.  While I wait a week just to be able to make an appointment because the private bureaucrats have to decide if I'm "approved" or not, I noticed on one of the Mirena message boards that the posting Brits would be on in the morning writing about their symptoms and their decision to go through with the removal and then they'd be back later the same day to about their appointment scheduled in the next day or two to have their IUD removed.  Oh yes, our system is superior.

While I wait for word from the doctor's office, I suggested to MathMan that we do a DIY.  His miner's hat with the light on top (don't ask), some clamps and a pair of needle nose pliers from his tool box and we're all set, right?  Sadly, he declined.  I don't know what he's worried about.  It's not his birth canal.

Oh, BTW, Que.  I mentioned to him how you'd busted me on the sex drive ruse.  You were right.  He knew he was being taken for a ride. Metaphorically.  He responded with a choice one-liner.

"Who am I to get in the way of you and your uterus?"

Indeed.  Tell that to the insurance company.

Have a great weekend, lovers.

Love this guy's lyrics.

Will Be Seeking Other Protection

My fat and I have not become friends.  Even after all this time, I cannot warm to it.  In fact, I recently suggested to this spare 4x4 tire around my middle that I'd like to test that whole absence makes the heart grow fonder theory.

The stubborn fat did not take the hint.

I spend time wavering between the knowledge that I've come by this chunkification honestly and cursing it as I try and try and try again to delete it from my life.

First - the reasons for it, as repeated to myself:  Listen, it's been a rough couple of years.  Job loss, moving, rape, an affair, a near-miss divorce, long commutes, the oldest child leaving the nest, financial difficulties, a bankruptcy, loss of a house and car to the repo men.  So you stress ate your way through it?  Big deal. 

It's all excuses, I respond to myself.  You are fat because you eat too much and don't move enough, you big, fat baby.  Seriously, who do you think you're fooling?  I've seen you eat ice cream.  It's not pretty.

So then I try all the formerly effective methods.  A few years ago, these things worked for me.  I have photographic evidence.

Starvation, speed from a certified dealer, exercise, Body for Life, The Belly Fat Cure, sensible eating of vegetables, fruits, lean meats and whole grains, limiting my sugar intake.  Low carb.  Low calorie.  The beer diet.  The wine and cheese diet.  The oh what the hell, it doesn't matter as long as I run five miles a day and lift weights regime.

My weight resembles the flag tied to the middle of a tug-of-war rope.  An inch this way, an inch that.  And my fat ass?  Usually ends up in the mud in the middle.

I despaired, but didn't give up.  I can feel my muscles shaping up in my legs, my upper arms.  My abs, however, are mush.  Even on days when I nearly starve myself of everything but olives and vodka, I feel bloated.  I take off a few pounds and they come back again and what I'm doing physically and what I'm consuming doesn't seem to matter much.

You're getting old.  All those years of living on speed have wrecked your thyroid or your metabolism.  You are doomed to a life as a fatty.  Go buy some caftans, make that your signature look, pop a colorful turban on your head and move on.  There's a new bakery in town, you know.  My internal conversations become more deadly, more resigned and self-shaming.

Then someone sent me an email suggesting that my IUD might be causing some of my weight and depression issues.  My Mirena IUD has hormones in it, you see.  At first I dismissed the idea because this is the second Mirena I've had.  The first one lasted five years and, although I battled my weight then, too, I simply chalked that up to the stress eating from job change, a move to Georgia, more money problems and my indomitable sweet tooth.  What depressions and mood swings I experienced, I assumed they were the result of those life issues, as well.  I'd always bore a sweet tooth.  It was simply more.  Law of diminishing returns or addiction, you know what I'm talking about.  It took more sugar to get that same feeling of satisfaction.  Before the guilt set in, of course.

What didn't occur to me was the fact that all that stress eating, the cravings, mood swings and depression might be exacerbated by hormones in the IUD.

Then I googled Mirena weight gain and found forums and message boards populated with messages from lots of women experiencing the exact same symptoms I've been having.

