3 weeks ago I went for my annual eye appointment. l did the usual testing with one thing different. Instead of the “eye drop that makes you blurry” test they took a picture instead. What they found looked something like this:
Except my spot was a lot bigger.
Me: What is that?
Doctor: I don’t know. This isn’t my specialty. It can be anything from an infection to a melanoma. If it’s a melanoma that could be bad. You need to go see an eye doctor.
Ok, hold on a minute. I thought he was an eye doctor. Apparently in my 45 years of living, I never realized the difference between an optometrist and an ophthalmologist.
So, for another 3 weeks I had visions of some bad shit running through my noggin. I pictured my tumor getting bigger and bigger by the day. I even started to “feel” it. I thought of them having to remove my eyeball. Well, at least my little nephew would now have a real pirate to play with.
So, I go to the eye doctor and go through the routine testing. Again. After 2 hours, I find out what the prognosis is. Are you ready? Drum roll please…
A birthmark. Yup. It’s a freaking birthmark. In other words, a freckle. Well, good. That is good, right? Yes. But it doesn’t make for very interesting story telling. I mean, I’m glad I’m not dying or anything. But it could have been something a little more fun. Like possibly a virus or something. Something. But a freckle?
So, I do leave the appointment feeling relieved I’m going to live. The fact that I’m not dying is a good reason for a celebration so I stop off for some wine. I notice that people are looking at me. No, I mean everybody. Looking at me. I don’t get looked at that often anymore so I was curious to see what was the attraction. Did I leave some lunch on my face? So I look in the mirror and see this:
I look like Night of the Living Dead. Gross. I forgot those drops made your pupils as big as the black hole. The lady at the doctor’s office told me to wear sunglasses even though it was dark out. Now I know why.
One Saturday morning last summer, I was the only one up in the house. I never get those mornings. So I decided to watch a movie. On our big flat screen TV. A TV that can be seen at least a mile away. In a living room that my husband likes to refer to as “the fish bowl.”
I have gotten into the habit of not getting dressed when we have no plans on a Saturday. I know. It’s not a very good habit. This was my attire this one specific morning: T-shirt. Underwear. If you show up at my house on a Saturday, I can’t promise you I’ll be decent. You might want to call first.
So there I was watching a movie, minding my own business when the doorbell rings. Picture this: one 45 year old woman wearing a t-shirt and underwear nose diving onto the floor face down. Then crawling by the front door, a front door that has windows on either side, through the foyer and into the kitchen. All done in military style. You would have had to be Ray Charles not to have seen me.
So, who was interrupting my Saturday morning? Jehovah’s Witnesses. I know this because I looked at them as I was crawling past the door. 2 of them. They must think they are like a bag of Lays… one just isn’t enough.
As a parting gift, they got a very nice shot of my ass. I’m pretty sure the image was burned into their corneas. They never came back. I think what they saw scared them straight off our street. You’re welcome neighbors. You owe me.
I’m one of those people who pee when I laugh too hard. Ask any one of my close friends. They know not to make me laugh until after I’ve emptied my bladder. Even then, it could still happen. There are certain friends who, when I have plans to see them, I have to carry a change of clothes with me. You know who you are.
Now I have a new problem. It literally started about a week ago. If I wait too long to go, it just kind of comes out. Look, I know I act immature, but this is ridiculous. I feel like a damn toddler.
I was telling my mom about this new development. She has the same problem. The only difference is she’s pushing 67. Mom’s always have the best advice. She told me to start wearing these:
Sex in a box. 30 of them. I love how it says “Serenity” on the carton. There was a time when that meant taking a long hot bubble bath because you’ve had a rough day.
The other problem I have with their advertisement is this:
Well, I peed a little there too. It didn’t help that the kid was outside snapping pictures of me and having a good laugh at my expense. That was not one of my finer moments.
Can you imagine me in, let’s say, 20 years? Unpeelievable.
I was bored during the storm today. I figured I probably should try to actually do something before I developed hemorrhoids from sitting on the couch for too long. So, I decided to google what to do during a blizzard. Here were the top 10 suggestions and why they just weren’t going to work out for me:
1) Shovel – that’s what I have a husband for.
2) Build a snowman – that’s what I have a kid for.
3) Sit by the fire – Since the kindling is buried in half a foot of snow, that doesn’t appear to be happening.
