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...........

Aunts on Facebook - Caution Warranted

Regular readers are painfully aware of the fact that I do not like to self-censor. However, out of respect for my aunts (okay, it's fear), I do try to be mostly careful when posting on Facebook. And poor old Twitter - it's like the forgotten child. No, not you, MathMan, whose mother changed her phone number and neglected to tell him. The metaphorical forgotten child.

So here are some recently considered, but ultimately dismissed Facebook status updates and Tweets. Some come with bonus fill in the blank opportunities in case you want to print this off and make a little exercise out of it next time you go potty.

Lisa Golden....
...thinks there's little that separates us from the _____________________
...still thinks farts are funny. Except for cat farts. Those are highlarious.
...won the lottery, but isn't telling anyone. She needs that five dollars.
....will put some clothes on when she damned well feels like it.
...is considering a new fetish.
...makes funny noises when she ________________
...was born to be wild. In a Midwestern kind of way.
...has finished assessing the most recent pictures of herself. Drastic measures must be taken.
...won't stop til she gets enough.
...is lying on the bed petting her pussy........cat.
...still hasn't painted the fingernails on her right hand. Just call me a trend-setter.
...feels uncomfortable when she watches What Not to Wear with her kids. I just know they are thinking they should submit my name to the show for a makeover.
...knows how to play the game. She just doesn't like to.

Okay, back to the serious work of researching fetishes.....

Dispatches from a Glass House

Updated - Try to comment without stating the obvious. I don't want to hear another word about hypocrisy. I get it. And if that's the nail on which you choose to hang your umbrage, be sure to go out and check your archives for slams on Michael Jackson before you post your memorials to him. You know, if you're going to be horrified by Sanford or any politician's hypocrisy, you might want to address your own, as well.


A few words on L'Affaire du Sanford.....

Could we please stop assuming that the other woman is a hussy, slut, whore, siren, jezebel, or any of the other sexist labels that have been tossed all over the blogosphere?

As a fellow hussy, slut, whore, siren, jezebel, etc. who has slept with the husband of another woman, or husbands of women, if you want to get all technical about it, I take offense.

Signed,

A very flawed human being

P.S. I'm also a cheater, a hypocrite and a whole bunch of other unpleasant things. But I hope never again to be someone who finds great pleasure in another person's private pain. (She said with her own kind of sanctimony.).

Rewinding Part 3 Lessons from the Road

About food
I like Rolos better when they are soft. And it's true. I reach a point in any kind of stressful event - be it mild or intense - when I flat out need chocolate.

It is a good thing that we don't live near a Big Boy restaurant. I would either get sick of their food or be keeling over from tartar sauce poisoning.

About family
The Actor/Ninja likes Hank Williams music and my family's ears don't bleed when I tuned the radio to bluegrass as we drove through some of mountainous Tennessee. It just seemed appropriate.

Three years is too long between visits with family, especially when we can make the drive in seven hours.

The Big R still doesn't appreciate my sense of humor. See, she has this annoying habit of asking us "Are you still working?" Intellectually, I know she's just making conversation. Let's face it, beyond work and the kids, she really doesn't want to delve too deeply into my life and interests and she knows it. Still, this question of are you still working drives me up the fucking wall. What? Did I win the lottery and no one told me? Did my real family - the insanely wealthy ones - finally step forward to claim me? Or worse - is she implying that I'm some kind of lay-about who only works when desperate? I've got news for her - I am always desperate. Hence the job.

Anyway, I smarted off to her when she asked that question. To be more accurate, I used my nephew to smart off to The Big R. I'd predicted to him before her arrival, that within two minutes of seeing him, she'd ask that very question of him, too. Poor kid. As it turns out, I was correct. I was the very model of maturity. I pointed it out via gestures and fall on the floor laughter behind her back. Ah, just like old times. Except, she turned around. "Pick yourself up off the floor, you ninny. What is your problem?" she asked me.

I wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes and stammered just like the fifteen year old I used to be "I-I-I told him you'd ask that idiotic question. What do you think? He's all the sudden discovered the money tree? Of course he's still working!"

Another thing I learned? The Big R is still quite capable of delivering a withering stare.

And she wasn't kidding about saving humiliating photos of me for when I was "older." I am apparently officially "older" in The Big R's estimation. Must be the gray hair. Which is striking, but not in an Oh my heavens! Did you mean to do that to your head? kind of way like some of the hairdos in those photographs. And have mercy! to the clothing. I will never be accused of being well-dressed. (Click that link at your own risk.)

MathMan is pretty dang cool. He was patient as I flitted about the class reunion. He took a lot of photos both then and when we were with my family and I was glad that even though he's only met some of my former classmates and their spouses once or never, he deftly struck up
conversations with everyone.

The Royal Pains have no sense of humor about me jumping off this bridge when I was sixteen years old. They're just a couple of humorless, self-interested fertilized eggs about it, in my opinion. It's not me they care about. It's just the fact that had that jump not turned out fine, they might not exist. They don't fool me.