Today I'm calling my ob-gyn to have this thing yanked.  I realize that after that, I'll have to deal with the fact that if I remain fat and depressed, it's my own damn fault and will finally have to go in for that lobotomy/liposuction treatment at the boutique medical facility/spa.  I'm prepared for the worst.

Mind you, contraception is not something to be taken lightly.  I knew I'd have to discuss this with MathMan.  I told him what I'd found out - how other women had experienced the weight gain, the mood swings and cravings, the bloated feeling, the boob rash and acne.  I told him what I planned to do.  He listened in his typical fashion - supportive with a hint of skepticism.  I'm pretty used to that.

"Oh and hey, the info I've found suggests that after a few weeks without this thing, I'll get my sex drive back."

I love it when he jumps up and clicks his heels like that.

And In the End He'll Always Be A Numbers Guy

Reality gained another toehold here in our semi-safe haven of a home.  I think that makes six now.  Six toeholds, I mean.  I believe that you get handle reality any way you damn well please.  So in my imagination, reality is required to have all ten toes and its prehensile tail wrapped firmly around the branch of your life and be hanging upside like a sleeping possum before you have to accept it.

And I don't care what Reality thinks. This isn't Reality's blog.

Yesterday, MathMan learned that, despite his best efforts to reduce and manage via diet and exercise, his cholesterol numbers have remained stubbornly high.  He is now a card-carrying member of the Zocor Club.

He is ever so pissed about it.

Last year, during his annual check up, his doctor used the dreaded phrase that begins with the words medically and technically and ends with --ese.  While the doctor meant well and, like lots of bad people of yore, was merely doing his job, this information and the specific use of that phrase cut MathMan deeply.

In response, he became an exercise machine.  He took up running and weight training.  He took on a greenish tinge from eating all those salads.  He's consumed enough steel cut oats to cleanse the Gulf.  Lots of times, when I accuse of him of wasting time on Facebook, he's actually poring over information on realage.com.

The overall results were spectacular.  He shed twenty pounds, ran a (something)K race and now has what is commonly-referred to around here as Lisa-like blood pressure.  See, I was like a vampire before being a vampire became cool.  I have the kind of numbers that spur confused doctors to retake my blood pressure themselves.  The midwife who delivered the kids used to hold a mirror under my nose to ensure I was breathing.  She didn't care that she couldn't see my reflection.  She just wanted to see that silvery glass fog!

So MathMan has some seriously positive items in the "win" column.  I'm incredibly proud of him.  He looks better, feels better and he's staved off some of the worst aspects of heredity - high blood pressure and heart disease.  But genetically, he's been unable to beat the high cholesterol bugaboo.

He hasn't said much about the one thing I know he's thinking even if he doesn't say.  You don't live with a person for 537 years without gaining a little insight. Or, if you do, shame on you.  Here's a karate chop for being daft and self-involved.

The truth is, MathMan's parents - both of them - passed away before the age of sixty.  His father died of a freak aneurysm while he was being hospitalized for something else having to do with a series of heart attacks he had starting in, I believe, his late thirties.  Born in the mid-twenties, he'd suffered damage to his heart during a childhood bout of Scarlet Fever.

We don't know what killed MathMan's mother because there was no autopsy performed, but she died in her sleep one night after feeling ill.  There are still bad feelings, I think, about the fact that he doesn't know what ultimately killed her.  She was both an alcoholic and borderline diabetic.  Looking back at the photos taken between 1988 when we married and 1992 when she died, it's clear that she was ill.  She lost of a lot of weight and her hair had lost its sheen.  Sadly, it was so gradual, she was so stubborn, already a widow and her whole family was pretty wrapped up in their own lives.  No one noticed until it was too late.

So I don't think any of this is far from his mind now that MathMan has been given the word - some things can't be dealt with through diet and exercise.  As we get on, we are going to have to make little concessions to Big Pharma.

Damn it.

