Mammogram, Say What?

    After a nyquil-induced coma, I woke up this morning, raring to go get the lump in my neck sucked out. I arrived at the hospital just in time to get a nose bleed. I'm not sure what it is about my upper lip... can it NOT sense that something is dripping down it BEFORE my the blood reaches my shirt? (No. It cannot.) While I'm holding my head back in the waiting room bathroom with paper towel shoved up my left nostril, attempting to wash the blood off my chest, my name gets called to go back to the exam room. Now drenched, stained, and holding my nose, the nurse asks me, "So, Ms. Costa, are you ready for your mammogram?"
    Um, excuse me? (I thought.) "Um, excuse me?" (I said.)
    "You're here for your mammogram, is that correct?", says the nurse.
    "No... I have a thyroid biopsy I'm getting done," I replied.
    "Well, it says here you're getting a mammogram.... so....."
    "I'm pretty sure I would know if I was getting a mammorgram. I mean, it's not even like it's the right part of the body, here."
    "You're sure you're not getting a mammogram?"
    I scanned the crowd for Ashton Kutcher's face, but I realized I wasn't getting punked. "I'm getting a biopsy. On my thyroid. No boobs. I swear."
    The nurse looked at me and then realized she had the wrong person's file. Ah (lightbulb). So I'm led to the exam bed, thoroughly sanitzed from my chest to my ears, and then the nurse doused me in iodine, completely saturating my skin, hair, and even into my ears! (Easy, lady, I'm just as scared of drowning as I am of needles.) The doctor then tilted my head back till I felt like I was choking, covered my face with a blanket, and began pushing on my throat, sufficiently blocking my air supply. As if I wasn't freaked out enough, the one eye that managed to stay uncovered through this smothering event looks up in time to see the world's largest needle coming at me.
    "I feel like I'm gonna throw up!", I blurted. "Just don't swallow, please. We need you to be still," said the doctor. So as I layed there, blood-stained, idiodine-drenched, suffocating, and being stabbed, I realized that there was nowhere for my gag reflux-induced saliva to go but out.... so I drooled all over my face. Defacating in my pants was really the only thing that saved this event from covering pretty much all of my nightmares that I can remember from adolescence.
    When it was all over, the nurse taped up my neck, making sure to attach every loose piece of hair into the sticky mess, which was really quite sweet of her, considering I was going straight to work and already looked like I had escaped from a mental hospital... let's rip my hair out a bit too, just for kicks. I thanked the staff and was on my way. As I passed the registration desk, the receptionist asked me how everything went. "The mammogram was a success!" I said, as I smiled and walked out the door.

Bring On The Novocain!

    I have found the bright spot of having a terrible sinus infection-- it's my husband doing the dishes (well, two bright spots.... if you count the inability to taste anything, therefore seeing no point to eating much, inadvertantly losing weight (score)). But I HATE dishes. I always have, and I always will. Ever since I've been sick, he has kept up on the dirty AND clean ones in the dishwasher like a champ! Not to mention the cups of tea he's preparing me daily, and also offering to make me food at any given time. He will make a wonderful mother someday.
    In addition to his awesomeness with this sinus infection, he is also willing to accompany me to the hospital tomorrow, where I will be receiving a much-anticipated biopsy of some lump inside my neck ("sexy" doesn't begin to describe the internal workings of my body). I, being utterly terrified of needles (particularly ones that are long and will be going into my throat-al region), have been having minor panic attacks just THINKING about this procedure. So, today I called the doctor's office for a step-by-step tutorial of how this procedure will work... realizing that I'm making a much bigger deal of this than it needs to be. And I must say, after the phone call, I don't feel the slightest bit better.
    "Prepare yourself for a shot of novocain in your neck," the nurse said. (Oh, ok. I'll get right on that. By the way, doesn't novocain burn like a blow torch?) "Then, the doctor will insert a long needle into your neck in order to suck out part of the nodule." (How long are we talking, here? Inches? Feet?! I need to know the circumference of this needle, for the love of God!!!) "We won't remove the entire lump, just enough to biopsy it." (Naturally. It only makes sense to have to do this a second time in order to remove the other half of the "lump". Good call, Doc.) "And the neat part is (I'm sorry, did you say "neat"?) that you can watch all of this on a video camera next to your examination bed." (Truly, truly? Bring on the laughing gas or restraining straps, sister, 'cause there's only two ways this thing is going down....) "After the procedure, you'll feel like you've been punched in the throat and will have a bit of a hole with a bruise in your neck, but all in all, you'll be ready to go to work that day!" (Seriously? Lady, will you come home with me and read me a bedtime story? Because you have an incredibly soothing way with words.) And what part of that makes me ready for work? Could it be the hole in my neck? Or possibly the feeling of being punched? At least my loving hubby will be with me.... I'd much rather be restrained by someone I love than a complete stranger.