About place
Time is a wonderful change agent, at least when it comes to attitude. As much as I hated it sometimes when I was younger, I was really lucky to grow up in a place not unlike Mayberry.

For the same reasons it used to drive me a little crazy, I can now appreciate Rising Sun as the place where I spent my childhood. There's something really nice about the familiarity of the people and the place.





Our library was a Carnegie Library.
*Note: We did not have crap piled in front of our house. And the garage was a garage, not a room. We used the garage as a place to pile our junk.

You're still wondering about the class reunion, aren't you? Well, what can I say? It was so much fun - even better than I expected. It was loud and hot and thank goodness, there was none of that awkward award stuff or ice-breaker games. We sipped our drinks, swapped stories of our then and now and just enjoyed the moments together. They went by too quickly.

I learned some new things there, too.....

(1) Other people remember things about you that you may have forgotten. For example:
I was an insensitive clod who walked up to two guys in the school hallway and invited only one of them to participate in a "sexy legs" contest that must have been part of some fund-raiser or something that the cheerleaders were doing. (Yes, I was a cheerleader.) Anyway, the young man who wasn't invited reminded me of my social faux pas. I didn't remember it, but both guys did and with obvious clarity. I apologized. And I assure you, I would never make that same mistake today. If you're reading this, Steve B., I am sorry. Next time there is a sexy legs contest, I promise, you're the first man I'll ask to show us what he's got.

(2) Funny people stay funny. The same people who made me laugh in school made me laugh at the party. A lot. At least this time it didn't result in detention.

(3) Some people don't want to be blogged about. So I won't blog about them here and repeat their name, which is so nice you have to say it twice. I will also stop telling stories involving the zoo and songs by The Who. I also won't mention how they gigged me good on something stupid I said during our Senior Trip (again, something I'd forgotten), nor will I make a peep about sweat pants or tans. And I especially won't mention the John Phillips Sousa Award because that might make another person fret.

(4) I suck at staying in touch with people. I let the minutia of my life crowd out friendships and contacts I value. For those of you who came from large schools or big places, it's hard to explain, but there's something uniquely satisfying about having a shared history with people. At least for me. And yes, I count my siblings and parents in that equation, as well.

(5) I squeeze butts. I do, it's true. And I wasn't even drinking when I did it. And you should have seen the looks on my sister's and brother's-in-law faces when I did it. It's like they never had their butts squeezed or something. And I won't tell you about the other butts I squeezed. A woman has to have some mystery about her......

(6) Most of us end up somewhere in the middle. There were not wildly successful millionaires and no one who showed up was completely down and out.

(7) Every visit with my parents reminds me that I must take better care of myself physically and emotionally. They seem older than they are. Maybe it's just me, but I hate to see my mom hobbling and so keenly aware of her tummy issues all the time. I can't help but think that some of what ails them could have been avoided. And the fact that they don't get out much or have friends really concerns me. (See item 4. It's important to have friends, I'm convinced.)

(8) Every class needs a Tammy. She always was organized and spirited and full of life. Tammy makes our reunions happen. For that, I am grateful. (See the video below.)

(9) I went to school with great people. Even the Republicans.

(10) I have selective memory. See items in purple.

You can see a full set of pictures here.

And because it's me and I'm a dork who likes to overshare, just ask my pal the guy with the name so nice, you have to say it twice, I made a video of the event. Some stills, some video. Enjoy.....



About that song - it's the Washington and Lee Swing. It was our high school fight song.

I Could Do Sappy

But what would be the fun in that? Happy Father's Day to my babies' daddy. I hope you have a great day, even though we're hanging with my family and then driving for eight hours. Love you.

Rewinding Part 2 It's a Trip

A thrilling story of exotic travel on a budget, family bliss and regional food.....

We got on the road yesterday at about 7:20pm. We endured/enjoyed the typical travel drama. Garbo issues the warning that she's "not feeling well." Mama (that's still me, dang it) manages to handle the news with her usual lack of grace.

"This is why I wanted to travel alone." The words just hang in the air. MathMan, who had balked at my idea of going by myself when I initially announced that idea, played peacemaker by suggesting a stop at the CVS for chewable Dramamine for Garbo, beef jerky for The Actor/Ninja and chocolate for me.

MathMan is wise.

Fueled by Chic Fil-A because we had a gift card and a coupon for a free kids meal that Garbo and I could split (we are, after all, frugal travelers), we navigated our way through Cartersville and onto I75 North, pointed towards our destination of Rising Sun, Indiana.

At about the fiftieth mile, Mathman was tossing Rolos into my mouth. By mile sixty, I was asking if we were there yet. Around about mile seventy-two, we'd already heard the Miley Cyrus song The Climb twice. By mile ninety, the Actor/Ninja had announced, yet again, that the Jonas Brothers are talentless goombahs invented by Disney, except he didn't use those tidy terms.

By mile one-hundred, MathMan and I had re-asserted our dominance over the radio and were dancing and singing and moving to the groove when somebody turned around.......