4) Go sledding – I like my head in one piece, thank you very much. Besides, I’ll probably just pee my pants. Watch out for the yellow snow! Sorry. I couldn’t resist.
5) Watch TV – No shit Sherlock. That’s why I’m googling what to do during a blizzard.
6) Go exploring – Do they think my name is Lewis? Or Clark? I don’t know. Do you see a resemblance?
Holy crap, I’m obsessed. I can’t stop. And I don’t know what to do about it.
The game is called “Scramble.” Not Scrabble. Scramble. The little word game that comes in the form of an app that you can download to your smartphone. The object is to make as many words as possible in 2 minutes and try to beat your opponent.
I know I have a problem. Here is a small list of why I think so:
When I should be cleaning the house, but I’m not. I’m playing Scramble.
Dinner needs to be put on the table. But it’s not. I’m playing Scramble.
I should be asleep but I’m not. Until 1am, I’m playing Scramble.
The kid is speaking to me. Do I hear her? No, because I’m playing Scramble.
I should be spending quality time with DH. The kid is in bed. We are sharing a bottle of wine. But I don’t pay attention to him. Because I’m playing Scramble.
In the car. Actually, no. I don’t play in the car because it makes me dizzy.
The really fun part is I can spell bad words. Like Ass, Shit, Shat and Damn. It’s so much fun when I can spell out a bad word. It’s like that thrill you get when you spell a word out with the numbers on a calculator. hELL. Ooh, what a rush.
There is a downside though. This is what I see when I close my eyes:
I lie there imagining words that I can make. Sometimes I can’t turn it off. Sometimes it drives me so crazy I could just about jump off the nearest bridge. It’s like hearing Roseanne Barr singing one verse of the National Anthem over and over again in your head.
There are a couple of die hards that I play with. I sit and play and wait for my opponents to take their turn. Sometimes it can take hours. What happened? Are they sick? Did they get hit by a bus? Where are they??? Come on people, you’re killing me…..
The kid keeps asking me when I’m going to get sick of it. Like Facebook, it’s so “yesterday.” I’m like a crack whore. I won’t get sick of it. I can’t get enough. Ooh, wait. What’s this “Ruzzle” game all about? Hmmm. Maybe I should check it out.
What I saw at the grocery store on the day before the prediction of a major snow storm:
A parking lot that looks like the parking lot of the Staples Center before a Justin Bieber concert.
Half of America.
A truck spraying “de-icer” out of the back of it that smells like dog shit. No really. Dog Shit. I had to look at the bottom of my shoes before I realized where the smell was coming from.
An old Cadillac with the rearview mirror dangling, the windows wide open, and a large wagon attached to it that said “Red Flyer” on the side. I didn’t think they made them that big. He was parked on the curb. He must be one of those survivalist people. Dude, you’ll be able to get out of your house by Saturday, I’m sure of it.
A woman proclaiming in the loudest voice she could to her daughter how sick she was. “Cough, cough. I really don’t feel good. Hack, hack. I don’t feel like being here. Phlegm and sniff. ” All over the cucumbers. And cucumbers were on my list.
Something that sounded like a freight train in the isle next to the peanut butter. I was afraid to look.
Every single register was opened and the lines were snaking around into the isles. What was weird is that people were actually jolly. Hmm. Good for them. Keep your jolliness to yourself. I don’t want to see it.
A woman buying a 50 pound bag of dog food. In case she gets stuck in her house for 3 months. At least her dog will live. Unless her pup is willing to share.
Last but not least, me. I saw ME at the store. What the hell am I thinking? Going to the grocery store the day before the storm from hell is supposed to hit? I hate grocery shopping on a good day. I make fun of the people who go to the grocery store the day before a major storm. Well, I guess if I looked at the news more than once a year, I would have known and gone yesterday.
But It’s going to blow over. Want to know why? Because I was at the store buying enough shit to last my family and me a week. With half of America. That’s why. You can thank me later.
The kid was talking the other day about how she can’t wait to get her license. She’s wondering what car she will get to drive. I have terrible news for her. It will most likely be nothing short of falling into the category of a soccer-mom vehicle.
I base part of that decision on my own teen experience. It was a circa 1970’s Nova and it had an 8-cylinder 350 engine. No seventeen year old should be driving a car of that magnitude. Especially not me. Let’s just say, I went through a period where I thought I wanted to be a race car driver. Not a good combination. Like the elastic neckline, I think my mom was trying to kill me.