The Greatest Of Weekends

    It was a great weekend. One of those weekends where it rains incessantly, leaving you no choice but to hole up in bed with your hubby, watching movies, giggling, and enjoying one another's company. Really, this type of weekend is a rare occurrence. Usually our days off are filled with working in the yard (him), cleaning the house (me), laundry, and fixing the trillions of things that always seem to be breaking. But not this weekend. So the house isn't spotless... the grass needs to be mowed... and we didn't fix a thing. When push comes to shove, I'd much rather lie on wrinkled and rumpled sheets with my husband than perfectly creased and folded ones alone.
    Yes, it was a great weekend. Well, up until the time that husband passed on a sinus infection to me. Don't get me wrong, I don't fault him. We both work with snot-nosed, little rugrats day in and day out. We can't help being carriers of illness and infection. (It DOES make me kinda wish I'd cleaned those sheets though....) But at least my guy has been sweet, making me soup, bringing me tea, and telling me that he's going to start his own blog to tell the world that he's a wonderful husband... but then again, you all already know that by now, don't you?

I'm Only Mean When You're Dumb

    I love to have a clean kitchen. The counters free of clutter, the cupboards nicely organized and contact papered, the stove and cannisters wiped and streak-free.... everything in it's rightful place. That's why I can tell when someone (ahem) has been in my cupboards, created a mess, and then tried to cover it up.
   
Begin Scene.

    It was 8:30 this morning when I decided to do a quick kitchen clean up before leaving for work. As I was emptying the dishwasher, I noticed that my large cooking pot was on top of my pyrex, instead of in it's place underneath the smaller pots two cupboards over. Hmmm. (This was AFTER I found soggy lettuce attached to the CLEAN spoons in the dishwasher.) Obviously, a boy has been here. I dutifully removed the large pot, ready to place it with the others, when I discovered a mound of toast crumbs all over my bowls and serving dishes!
    Conveniently, my husband walked in at that moment and spotted me squatting down by the pyrex. I looked him square in the eye and asked the question. "Did you try to put the toaster in the cupboard?" He was caught. So he began to spew out excuses in rapid succession. "I was trying to clean the kitchen! And we haven't been eating bread, so I tried to get the toaster off the counter! And..."
    "And then you realized there's a REASON the toaster stays on the counter.... BECAUSE OF THE CRUMBS!!! And THEN you covered the crumbs up WITH A POT instead of cleaning up the mess??? Are you out of your mind?!"
    "Why are you being so mean?"
    "I'm only mean when you're dumb!"
    And so started my day.

End Scene.