Finally, before we become totally weary travelers, we pulled off in Clinton, Tennessee, not quite half-way, but north of Knoxville. We bypassed the Holiday Inn properties and chose the Country Inn and Suites instead. I can't leave the Toyota by the roadside, but I can choose not to patronize a hotel. (boycott reference)

I'll let you know how the free breakfast is. So far the place is clean, pleasant and a good space for us. The bed gets a thumbs down for being too firm. And I discovered that The Actor/Ninja who slept in the double bed opposite the one I shared with MathMan (Garbo slept on the foldout sofa in the living room area) talks in his sleep. And his sleeping patterns mirror mine. MathMan, as he tells it, fell asleep during the first episode on the Rosemary & Thyme dvd we brought along. He also fell asleep during the second and third. The Actor and I were still wide awake until somewhere in the third when we conked out around 2am. Ah, the joys of being hyper.

This morning we make the second half of our journey to the place of my beginnings. We'll stop in Lawrenceburg for food (I've already declared that we should stop for lunch before we make our presence known so that no family member feels compelled to offer "lunchmeat" at their house.) We may be traveling on a budget, but I don't go to the place of my birth for boiled ham on white bread with Miracle Whip. Oh,no.

We'll have Frish's Big Boy or Skyline Chili or we'll have nothing at all.

Tonight is the reunion. I really am looking forward to it. I know that some of you would rather chew glass than revisit your past, but for me, this is going home and that's not so bad in small doses. I'm rather happy to re-connect with the people with whom I shared my youth. Maybe it's because it was such a small school or maybe it's precisely because I don't get back there very often, but every once in a while, it's good for me to know that as rootless as I am now, there was once a place that I really called home*.

Oh, yes, the Royal Pains love to see their parents sing this and seat-dance. The shame and horror made them go all quiet.

*Let's see what I'm saying on the way back. Heh.

Rewinding

Friday night is my 25th class reunion. Okay, just typing those words is like a smack upside the head. I was such a silly girl back then. Oh, who am I kidding? Despite the wrinkles, extra pounds and chestnut tresses faded to silver, at least that hasn't changed. I'm silly as ever.

I can honestly say that I can look back fondly on my high school years. They weren't perfect. They were full of their own kind of angst. And lord no, I would never wish to go back, but I don't look back and cringe (much) or cry or wish people dead. It was an era in my life just like any other - a mixture of good and bad. And don't you know, there's plenty to be mined for good story material. Silly as I am, I'm practical, too. Story material is a good thing.

Now I won't bore you with those details - that's what my reunion is for, but I will tell you that I was privileged to graduate high school smack in the middle of THE BEST nostalgic era since the 1950s. Oh yes, I graduated in 1984. Big hair, big shoulder pads, big music. Reagan, Dynasty, yuppies, skinny ties, John Hughes films. It was........memorable.

Did I ever tell you how I didn't want to go to college and my mother made me go? I was sooooo in love with my boyfriend and I wanted to stay in Rising Sun. But the Big R would have none of that. After an incident involving my father, a chainsaw, and a missing shoe, I scrapped my mother's plans for me to go to nursing school in Cincinnati, and chose instead to go to Ball State to become a teacher.

That plan didn't work out either, but it certainly set me on the path to where I am today. Believe it or not, my decision in 1987 to major in French is what got me my first job in association management and I'm still in the field today. Along the way, I have had great loves, met some of the most incredibly interesting people and have been afforded the opportunity to do things I could have never imagined back in 1984.

And still, I feel like there's so much I want to do.

But for this weekend, I'm going back. I'll see the people who knew me when my hair was dark, my skin was dewy and most of my life was still ahead of me. I can't wait to share the memories and to learn what they've been doing all these years. I'll be back next week with pictures and maybe a few stories that won't bore you too much. Maybe videos, too, Latka!

For now, a couple of songs from that time. ...

This one made me cry back when I was being pushed from the nest.....

And then this one which was best listened to as we drove around in Darla's Trans Am with the windows down and the T tops off.

Ah yes......now I wonder if that Mr. Boston Screwdriver mix is still in the back of the closet at The Big R's house?

Tuesday Evening Gross Out

It's another night of fun and games at Golden Manor. The Actor/Ninja pulled a set of nunchucks on me and made me drive him and Garbo to Udder Delights (I kid you not) for ice cream. Worse, they forced me to eat a medium chocolate vanilla twist cone. What kind of inhumanity is that, I ask you?

MathMan is alternately doing laundry, talking on the phone to teachers, and mumbling something about being fat. He doesn't know from fat, but whatever.

I'm off. I mean I'm feeling off. I was supposed to work from home today, but ended up going into the office at one and working until six. It's disconcerting to one minute be happily wrapping up a conference call as you still sit in your workout clothes and the next minute, you're rushing around for a shower and clothing that matches because the lawyers that you work for as your second job need something right now, but they don't know what it is and you have to drive 45 miles to stand at their desk so they can play "tell me what you see" until you figure out what they want so you can fax it to them.