Last evening we made a foray into the grocery store.  It took us four and a half hours because MathMan was more like Rain Man.  He stopped and pulled random things off the shelves and read their nutritional content.  Oreos, potato chips, frozen Skyline Chili, Krispy Kreme Donuts, butter.

He was definitely reassuring himself that by forgoing most of those items, he'd been doing the right thing.  Yes indeed, they did have very high numbers.  Four hours in, I finally lost my patience.

"Honey, let's go.  You don't even eat Scrapple."

"I know, but look at the cholesterol count.  Holy shit."

Like that.  And then we forgot the stupid cat food on top it.

So now every decision I make about food prep is fraught with suspicion.  She's serving cheeseburgers and french fries.  She's trying to kill me!   She's making meat loaf!  She's trying to kill me!  She brought home some ice cream from the store.  She's trying to kill me!

It's more likely that I'm trying to kill me, but right now his perspective is a little skewed.

Those of you who know me on Facebook might have seen that I'm trying to convince him that we need to drink more red wine, not less.  He just rattles his long list of Things You Need to Know About This Medication at me and shakes his head.

"Besides.  I'm not going to enable your alcoholism like my father did with my mother's."

Oh.  I see how it is now. 

Time for me to go fry some bacon.....

This Ain't No Disco. This Ain't No Debate.

Some things do not require debate.
To provide the opposite of the truth is to state a lie.
A lie does not deserve the same respect as the truth.
Here are some things I will not debate:
The grass is typically green.
The sky is typically blue.
Our health care system in this nation is a mess.
Americans need health care reform now.

A long time ago, in a land, far, far away.....okay, it was Chicagoland, but when you live in the middle of nowhere Georgia, Chicagoland does seem far, far away, I worked for a little membership organization called the American Association of Retired Persons. You might know them as AARP, but please don't call the arp.

Now, I had the good fortune to have worked there in the salad days of deeeee-centralization, staffing the federal legislative department, serving as field secretary for the Regional Representative. A jolly fellow who often slept away his afternoons, snoring so loudly that I had to close his office door to cover his large ass. I liked him and wanted him to keep his job.

Anyway, back then in some insignificant year of, oh say 1993, when this nation was previously considering, and alternatively scoffing at, health care reform, AARP became embroiled in the discussion when there appeared to be some sort of endorsement of what was then called "The Clinton Health Plan." And, no, that plan did not include therapeutic blow jobs, no matter what Newt Gingrich tries to say now, as he performs his usual historical revisionism. What a douchebag Newt is.

But I digress.

Anyway - the phones at the Midwest Regional Office of AARP lit up with irate members who felt that the plan sucked ass (some even used that phrase, I'm sure of it) or who were seriously ticked off that AARP, a non-partisan organization, would endorse what they believed to be a partisan plan. (For those not in the know - a partisan plan means the other side of the political spectrum. When it's your own side - it's a good plan.)

I was lucky enough to field some of the calls. Lucky can be such a subjective term, you know?

One call went something like this. Watch for the irony, okay?

The caller, an angry female in her 80s: "Blah, blah, blah!!!! AND I don't think the gubmint should be involved in health care!" (she was from Southern Ohio or Indiana and actually used the word gubmint.)

A Much-Younger, More Insolent Me: So then you want to stop receiving Medicare?
The caller, really displeased with that question: Uh. NO. It's not the same thing!

Me: Um, yeah, it is. Medicare is a government-administered health insurance program.

My colleague, the one who used to narrate her whole fucking day, turned and gaped at me. Then she actually laughed out loud, started holding her sides, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes and finished by falling out of her chair and onto the floor where she rolled around laughing until her ass fell off.

The point is - well, people are really stupid when it comes to this issue and I'm fucking tired of it. Yep. Fucking tired of it. Like when my kids ask me fifty different ways if they can set fire to something or order things online. Neither side is going to be happy until they win.