Flying Pineapple

   There are times in everyone's lives when they regret moments that they acted out in anger, said words that were hurtful, or behaved impulsively. Today, I regretted throwing a pineapple at my husband. Well, half of a pineapple to be exact.
    The morning started out normal enough. And then I stepped out of bed. From that point on, it was disaster at every turn. From finding termites in the house, to discovering unapproved purchases on my bank statement, to not having enough money to pay this month's bills, missing my friends, (missing chocolate), and feeling like a big, fat, failure in general.... yeah, it wasn't a great morning! To make matters worse, (because I hadn't shed enough tears by 11am as it was?) my mother informed me that my grandpa was in intensive care with a head injury after a fall. As my anxiety rose to shaky levels, panic taking over my entire being, I had no idea how I was going to take care of all of these dilemmas that seemed to be vying for my undivided attention (all before I had to leave for work). My brain came up with a solution. Eat.
    Somehow, in my crazed state, I was able to remember my diet and I began slicing fruit (quite the feat when one's hands are shaking like an addict going through withdrawals). In an attempt to put the milk jug away, I realized that the pineapple we were keeping in the fridge had slid over to where the milk had been. And this is where things got a little hazy (perhaps pleading temporary insanity will help my case?). I gently (or not so gently) shoved the pineapply back over and went to put the milk in it's place... but the pineapple beat me to the punch and slid back over. With a huff, I attempted the same task. In defiance, that God-forsaken pineapple moved AGAIN. Before my mind had a chance to register what was taking place, I was reaching for the pokey fruit and hurling it across the room (problem solved). Sadly, that's exactly where my unsuspecting husband was seated.
    Now, I've never thrown a pineapple at someone before, but I'm pretty sure it would hurt. In fact, I've never thrown fruit of any kind at another person (that I can recall), but if I were to do it, I would think an apple or mango would be my choice (just for ease-of-hurl to damage-upon-impact ratio). Not a pineapple. But that's neither here nor there. I quickly apologized to my husband, who was doing everything he could to give me love and affection during my mental breakdown. He didn't deserve to be hit with fruit... at least not today. But I'm pretty sure that it's safe to say that, although he loves me and understands my morning crisis, he's NEVER going to let me live down the day that I clocked him with a pineapple.

The Kitchen Killer

    For several weeks now, I've been getting terrified by the sight of my husband. I know, I know... I make it sound as if my guy looks like the Creature from the Black Lagoon. But that's not it at all. I've literally been getting startled out of my mind when he appears somewhere unexpected in the house or if he says something when I thought he was taking a nap. Over the last month, I've probably had near-wet-pants at least a dozen times due to my husband's "sneak attacks". For instance, last week my t.v. was on and I was lying in bed. I thought my hubby was outside, so imagine my shock when he suddenly appears in the doorway, ready to shoot the breeze. I practically had a stroke! And then, I thought he had gone into the kitchen and was on my way there to see him, when he suddenly came up behind me from the guest bedroom. Once again, I yelled out and my breath caught in my throat. (I think he may be doing this on purpose to keep me on my toes... he's up to something, I can feel it!)
    Today was no exception. I was in the kitchen cooking dinner, when he rode up on his quad next to the kitchen window (notice that I did NOT freak out at this point). We carried on a lovely conversation through the open window as he sat on his 4-wheeler. The conversation ended and he went away (or so I thought) and I went back to cooking. So you can see why I would scream when I turn back to the window and see that he had apparently gotten off the quad and was standing with his face up against the screen.... with his nearly black hair, dark eyes, and scruffy gottee, he's the poster child for serial killers that come for their victims through kitchen windows. I screamed. He shook his head in disbelief that I was YET AGAIN frightened by him. He keeps telling me that one day I'm going to have to accept the fact that he does, in fact, live with me and that we will continue to cross paths on occasion. I think I'll keep the paring knife with me, just in case....