Because you're dedicated like that.

And so am I.

Worst thing is, I didn't complete my morning ablutions to the fullest extent and now, because I am not a Brazilian, stuff is growing back in and it's itching me all to hell. It's either that or a dreaded yeast infection from who knows what because I haven't been using my hoohah for anything fun or interesting lately. Just ask MathMan. He'll tell you so and grumpily.

So here I am, stuffed full of ice cream and dinner, an underwire in my new bra poking me where it shouldn't dammit, and I've got an itch that should not speak its name. I share the fun.

Me: "My balls itch."
MathMan: "I see that" gesturing to my hand in my pants.
Me: "I can't help it. It itches."
MathMan: "Well, would it be worth trying...."
I cut him off. "I am not putting that cream on my twat." I assumed he was talking about the cream we got for The Actor/Ninja's poison ivy.
"No! That's not what I was going to say," MathMan groans. He loves it when I assume he's being an idiot. "I was going to say..."
I cut him off again. "Don't even suggest I spray the Tinactin on my Vee." Tough actin' Tinactin is for Jock Itch. Don't ask. It'll just gross you out. As if I could gross you out more....
"No! Jeez! I was going to ask if it would be worth getting some of that Monistat or something," MathMan said, all doctorly, yet exasperated by my interruptions and rude assumptions.
I thought about that for a minute while I scratched. "Yeah, that would probably be a good idea. In the meantime though, maybe I will try that Tinactin. It would be quite bracing....."
"Didn't it burn you when you used it somewhere else?" MathMan reminded me. (I'm telling you, do not ask.)
"Oh, right. Yeah, it did. Hmm. Itch or burn? Maybe I should just try shaving first?"

MathMan looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time. I reached in for another scratch.

MathMan: "Get anything good?"
Me: "Not yet. I'll let you know."

Make Mine a Triple

The rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated. No, as much as it would be considered justifiable homicide, MathMan has not finally moidered me. I know this is the longest I've gone between postings in, like, forever, but I've been busy with the usual:

1. Recovering from losing my flash drive. Thankfully, most of lost items were recovered from the home desk computer and a couple of other sources.

2. Shopping at the farmers market for healthy food. MathMan and I have gotten the word from our doctors about our vital statistics. Heredity is gaining on us and we can't outrun it with cholesterol clogging our veins and flub weighing us down.

3. Doing crossword puzzles with Garbo, bidding a fond farewell to The Dancer who is vacationing on the coast with friends this week, and enjoying some downtime with The Actor who seems to be ever so slowly coming out of his seventh-gradeness. Thank goodness.

4. Continuing the gaslighting of The Actor/Ninja and Garbo. This time, I enlisted the help of my boss J who filled out the envelope I used to mail the flying blue monkey to the Royal Pains. They were pleased to report, however, that they knew immediately that it was me because of the postmark. They further reported, looking all smug, that they've dispatched the monkey forever. He is now separated from his head and hidden where I'm never supposed to find him. Killjoys.

5. Demonstrating at work just how much being a blogger has made me a really, really valuable asset. How funny is that? Blogging as a skill set? Who knew?

6. Coping with the fact that not only is The Dancer shimmying away from us toward full-fledged adulthood, but Garbo, the baby of the family, is really growing up. She's shaving her legs and thinking about - gasp! - bras.

And speaking of bras, I've spent a good part of today doing something that didn't kill me. It just made me wish I were dead.....I shopped for bras and a swimsuit. Holy cats, people of the internets, what a painful experience.

I finally went online and read about how a bra should properly fit, applied that knowledge and discovered that I've been buying the wrong brassiere size for, well, most of my adult life.

+ one letter - one size = bra that fits

I was so excited that I forgot myself and went running around the Kohl's Department store still wearing just the bra. I was telling anyone who would listen about my new discovery, parading up and down the aisles so that they could admire the perfect fit of my new Bali, shaking hands with little old men, high-fiving their wives and I think I even kissed a few babies.

After the emotional high of that, I don't even want to tell you about the swimsuit except to say that when I put it on and stood, lip quivering, in front of the mirror, I said to MathMan, "Dear lord, I look like someone's mother ......mine."

Woman wearing the right-sized bra out.

Oh, I've been hearing this song in my head. A lot.

Wonder what Johnny Cash would have done with it......

On Mysteries, Just Desserts and New Fads in Exercise

Part One: A Thing of Great Import Goes Missing
I guess freaking out will not bring back my missing flash drive. That beloved little black piece of plastic with the retractable doo-hickey that gets inserted into the USB port held in its vast memory stores all my photos, the beginnings to three stories (hello, Madame Can't Finish Anything), copies of old stories, my resumes, and a variety of other important documents.

Still - freaking out might cleanse my worried mind. What if someone finds the missing flash drive and delves into the deeper directories to discover not only that stash of naked pictures, but also my secret identity. The horror! And the underground world of REDACTED will be forever altered. And not for the better.