Last night, I posted on my Facebook about this because I am soooo tired of this "conversation." It's ridiculous. Health care is a human rights issue. I asked the question: If you weren't in a position of having insurance right now - would you oppose reform? Because I honestly do believe that it's easy to oppose change when you are comfortable. One of my commenters there linked to this article that demonstrates, that even when you are insured, you are not guaranteed coverage. The insurance companies hold all the cards.

Well, here's the thing I say to those opposed:

We've heard your side and we've tried it your way. For years. The insurance companies get rich. People die waiting for health care. Or go broke. And bankrupt. Mine and Mathman's first money troubles started as a result of a huge dental bill. I myself, can't do anything that requires quick movements like running, throwing or jumping because when I do, I pee myself because carrying and birthing three babies wrecked me. Even with our insurance, I cannot afford the co-pay for the surgery to get my pee place fixed. Not life threatening, but damned inconvenient and annoying. I mean, what if I needed to run for my life? It's bad enough that I run like a girl, but a girl with wet drawers? Come on now! You've heard me refer to the sneeze and squeeze, yes?

TMI? Well, this is a health care post. You'll live.

There is no more need to debate this issue another second because the opposed will not be convinced. So let's do this - let's try something new and radical like universal, single-payer health care. If in three years, people hate it, then they can go back to the mess we have now.

My guess is that we'll be happy enough with the new and radical, but we're going to have to drag some Americans' asses along. That's how it always is, you know. I mean, just ask MathMan. Back in 1987, when he tried to get me to use his brand, spanking-new hotrod of a Tandy 1000 personal computer to write a paper for some college class, I looked him dead in the eye and uttered these words...."No thanks, I'll stick with the typewriter."

Oh, Stick It in Your Ear

My father is not one to try new things. The man still wears the same bottle green lensed safety sunglasses he wore in 1967. They might not be the same pair, but they are the same kind.

Recently when we were talking on the phone, somewhere between the weather report and an update on who he's no longer speaking to, he gave me his health report. His ear was bothering him. Equilibrium screwy, nauseous, muffled hearing.

Thrilled for a reason to pull the plastic stethoscope out of the Sesame Street doctor's kit and put it around my neck smartly, I asked him to repeat his symptoms. He was equally thrilled to comply and in even greater detail.

I nodded my head sagely, pretending to take notes, but really I was just filling in the circles on the page in my calendar. When he finished, I inhaled before announcing my diagnosis. "Sounds like you have a build up of excess ear wax, Dad. Have you seen the doctor?"

He said he was going to see an Ear, Nose and Throat specialist. I snorted and said that seemed over the top. "Just get some Debrox or go to your family doctor. Just because you have Medicare doesn't mean you have to take advantage of expensive specialists. Start simple. Don't you know you're part of the problem with your fancy federally-funded health care?" I scolded him.

We discussed treatment options. I was pushing the idea of ear candling because the idea of my dad trying some New Agey thing in a partially lit room, a bubbling fountain in the corner and the smell of patchouli in the air, made me giggle.

I asked him if he had any questions, but I didn't hear his answer because I was too busy squeezing the rubber bulb on the Oscar the Grouch blood pressure monitor I had strapped around my thumb. When he paused, I made a hmmmm sound, verified his address and told him to watch his mail for my bill. I think I heard him tell me to either submit it to Medicare or shove it just as I was hanging up the phone.

When we visited Indiana Darling Sis asked if Dad had given me the Ear Update. "Not yet," I responded. "Well, when he does, he's going to want to give you a detailed description of what came out of his ears," she said and made some gagging noises.

Darling Sis was right. Early into our Sunday visit, Dad pulled me aside, opening with "You remember how I told you about my ear bothering me?" I told him that I did and followed up quickly, asking if he'd received my invoice and when could I expect payment for my brilliant diagnosis? He ignored me and continued to explain how the doctor syringed his ear with some kind of solution and, just as Darling Sis predicted, provided a list of effluvium elements that were extracted from his ear. He was especially excited to note that an old Buffalo Nickel he'd lost when he was eleven was part of the disgusting, but fascinating mix of wax, lint, and......well, I'll just stop right there because I haven't been feeling so hot myself the last few days.