Beach Balls And Pumpkins

    Our Diet Wars at work was going so well.... this morning, my husband woke up and weighed himself, finding that he had lost 6 pounds. I then weighed myself and discovered that I had lost 4! I was so excited because this is only Day 5 and I'm loving to see the scale changing in my favor for once. So, I continued to eat well all day long and have actually been enjoying my vegetables (it's pure craziness, really!). However, I arrived home and felt suddenly exhausted beyond belief. I cooked dinner (venison taco meat with onion and diced tomatoes, wrapped in romain leaves) and then went upstairs to change into my pjs. My husband, noting my tiredness and slightly crabby (crappy) demeanor, decided that it would be best if I just laid down and he left me alone (good call).
    But this was before he told me that my butt looked like a beach ball and my stomach looked like a pumpkin. I'm not even joking. When my face began to crumble, he said, "No, your butt isn't big like a beach ball, your underwear just makes it look that way!" I'm pretty sure I didn't wear padded panties today (or ever) so not sure how my undies created this "beach ball" effect. Then he told me that my belly looked like a pumpkin, ya know, because I'm "bloated and all". When I responded with, "Gee, thanks," he said, "Well not your belly, just your body... like all over is bloated." Allow me to help you reach your foot to your mouth, dear. Glad to know my -4 pounds is giving me a lighter, yet puffier look. I think it's time I take my Shamoo nametag and retire for the rest of the night. Alone!

Cooking Lessons And The Rag

    Let the record show that, although my husband wrongfully accused me of PMS a few weeks back, he would be correct to accuse me of such things tonight (correct, but not wise). So, knowing full well that my I'm probably going to die of an iron deficiency by the end of the night, I'm not quite sure why my husband RELISHED in trying my patience. Now, I knew I was being a nag. I knew I was being short-fused. But then again, so did he. And yet he continued to do things like... exist. Let me back up to the beginning.
    I cooked a beautiful salmon to put over top spinach leaves with pecans, grapes, and raspberry vinegarette. It smelled and looked so beautiful, that even my hateful girl parts couldn't ruin the dinner. But my husband could. "Why didn't you put teryaki sauce on it?" (Him.) "Because teryaki sauce isn't part of our diet." (Me.) "But it looks weird." (Him.) My mouth responded with, "Too bad. It's a diet, suck it up." My mind responded with, "I'm going to carve out your heart and grill it up in teryaki sauce if you don't shut your pie hole!" See how much I showed restraint, even with PMS?
    After dinner, my guy decided to make a meatloaf (yes, more meatloaf) so we would have it for lunch tomorrow. I had the recipe written down for him, but he wanted me to stay in the kitchen while he followed it, just to make sure he did it right. As I listened to him criticize my direction-writing abilities, I pictured all the ways that I could poison the meatloaf and make it look like an accident. As I was daydreaming about assassinating my husband, he takes out the measuring spoons, uses them, and then PUTS THEM BACK IN THE DRAWER. He realized his mistake instantly and looked up in time to see my eyes bulge, face redden, and Satan's wrath come pouring out of my snarling mouth. "You NEVER put dirty measuring spoons back in the drawer!!!!!" I yelled as I yanked them out, noting the spices littering the contact paper in my utensil drawer. "Bubba, I just wanted to make sure you were paying attention?" It's not bad enough that I'm bloated, pimply, and leaking like a bad faucet... but now there's pepper in the drawer! (And yes, I DO realize I'm being irrational (slightly).... but don't tell my husband.)