Part Two: The Mystery of The Blue Monkey
I know someone with much more knowledge on these things will be around later to smack me around and set me straight, but perhaps the flash drive went missing as some cosmic retribution (notice I did not misuse the term karma this time) for gaslighting the two younger Royal Pains.

See - back in November, Garbo got this creepy little toy in a McDonalds Happy Meal. (Calm down. Even Mothers of the Year such as myself slip occasionally and take our children to McDonalds. We do it so that they will appreciate even more the tasty, wholesome, organic grains and sprouts normally prepared and served at home.)

Anyway, this toy became the object of conversation. It really is quite creepy, not to mention the fact that it came out of the packaging with its blue tail poised just like a penis peeking through its legs. Naturally, we had great fun with that concept for about five minutes. It was soon forgotten and cast aside. Penis humor doesn't have a very long shelf life when there are French Fries to be snarfed.

When we moved, the Little Blue Flying Monkey was unearthed. There was renewed interest in his odd creepiness and that sinister smile playing about its lips. It was swung around by the cloth tail/psuedo-penis. Wicked tales of his gadabout nature among the other blue flying monkeys spun out of The Royal Pains' imaginations. Suddenly, The Actor/Ninja became serious and whispered gravely to his sister "What if this toy is possessed like Chucky? I mean, how did it just reappear?"

I could hear them, but they didn't know I was listening. I was sitting on the other side of the wall, working away on my laptop.

Garbo was quiet as she considered what The Actor/Ninja has suggested. "Oh, this dumb old thing was just buried. I found it because Mom made me sort through toys when we moved in," she dismissed his attempt to stir up her fears.

Now The Actor/Ninja is like I was as a kid. He enjoys a good fright, as long as he knows it's not really going to hurt anyone. Did I ever tell you about the time two of my girlfriends and I spent the night in the haunted house next door to hers?

"I don't know....." The Actor/Ninja ventured, "We could test it. Let's throw it away and see what happens."

Now I could tell that he'd captured Garbo's fancy. "You mean, see if it comes back? No! Um, wait. Oh, okay. I don't like that toy anyway. It gives me the creeps!"

And since then, the Little Blue Flying Monkey has been tossed in the trash, hidden in boxes and then buried under all manner of gross garbage, only to reappear sitting on The Actor/Ninja's bookcase, on the top of the toilet tank in the hallway restroom, next to Garbo's television and even on The Actor/Ninja's pillows.

Part Three: Oh, Yes. I Will Be Trying This At Home
From my pal Suzy. Catworkout.
I've been looking for something that The Pussies for Peace and I can do together that doesn't involve licking our own butts or killing bugs. Catworkout is definitely the answer! Thank you, Suzy!

Power lifting this guy should put an end to the wobble where my triceps should be, don't you think?

The end.


Listerine Ad comes from Found in Mom's Basement.

Drowning Here in Summer's Cauldron

And it's not even Summer yet. Officially.....

So I went for my Mother's Day massage on Friday. It was so relaxing that I fell asleep. With snoring.

Delicate flower, that's me.

Anyway, that delightful relaxed state of being set the tone for the whole weekend. Since then, I:

(1) Consumed my weight in mini devil's food cupcakes with cream cheese frosting (a relaxed attitude toward food if ever there was one);
(2) Ate a scrumptious lunch of chunky chicken salad at the Village Porch Cafe with the The Dancer and Garbo (Garbo had ice cream because that's how she rolls, apparently, and her mama was in an indulgent mood);
(3) Bought a stack of used books at the Friends of the Library book sale, including One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez which I purchased not so much because I was itching to finally read this book (books about Central and South America always make me crave Mexican and South American food - what is that all about?), but because it had a letter stuck in between the pages. I'd have felt like a rat if I'd just swiped the letter and not bought the book for less than a quarter. Now I feel like I have to read the book which will result in all kinds of cravings like guacamole, arroz con pollo and lots and lots of tortilla chips. Great.
(4) Cruised the local shops and purchased my first typically female Vera Bradley doo-dad to control the contents of my abyss of a purse while the female Royal Pains danced around me singing songs of wonder and praise that I'd finally seen the righteousness of purchasing over-priced quilted accessessories. Look, if the dang thing keeps me from cursing as I root through my hemp, low-slung hippy bag, it was worth the sixteen dollars on sale;
(5) Went to a car show with the family, and...when not in a short-burst cleaning frenzy with appropriate music, and
(6) Pretty much sat on my behind and read this book.


Which I'm loving so much that I want to finish it already and see how it ends.

And I admit it. The short burst "cleaning" frenzy included ten minutes of hot make up sex with the neglected vacuum cleaner and wiping away bathroom dust with a washcloth I'd just finished using on my face. You know, hygienic to the max!