I continued to nod and smile and wish for a quick death as Dad completed his list, finishing with a skate key from the pair of skates he got for his fourteenth birthday. "I always blamed my brother Virgil for losing that key. He must have shoved it in my ear when I was sleeping," he laughed at his own joke.

I excused myself and walked away, digging in my own ear with my fingernail because now my ears itched!

Late last week, I started having my own ear issues My right ear developed the crackles. You know that sound when you get water in your ear? That. It was popping, too, and my hearing is a bit muffled.

Saturday night MathMan put some ear drops in my ear to soften the wax. We've used this before with The Royal Pains and it's worked just fine. Put the drops in, lie on your side to keep them in for five minutes or so and then let the stuff drain. And use the general rule of thumb - don't put anything bigger than your elbow in your ear. So far, so good.

This morning I could feel something in there and without thinking, reached for a QTip. After pulling out a satisfying amount of wax (oh, get over it - you know exactly what I mean), I got greedy, grasped a clean swab and proceeded to go in for whatever was left.

Except, it eluded me and the QTip lodged it back into my ear. My head instantly plugged up with muffled hearing, a bit of dizziness. I'd just victimized myself with a cotton swab and smug exhuberance.

In a desperate attempt to rectify the situation, I implored MathMan to put the drops in my ear again. He did. Except instead of having the luxury of lying on my side watching Dr. Who like I did on Saturday night, I had to stuff a cotton ball in my ear and carry on with applying my makeup and drying my hair because I had to get to the office. This cotton block was not so effective, however, and it looked ridiculous as I drove down I75.

So I've spent all day feeling out of sorts, alternating between nausea and tears, with my ear plugged just enough to be really annoying. I don't know which was worse - having my boss walk into my office just as I was tilted over the arm of my desk chair air-banging my head like one does as they stand dripping wet next to a swimming pool, trying to get water out of their ear or when he walked in to see me deep throating a a rolled up piece of lettuce stuffed full of egg salad.

"Now that's attractive," he deadpanned.

"The stuff wet dreams are made of," I shot back. I'd walked into walls twice already this morning. I was no mood to censor myself. The only thing that would have made that scene better was if I were still sporting the cotton ball in my right ear.

He took pity on me and suggested I try using a bulb syringe and a solution of vinegar and water to see if that would help. He'd recently had some ear pain from swimmers ear and that did the trick for him.

When I got home, I checked the instructions on the ear wax softening solution. Sure enough, it tells you to flush the ear with lukewarm water after applying the drops twice a day for three to five days. However, I am not a patient woman and I am not enjoying this feeling of being off-balance and the muffled hearing is maddening. MathMan and I searched the house to see if we still had any bulb syringes from when the kids were babies. Efficient clutter clearer that I am, we both knew it was futile.

Finally, we gave up. I'll buy a bulb syringe so I can, hopefully, finish this job of wax eradication. In the meantime, I will try not to lash out at everyone, throw up, or cave in to my worst instincts and stick something small and pointy in my ear.

Just to make sure that we closed the circle on this thing, I called Dad to tell him that I was now suffering from the same plugged ear issues that had plagued him for ages or at least since 1982 because it was right around then that The Big R stopped whispering her subversive instructions to hide credit card bills in her undie drawer because she figured out that he didn't hear her when she was talking directly to him most of the time anyway.

When Dad answered the phone, I let him go through the weather and crop reports and his own health update before launching into my own tale of aural woe. He was only half-listening. I can tell. And now that we know he's not really hard of hearing, he can't get away with that rudeness so easily.

"Are you messing around with that Holly Hobby doctor's kit I had when I was kid?" I accused.

He hesitated. He knew he was busted. "No. Well, not the Holly Hobby one. This one is an old Fischer Price one."