Priorities

    I had a wonderful weekend out of town with my girlfriend at her shower and bachelorette party, meeting new friends, and spending time with my family. But I have to admit, although I was having a great time, I did miss my guy (especially when he sent me a text telling me that he was in the middle of cleaning the house and washing my bedding!). I was beyond delighted when I arrived home to a straightened house and fresh sheets (perfect for immediately tossing my exhausted body into).
    I even managed to put out of my mind how utterly starving I was after the first day of our new diet (well, almost). Of course, my husband conveniently "forgot" about May 1st (the long-awaited date we had scheduled for my co-workers and our spouses to shed some unwanted winter pounds through a month-long diet). So naturally, he binged like nuts and felt fit as a fiddle, whereas I could feel my stomach trying to eat my spinal cord with each nauseating growl. After the usual "let's eat all that we can before we start dieting" ritual I partook in (a little too aggressively), my chubby belly went into withdrawl after 12 hours on the diet.
    To remedy last night's tummy hunger, however, I made a very filling dinner with all the good stuff we can eat. My husband seemed to think that cooking dinner, preparing lunch for the next day, and cleaning the kitchen were all a ruse.... a mere way to avoid hubby-cuddle-time. He actually went as far as to write out a priority list, numbering all of the things I was putting before him (pretty much everything) including work, our dogs, and shoes. Seriously? We'll see how long he complains if I call off work for the next week, telling my boss, "I'm sorry, I won't be coming in today. I need to get fresh with my husband." And then, when we're collecting food stamps and begging for nickels along Route 68, I'll simply look at him and say, "At least we still have my shoes."

"PS I Luv U"

   I'm leaving to go out of town for the weekend and all I've heard from my husband for the last two weeks is a countdown for when I'm leaving. T minus 5 days, T minus 4 days, etc. etc. etc. He says he has big plans to have a blowout party with all of our imaginary friends (his dad and brother) in order to celebrate his masculinity for 2 days. (Frankly, I have a feeling he's gonna be lost without me, calling every few hours (aka meal times) to ask what temperature to set the oven to and how to know when the fish looks "done".)
    So today I had an all-day training, followed by dinner with my work partner, yoga, and tanning, pushing my arrival home back to 9pm. My hubby, who has been anxiously counting down my departure, found himself getting panicky that he wasn't going to get to "spend any time with me" (his words) before I leave. I secretly think he misses me already, but he hasn't been able to find the words to tell me that he has no idea how to survive while I'm away. Afterall, who is going to do the dishes if I'm not here? And as much as the man complains that I talk too much, he's going to literally lose his mind when someone's not there to prattle on and on for that half hour every night.... and I even think, although he would never admit this, that he is going to miss my nagging. Our daily banter is routine, and the boy can't live without things staying the same. Therefore, I've decided to program into my phone text messages that will go off on the hour. These messages will read something like this:  "Put the bread back, it's not on ur diet", "Get those socks off the table", U BETTER sweep that mud up u just tracked in", and "Did u wipe the dogs off the RIGHT way?" But I'll save one for the last day too: "PS I luv u". (Feel free to "awww".)

Meatloaf... Not The Band

   The other day I had the inkling to make a meatloaf. Why, I have no idea, because meatloaf is one of my LEAST favorite foods. There's something about meat that comes in loaf form that turns my stomach. So when my husband asked me to make a meatloaf the same day, I knew that it was my destiny (I'm pretty sure that is the saddest sentence ever blogged). I had never made this meal, so I called my mother-in-law to get her recipe. I followed the instructions to the letter.... but my meat turned out greenish and looser than his mother's (sounds vaguely like a description I gave to my doctor the other day....). Naturally, my whiney husband began to object, criticizing the fact that his loaf doesn't look exactly like a picture out of the Betty Crocker cookbook. I told him where he could shove the meatloaf, if he so desired, but he chose to grudgingly taste it.
    Lo and behold, the man loved it. What I mean by "loved it" is that he ravenously ate all but one slice of the loaf in 3 days. He talked about the meal to his entire family, swallowing a big piece of humble pie for dessert. Then tonight, he asked me to make another loaf so he could have it throughout the week. I agreed, but decided to make a few changes in order to add some visual appeal. It was the same basic ingredients, just altered slightly. When I told him that I think I may have improved the recipe, his face crumbled and he proceded to tell me that if it wasn't as good as the last loaf, he was going to kill me. Well that's gratitude for ya! What's a woman got to do to get a little thanks? My guy is so particular about NEVER trying new things that he is willing to threaten death if his meatloaf is subpar? I'm tempted to let the dogs lick all over the meat before I serve it to him tonight. So the jury is out..... Will he like the new recipe or will I apparently be tossed into the creek? Only time will tell.....