The car show was fun except The Royal Pains get kind of twitchy after a while. Maybe it was the exhaust fumes from the muscle car guys revving their engines or the live music or all those people! walking around, but after about twenty minutes, two of The Royal Pains started making sounds about wanting to "do something." "Do something is code for electronic activity. Them apples didn't fall far from the tree.

But see, I'm really trying to unplug, stay unplugged and like being unplugged. I realized a few weeks back that I had gotten so addicted to being online that I wasn't enjoying the "real" life I had happening all around me. Mind you, there's plenty to want to escape from on any given day, but the point is - I needed to find some balance. And in doing so, I hope that I can set a better example for The Royal Pains.

As for Saturday evening, MathMan and I endured the intermittent griping and grousing as long as we could, then headed home. The Royal Pains didn't seem to mind riding in the trunk where we didn't have to hear them. At least they preferred that to their other option - walk home the 15 or so miles. In the dark.

So that's why you might not be seeing me among the internets like you're used to seeing me. Why, just this morning, MathMan and I got out into the fresh air and took advantage of the morning light to take photos. We headed out Chulio Road, not far from our house, toward Rome, Georgia and stopped in this little old farming community to take some photos. Since moving to Georgia, I've gained whole new appreciation for abandoned buildings. Where city structures are often torn down to make room for new development, old structures in rural areas are most often left standing, becoming part of the landscape. I like that because you have history standing there before you. Anyway, meet my new obsession.....


This stone structure looks like it was once a home and commercial establishment. Or two. I'm anxious to do some research and find out what it was. It's got all these funky stone structures including a well, benches, an armchair, planters shaped like baskets, a moat (I'm not kidding), footbridges and a patio with built-in benches.

This place now tops the list of things I must own when I win the lottery.

I could cut out a lot of research time and just call the people who are trying to sell it, I suppose, but then I'll be all awkward because there's no way we could dream of buying the place and how goofy would it be to phone them up, ask a bunch of questions about the place and then be all "Well, thanks so much, gotta go?"

Of course, considering how unique the place is, that probably wouldn't be the first or last time they get that call.......I wonder if they'd hold it for me until we win the MegaMillions.....?

As we drove home from our photo-taking frenzy - which is much more fun than a cleaning frenzy - I mentioned to MathMan that the stone structure would make a great setting for a story......

Anyway, my apologies for being a lousy blogfriend and not being the loyal reader I once was. I'll be back to it when the beautiful weather and interesting books aren't tugging at me so.

Until then........

High Falutin' Saturday Doings

First I was going to tell you that I was going fishing.



But I knew you'd never believe that.

So I decided to cut the crap and tell you the truth. I'm taking the Female Royal Pains (I'm sick of calling them spawn, it's so cliched now) out for a day of high cultural activities. Including.....

A visit to the Friends of Library Book Sale.

And then a light Ladies Lunch of cheeseburgers and fries in some diner or drive-thru.


And then, oh....I don't know.....a slow stroll through the local shops......


Because we're trying to support our local community with our dollars.

And as for you? Have a good Saturday, okay? I'll be back later to tell you how some idiot driver annoyed me or how some mouth breathing yahoo ticked me off or how the Female Royal Pains cramped my style while I tried to flirt with some elderly man-meat at the booksale.

Same old, same old.....you know.........

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.

Don't Mock the Process

In an ongoing effort to mend our battered marriage, MathMan and I make occasional visits to this nice bald man with a calm demeanor and good ideas about how we can not only keep from killing each other, but also how can can actually improve the way we - gasp! - communicate with one another.

Good communication skills are essential to a happy marriage. Or so they say. I guess using good communications skills helps you know exactly what it is that you're fighting about.

Our counselor has recommended that we use something I think he refers to as "tracking" or "mirroring." I suppose if I were a better listener, I'd know for certain what he calls it, wouldn't I? Anyway, it's a style of contrived communication that helps two people reflect back to each other what they're hearing....oh wait - it's called Reflective Listening. Okay, where was I?

Oh, yes, Reflective Listening provides you with the opportunity to clarify what's being said to you and what you're saying to your partner. Let me give you an example of what happened last Friday and then I'll show you how if we'd applied Reflective Listening, we might have avoided some bruised feelings and more of the same crap that keeps us from jumping up and clicking our heels about being married to one another. (Read: Bad or Non-existent Communication)

We're driving home from work and MathMan says "Why don't we go out tonight. Have a drink or something...."

To which I reply "Okay" as I'm looking out the passenger window. We move on from that topic, but about five minutes later, we pass by a restaurant that features live music and beer on their patio. I suggest we go there. Maybe? MathMan answers "Okay."

Nothing more is said about this conversation. We go home, I make dinner, MathMan takes care of the Pussies for Peace and delivers the beatings to the children who cannot find a trash can to save their lives. Or at least to avoid a beating. After dinner, MathMan suggests we go out for ice cream, I ask where, he suggests a place, I agree, we go, we eat ice cream, get brain freeze, come home. End of story.

But it's not.