"Uh huh and?"

"And what?" he was getting a wee bit huffy with me now.

"Did you hear what I said? We're going to try to perform the procedure at home before we go running to the doctor like some people who are on the public dole do," I said a bit too loudly.

He snorted. "You don't have to shout," he huffed some more. "I'm not deef." He has always pronounced it that way - "deef."

"Well, what do you think of that?" I continued, "I'm going to flush out my ear with vinegar and water at home."

I was getting impatient now. I could hear something knocking against the telephone. "Stethoscope?" I asked flatly.

"No, the thing you use to pretend to look in the ears and down the throat. I thought since you were fussing about your ears....."

I cut him off. "Dad, I'm going to douche my ear with vinegar and water." I was sure he wasn't listening.

"Oh, you're just being gross. I'm hanging up now."

And like that he was gone. That's fine, you know. I'll just mail him 8 x 10 glossies of what comes out of my ear, along with the 30 days past due invoice for my diagnosis and recommendations.

Come to think of it, I wonder if I'll find that seafoam green Barbie shoe that went missing in 1974...........

A Sudden Fondness for Sticky Things

Yes, that's me doing the look up while wearing the paper gown. What else do you expect me to do while I'm waiting for the doctor to come in and service me?

I'm a lying liar. I told a big fib on Pissed in NYC's blog the other day. With complete insouciance, I announced that I no longer required to have annual mammograms. Turns out, I was talking out of my rear end. I don't know where I got the idea that I didn't need an annual Mash for Good Health, but I was wrong.

Let me back up. I had my annual wellness check with cute Dr. Jason this morning We began with a review of my medical record.

"So I see that you're still using meth and coke," he noted as he gazed at his computer's screen.

"Oh, no, change that. I've dropped cocaine and added an occasional LSD tab," I corrected him. "Coke doesn't mix well with my speed."

"Noted."

A few minutes later, he was feeling me up on the table while we discussed bra fittings. (Long story.) Then there I was, all smug while cute Dr. Jason was doing his thing under the sheet, and I asked how many years between mammograms for me now. He reacted with some measure of surprise.

"You need one every year, Silly," he laughed.

"Well, I'll be," I said to myself as I stared at the air duct over my head. I really thought I was off the annual cycle. Oh well, I thought with a shrug and then wondered if the good doctor could just finish me off while he was down there doing whatever he was doing with his hand.

A few minutes later, Dr. Jason handed me a sheet of paper and instructed me to go to the first floor to have my blood drawn and then mosey on across the hall to the imaging center for my mammogram.

I tipped him appropriately and bade him adieu until next time.

The imaging center scheduled an appointment for me later in the day with the added bonus that it would be my favorite technician(? what's the proper term here?) Em performing the procedure. She is the same professional who performed last year's mammogram.

As she prepped me, Em explained the new digital technology. Then she applied the little nipple protector stickies to the ends of my nips. I couldn't help myself. I told her how I smuggled out the ones she applied last year so that I could take them home where I stuck them to the F and J on my keyboard. That served as an effective kid repellent.

Em laughed at that and we discussed how entertaining it might be to learn what other women do with those little sticky things. I told her about how I blogged about the stickers last year.

The mammogram didn't take long at all. I thanked Em and went into the little room to get dressed. I put my bra on without removing the stickers. As I left, Em offered me a couple of extra nipple stickers.

"You're keeping the others, too, aren't you?" she asked.

I nodded. "I'm wearing them home so I can show my husband before I stick them to the keyboard. It's becoming tradition."

So have you had your mammogram yet this year? Seriously. Have you? You can get some fun stickers, you know. And if you have, did you keep your little nipple thingies? I know Pissed in NYC kept hers and stuck them to her fridge last year. What did you do with yours?

Men may be at a risk for breast cancer, too. It's not just a chick thing.

Public Service Announcement over. Oh, and Em, if you're reading this - hi! You did a great job today. I didn't say "owie" a single time. Thank you.