I Love You.... But Go Away

    As a newlywed, people are constantly making comments about how great that first year is... wanting to be with one another every second of every day... missing each other when you're apart.... blech. Honestly, I don't know how normal newlyweds do it! I was lucky to fall in love with someone that requires alone time just as much as I do. But here lies the dilemma. With his work schedule, he gets free time in the house to do whatever he wants on a regular basis, whereas I struggle to have time to do the things that us girls like to do when we're all alone... things that boys would find silly and hold over our heads forever and ever (face masks, foot soaks, eating completely random junk food, naked dancing... the usual).
    Therefore, I don't consider it being mean to tell him to get out. Afterall, it's my house too.... I should be able to do what I need to do without him sneaking up the stairs to catch me being girly, or without him calling to ask me to come help him with something. The problems is, my husband ENJOYS annoying me. It's some sort of twisted pleasure that he receives when he sees my face turning red and my mouth start to open to hurl an insult at him. So this weekend I laid down the law. I said, "Honey, I love you.... but go away." No one else has to understand, no one else has to agree. You can feel sorry for my man all you want. But if you tell me I'm being unreasonable to kick him out for a few hours, I will simply tell you that "I love you.... but go away."

Groceries

    I'm a fat kid, so I understand the excitement of grocery day better than most. There's the thrill of making my list, finding items on sale, sniffing fresh produce.... even better yet is getting all that delicious food home and organizing it into straight lines in the pantry (labels facing out) and sectioning off different types of food in the refridgerator (this IS my fun). But best of all is seeing all that food, organized perfectly, and then choosing what my next meal will be (now that there's more than condiments and crackers to choose from).
    However, my husband doesn't seem to understand my process. As I try to put things away, he's taking things out again (throwing my OCD out of wack in all sorts of ways!). Before I've even had the chance to unload all the bags, he's digging through them, getting in the way, and standing in front of wherever I need to be at that moment. And the worst part is that he even steals my favorite meal-planning time by opening up a bunch of new foods and diving in to eat....despite the fact that I'll be making dinner within the hour! It's like buying a new pair of shoes- beautiful, shiny, never been worn.... and then having a roommate with smelly feet wear them before you've even had the chance to give them a test run. I feel cheated. My relationship with the newly-purchased items was so short lived. Had I known it wasn't going to last, I would've lingered a little bit longer at the store- just a fat kid and her food.

Steel-Toed Uterus

    Milk jug. Empty cereal box. Glasses case and contact solution. Dirty towel. Water bottle. Coffee mug. No, this is not a psychological word association activity....but these various household items do have something in common. They are the things that my husband religiously leaves out instead of putting away. (I'm not saying that there aren't 20-30 other things constantly out of place due to his willy-nilly ways, but these are the ones that I have learned I can rely on daily, as constant as a sunrise and his morning grunts.) I've started wondering if he intentionally empties milk down the drain so that he can leave the jug next to the sink instead of in the recycling bag... 3 feet away. What baffles me more is when the man eats the rest of the cereal and then leaves the empty, uncrushed box DIRECTLY NEXT TO THE GARBAGE! He actually had to walk the box TO the garbage but couldn't be bothered to lift the lid? I mean, what's next, pooping NEXT to the toilet? Sleeping NEXT to the bed?
    So this morning, when I decide to mention this absurd pattern he has developed, the man had the nerve (THE NERVE!) to look at me and say, "I think you're gonna start your period soon."
    If my uterus had even just one leg with a steel-toed boot on it, it would've jumped out of me to kick him square in the groin. Because OBVIOUSLY only an emotional, bleeding woman would want her husband to throw trash INTO the trash can. There could be no other explaination! So from now on, I will make sure that I VERY clearly preface each request with, "Even though I'm NOT on my period, could you find it in your heart, dear, to put your dirty mug in the sink?".... and then I'm gonna slap a feminine pad onto the back of his shirt and wish him a good day.