Saturday night we end up sucking down mojitos on the deck and having one of those conversations. It's far ranging and deep. We do not come to blows, verbal, physical or job. But Friday night comes up and we discuss how my lack of enthusiasm as I delivered my initial "okay" to MathMan's suggestion doused the flame of his desire to go out and have fun and so we didn't pursue it further.

Exasperated at his inertia and his tendency to blame it on me and my lack of enthusiasm, I pointed out that I had, in fact, suggested a place to go and he'd not even done that. I guess I should use exclamation points here because I was probably verging on shrill. This whole you "let" or "don't let" thing drives me insane.

Anyway, we talked through it, came out the other side with decent attitudes and moved on with our weekend. Just don't ask me about the conflab regarding whom would sit where and who would drive when MathMan, The Dancer and I went to Rome for a morning of book perusing and plant purchases. That's a whole other example of how Reflective Listening might have improved the situation drastically.

Now, here's how the Friday evening conversation in the car would have gone if we'd been using Reflective Listening.....

MathMan: "Why don't we go out tonight. Maybe get a drink?"
Me: "Okay."
MathMan: "What I'm hearing is 'okay, but I don't really feel like it, but if you do, okay.' You're not very enthusiastic about it, are you?"

At which point I could have either told him that he was correct in what he'd heard and how he'd interpreted my words and reactions or I could have clarified with something like "No, I think it would be nice to go out, but I don't feel like coming up with ideas. You choose and I'll go along with it. It would be nice to just get out of the house."

Or something like that. It's entirely possible that I might have sighed, rested my head against the car window and moaned "I don't want to go anywhere! I want to stay home, sit on my computer and fret about the things I could, should, would be doing if I'd made a million different decisions in my life!"

Trust me, that would be like any other Friday night for the last couple of years.

So today we made our visit to the therapist. I issued my obligatory pre-visit statement that I didn't feel like talking and didn't want to go. "I am a clam. I give up nothing. I offer nothing." I think that's how I said it.

Of course I participated. The therapist has to earn his twenty-five dollar co-pay somehow. And besides, MathMan, who broke the rules of therapy etiquette as far as I'm concerned by not making some pre-visit statement about his desire to participate or not, forced me to speak by not speaking much himself. Would you believe he just sat there grinning at me until I finally broke down and said something? What a jerk.

So we practiced Reflective Listening again and discussed how we can apply it to certain situations, using that Friday night scenario as a perfect example of how not communicating gets us nowhere. We also discussed using more Reflective Listening with the kids. Yeah, that'll be a hoot. I can just hear myself now....

Me: Actor, grab all your dirty laundry and toss it into the hamper.
The Actor: Okay.......
Me: Did you hear me?
The Actor: -----------
Me: So what I hear you saying is that you're not paying the least bit of attention and you wish I'd shut up and go away. Oh and are you still here? Can you fix me a sandwich? I need some Koolaid. Do you deliver?
The Actor: -------------
Me: And what I hear you saying now is that I'm standing in the way of the television and you'd like me to move. And no you don't care if I turn into a raving lunatic and set myself on fire as long as I make that sandwich and Koolaid first.

Verrrrrrry effective.

Anyway, when we left the office, my Reflective Listening skills were stuck on. MathMan and I got in his car to drive home and he asked if I was hungry. (I was.) But instead of simply answering "Yes, I'm hungry," I applied Reflective Listening.

"So what I hear you saying is that you're wondering if I'm hungry?" I mirrored back to MathMan.

He stared at me and blinked. Once. Twice. He finally responded, "Yes......"

"And now I think I hear you wondering if I'd like to pick food up from somewhere because as soon as we get home, you have to race off to the baseball field with The Actor?"

More blinking.

I made that joke, oh, maybe ten, twelve times on the way home. In another day or two the phrase "What I hear you saying is...." will be banned from Golden Manor per proclamation of MathMan and The Royal Pain Children.

In fact, I just sped up the need for that proclamation tonight after MathMan and The Actor returned home from the baseball game. I was listening to the radio and an unfamiliar song was playing on this deep tracks kind of station.

"Oy, are they playing Steeley Dan?" I griped. If you didn't know before you know now - I hate Steeley Dan.

"No," MathMan said calmly, trying to head off the coming "I HATE Steeley Dan" rant. Clearly he was in no mood for me to hold forth on what music I think sucks.

I paused for a very brief moment and then responded "So what I hear you saying is that this isn't Steeley Dan?"

And that's when MathMan delivered the line that became the title of this post.

TMI Monday

First, some context: Neither I nor MathMan come from families where open communication is practiced. We don't belong to families that talk about icky things like feelings, bodily functions, or sex. Well, I take that back. My mother, The Big R, has a very odd, self-conscious way of mentioning bodily functions, usually delivered half-whispered.

And I suppose regarding normal human waste elimination activities, there were certain truths in my childhood home. Soon after food passed through her esophagus, The Big R would disappear into the bathroom with a crossword puzzle*. We all simply accepted this and, as such, conceded that going out to dinner would be limited to places with clean restrooms or had to be within short driving distance of home.

As is often the case, these things are hereditary, so I have a child with this same affliction. We are used to watching her food get cold as we eat a meal. Three bites in and she's excused herself.

I, on the other hand, was the puker in the family. Carsick. Whatever went around school. Didn't matter. I got it and hurled. (Note: I promise this is not going to become the vomit/poo blog. Yet***.)

As an example of how this ties in to communication, how's this:
My mother doesn't say fart, she says "pass gas."
MathMan's mother (may she rest in peace) used the charming phrase "let out air."

Now I've gone and wandered off topic. Let me circle back. I don't really mean to write about farting any more than I intend to write about poop. Let me begin again.....Neither MathMan nor I grew up in families where things were discussed openly. And by things, I mean bodily functions, most especially those that might be tangentially related to S-E-X or sexuality.

I don't know if it's a result of the more open era that we grew up in or just some quirk of personality, but MathMan and I have underdeveloped filters when it comes to discussing "personal" issues in front of our children. Now this is to their dismay and it may turn them into completely repressed Victorians, but that's a chance we're willing to take. It would be impossible to put the Inappropriate Genie back in the bottle, I suspect.

Now that I've laid the many layers of groundwork, I'll just move on, shall I? You see, it's common knowledge at Golden Manor that Mama (that's me) is currently equipped with an IUD that contains some hormones. A happy side effect of this is that Mama (that's still me) doesn't have much of a period. (Are you still with me?) This is really nice and all because menstrual periods, though perfectly natural and necessary, can be incredibly inconvenient and, for some, a real, live sickening pain. I was always lucky that way. I've never really suffered cramps and would probably, if confronted with the industrial strength cramps that some women must endure, crumple into a heap of sweating, vomiting, and wailing agony. (Smelling salts, anyone?)

My most easily identifiable manifestations of pre-menstrual syndrome (PMS) are a marked increase in my need to consume chocolate and, just maybe, a tendency to be a bit weepy if presented with something like those Sarah McLachlin ads for the puppies and kitties with the overlay of that Arms of the Angels song. Otherwise, I'm rather oblivious to my cycles. If MathMan notices anything, he never mentions it. (Glass of water for Mr. Grainger?)

Some months, though, I'll feel a little more out of sorts than usual or have a twingy backache or maybe feel bloaty and unusually puffy. To confirm that it's hormone-related, I tend to check in with the other person in the house who is of childbearing age.

Sunday evening, The Dancer, MathMan, Garbo and I were playing Scattegories as part of our weekly game night. (You thought I was kidding about that a couple of weeks ago, didn't you? Well, word to your mother. Next week I get to pick the game and I'm thinking Quarters or Bullshit.) I mentioned that I was feeling bloated and weird and asked The Dancer directly if we were having "our period." She confirmed that we are.

Thankfully, The Actor/Ninja, was glued to his XBox Live game or running the neighborhood (you don't really expect me to be exacting about where a 13 year old boy is all the time, do you?) and thus, missed this episode of What's Up with My Vagina?. Since he's 13 and totes his genitals externally, he's just a bit put off by conversations about periods these days.

He's so squidgy about that stuff lately that his younger sister knows that a mere mention of it will set him off. "You know you came out of Mom's vagina," she'll taunt.

"Mom does NOT have a vagina." He must assert this, lest he crumple into a heap of sweating, heaving, wailing agony.

"So that explains it....." I began. Still, there was something more off than usual. A sort of crampiness that I'm not accustomed to. Then it occurred to me what it may be. My IUD is due to be replaced this month. So it has been five years already. Boy, time sure flies when you're having sex without the added thrills of birth control you have to remember or fuss with.

"I need to schedule an appointment to get checked under the hood and a replacement IUD," I announced. Maybe by saying this out loud to most of my immediate family, someone will remember to remind me to call for an appointment. None of them want any more siblings. Hell, we have to worry about them offing each other. Adding to the tally would be considered a disaster in this household.

MathMan**, ever helpful, was ready to help. "I can check under your hood," he offered.

The Dancer just groaned. I clicked my tongue and rolled my eyes. Garbo was thinking practically. "What about her IUD?" she asked. She was sure she'd found a flaw in his thinking.

"I have forceps in my toolbox. I'll even boil them first."

Another groan from The Dancer. More eye rolls and a heave sigh from me. Garbo still wasn't satisfied. "Yes, but you won't be able to replace the IUD," she chided him.

"I have paper clips," he smiled triumphantly.

I'd like to say here that I was stunned, but this is just so common around here that I don't know why it was even notable, except that maybe MathMan has hit upon an idea to lower health care costs.

Can't you just see it?


* This should not, in any way, be construed as confirmation that females actually poo.
** Thank you for picking up some Emergency M&Ms tonight, MathMan! I can't believe I allowed myself to run out this time of the month.
***I do have to write a post about a book I saw Sunday. That will push me further into the realm of poo-blogging. Fabulous!

Now turn your head and cough, please.