Just To Say Hi

    It's the little things that my husband does that make me smile on the inside. I was having another long day at work and my cell phone rang. I saw that it was my guy, but I couldn't pick up because I was on a work call in the office. A few hours later when I had a free second to call him back, he said he was just calling. Just to say "hi". Ah, that's the stuff that melts the heart on a day when you need it. (Nevermind that 3 minutes later, he informed me that he was bored talking to me and that he was going to hang up.... but it didn't matter. I had already gotten my smile in so he was free to go and make his jokes.) I think it's just nice to know that someone thought about me through the day and cared enough to make me smile (through the kind thought, or through the joking comments... I'll take whatever I can get!).

P.S. Hi.

Boy Interrupted

I'm a new wife. It's been almost 8 months since we've been married, but even though we're relatively new, I know my husband... I know when his "needs" must be addressed. And let's just say that these last few weeks of itchy rashiness and fluish goo have put said needs on the backburner. Especially since I'm still covered in purple marks that are starting to finally crust over (sexy). So today, when my husband offered up a little romance, I knew the man was desperate. However, in the meantime I had received my weekly phone call to do Bible study with a girlfriend from out of state.... my husband did not know this as he came up the stairs very suggestively. I informed him that we would have to post-pone our rendevouz until I was done. What does he do? He pulls the covers back and lays down next to me on the bed... to wait. I don't know how many people have attempted to do Bible study under these circumstances, but it makes things SLIGHTLY AWKWARD! I told him to go away and that I would summon him when I was ready (ha).
   
Fast forward 30 minutes.
   
    Bible study was done, husband was ready, wife was settled.... and then wife's phone rings. It was my work partner. I had to answer due to an earlier crisis with one of my families. My husband yelled a resounding "Nooooo!!!" as the second wave of disappointment came over him. Poor fella...he was so close. My partner was laughing over the phone as I told her that he was just upset because we keep trying to have playtime but it's just not working tonight. At hearing this, my hubby frantically reminds me that I need to expound on what "not working tonight" means (something about male pride....). It would figure that tonight of all nights, our entire area loses our electricity due to the wind storm. No lights. No tv. Dead phone batteries. Candles everywhere.... Boy UNinterrupted.
   

The Forgotten Dwarfs

   In our house, we have found the forgotten dwarfs that must've missed the cut when trying out for Snow White. Our dwarfs decided to try out for the Garbage Pail Kids instead (flashback circa 1987 anyone?). I like to call them Itchy, Seepy, Pukey, and Poopy. The first two dwarfs belong to me. Apparently this lovely rash cocktail I have consists of severe poison ivy and some random allergic reaction to something unknown at this time (this is the Itchy dwarf). The doctor did a few skin biopsies (talk about nauseating to see a chunk of your flesh go into a labratory tube) and for whatever reason, mine won't stop bleeding! (Hence the Seepy dwarf.) It doesn't help that I'm allergic to bandaids, so my itchy and seepy rash is getting itchier and seepier every minute these bandages have to stay on. My doctor actually called me a "Hot Mess" which I'm pretty sure I've never been called (at least not by someone that isn't a client).
   The last two dwarfs, Pukey and Poopy, belong to my husband. The flu is refusing to leave him (well, lots of things are LEAVING him) and he has been stranded to the couch for the better part of 3 days, unable to eat and keep anything inside. The poor guy has had a rough week, so I've decided to lay off making fun of him for whining. Afterall, he has to put up with Itchy and Seepy... so I guess I'll cut him some slack and hope that our dwarfs find new homes soon. 

Big Man Baby

    All these months I've thought I wanted a baby. And then I realized that I already have one. He is 6'0" tall and has a goatee. Sure, he's potty trained, but he's the biggest man-baby I know. "I'm shivering, will you make me some soup? Not the canned kind, but the kind from the box with the skinny noodles? And get me some grape gatorade from the store?" I'm an obliging wife, so of course I try to make him comfy and get what he asks.
    "You got me DIET grape gatorade? It tastes funny. Can you pour off some of this broth from my soup? There's too much. Can you get me some water? From the Britta, not the tap? Will you wipe my butt?" (ok, that last part was an exaggeration, but it's only a matter of time before that comes up.) Our house sounds like we're on the set of a dirty movie with all the moaning this man-baby does when he's sick.... "Aahhooohh, I'm cold.... Aahhooohh, I'm weak...." I would LOVE to see this man have just one menstral cycle.... just one! He wouldn't make it through the first 30 minutes of cramps without falling apart. Well I've had enough... Pull out that tampon, ya big sissy, and suck it up!

(I love you, honey....)

Humane's Society

    There's nothing like coming home from a long, hard day's work and sitting down to check your email, only to find horrifying pictures of half-dead animals, brought to you from your neighborhood humane's society. I honestly don't know why I ever signed up to receive their notifications. It's always about seal extinction, puppy mills, or the slaughtering of something or other. If I didn't know any better, I would swear that they keep track of my facebook posts, choosing to send me depressing notices when I'm at my lowest, in order to get me to donate while I'm feeling vulnerable. Really it just makes me want to strap on a weighted vest and go for a swim, but I always seem to muster up the courage to say "no" to despair.... why I can't find that same courage to delete my name from their mailing list, I'm still not sure. It's sort of like getting those spam text messages that tell you to pass on the text if you agree that you want to stop genocide over in Whatstheplace... well, of course I want to stop genocide, so I send out a stupid text message that has nothing to do with anything. Perhaps I feel that the humane's society will accuse me of agreeing with animal cruelty if I remove my address from their list, and that's just a chance I'm unwilling to take. So if it means that I have to see yet another picture of a pathetic one-eyed creature while Sarah McLaughlin sings in the background, then I guess I'll just have to pull out the tissues and get on with it.

Tattletale

    I LOVE to shop. Seriously, this is one of my favorite hobbies. All of that, however, went out the window when I got married. Afterall, I didn't feel right buying shoes when needed to pay the electric bill. Every now and again, I allow myself a small, single purchase. Something that reminds me of what life used to be like in the carefree days of singledom, when I only bought food for one, there was only one credit card, and I had no idea how much a new tractor costs. Ah, but those days are gone, and I try to set a good example by limiting my extra spending.... so much so that we recently paid off several of our debts. Something I've noticed about myself, though, is that I'm a stress-spender. When I feel overwhelmed with finances, there's an urge that bellows within me screaming, "BUY SOMETHING, YOU FOOL!!!" I thought I had beaten the urge down within the last year of my life. It was now only a faint echo ringing in the back of my brain.
    And then I saw the purse. It was red. It was shiny. It had gold buckles and pockets galore. I always needed a purse with gold buckles and pockets galore. I could use it for work... AND for evening! It's an investment!! There's FREE SHIPPING!!!!! And then, with the simple click of a button, I had made my first impulse purchase (via the worldwide web) in well over 6 months. Crap. I know it was inexpensive, but I still felt terrible.
    Yesterday I come home and my husband announces that a package had arrived for me. Yikes... the moment of truth. My apologies and excuses for my accessory compulsion spewed out of me in at least 10 run-on sentences, my husband giving me an amused grin. He didn't care at all! A few dollars spent on something red and shiny was obviously ok in his book! I excitedly grabbed the package and tore into the cellophane wrapper..... And there were the curtains I had ordered for our guest bedroom. CRAP! I had tattled on myself for curtains?? In slow motion, I turned to my husband with a sheepish look. "They're for the house, it doesn't count!" I explained. He laughed, shook his head, and walked away. I'm pretty sure my impulsive shopping is now cured (well, at least for the next 6 months).