But this car was the bomb. It didn’t have reverse, the seats weren’t bolted down to the floor board and the windshield was loose. Every time I went over a bump when it was raining, I would get splashed in the face and my seat would lift up in the air like a ride at Disney. It didn’t have a paint job, but it did have a Budweiser gear shifter. I was the shit.
The only time I could get it to go into reverse was when the engine was cold. And I mean ice cold. Like the middle of February cold. Any other time of the year, if I didn’t park where I could just pull straight out, I was pretty much screwed. Unless there was a strong male walking by, I was stranded there until the following Winter.
I was really good at pulling donuts and burning rubber. The engine was so loud, my friends could hear me coming a mile away. I adored that car. One night a friend of mine who was going to BOCES for auto mechanics told me he could fix my transmission. Just like that. I was all too eager to hand him the keys. Without consulting my parents.
My good friend wrapped her around a tree that night. He was ok, the tree was not. And neither was my Nova. As for me, I was grounded for a month. And my baby spent the rest of her life in a junk yard being raped of her good lady parts. Sniff-sniff.
And that is precisely why the kid will be driving a mom-mobile. That’s a good enough reason for me. What memories does your favorite car stir up?
Yes, I use a washcloth. In fact, I’m a washcloth scrubber. (Be careful where you scrub though, apparently you can scrub natural bacteria right off your vajayjay and cause an infection. I read that somewhere. I know it’s tempting but refrain.) Anyway, doesn’t everyone scrub with a washcloth? Apparently…not.
I recently had a conversation with some friends about washing with a washcloth (yes, I know…very compelling) and I was completely shocked to find that, according to them, it’s rare to wash with one. Well, in my circle anyway. Dirty, dirty circle.
Just a bar of soap and their hands work fine for them. Huh. What about all those crevices? Those certain unmentionables that I don’t think I want my hands touching on a good day?
Well, “that’s what the soap is for,” they tell me. Ok, so I gave it a try. The only problem is, I got the overwhelming need to wash my soap…with a washcloth. Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m a pretty clean person. I mean, it’s not like I go out and sling mud or anything. It’s just that, well, we have….crevices. I mean, they call them wash cloths for a reason, right? It’s a cloth to WASH with, correct? Maybe I’m missing something.
I have to admit that I like my washcloth. I have a bit of a love affair with my washcloth (get your head out of the gutter). My washcloth as seen more…oh. Never mind. How about those Mets?
DH has this fixation with wildlife. He gets overly excited whenever he sees anything, including deer, walk through our yard.
For Christmas, my parents gave him a camera to capture this wildlife. He has it hung out in the back woods on a tree. It’s motion detected so whenever something walks by, it snaps a picture. He is hoping to capture photos of coyote, red fox and even better…a big bad wolf.
Every few days he puts on his boots and coat and runs out there like a little boy on Christmas morning to pluck out the memory card. He anxiously awaits while the pictures upload to his laptop.
It’s been about 6 weeks, and so far this is pretty much all he’s gotten.
Poor guy. I mean the deer. His curiosity must have momentarily blinded him and totally freaked him out.
As for DH, keep on trekkin’. I’m sure you’ll hit pay dirt sooner or later.
In the meantime, I probably should buy stock in Duracell.
“Welcome to McDonalds. Can I take your order?” Said the guy behind the speaker.
“Yes, I’ll take a #2 meal with a sprite. A 5-piece chicken strip meal with a water and a crispy chicken honey mustard wrap with a coke. That’s it. Thank you.” Said me.
“Would you like fries with the crispy chicken wrap?”
“So, you would like a #3 meal…”
“Um, no. Not a #3. A #2.”
“Oh. So you want a chicken wrap meal…”
“No, not a meal. Just the wrap and a coke, no fries.”
“Oh, sorry. So you want a 5-piece chicken strip meal with a water and a crispy chicken meal with a coke. Will that be all?”
“No, I also would like the #2 meal. With a sprite.”
(Am I being Punk’d? I looked around for Ashton Kutcher.)
“Oh ok. Your order comes to $15.74. Please drive up to window #1.”
Seriously, considering the ordering process didn’t go so well, we were only missing a coke. Like my New Year’s eve experience with bad ice, I should have known and just drove out of the parking lot. Why do I do this to myself? The signs were once again as strong as Popeye on 50 pounds of spinach.
I’m supposed to be on a diet anyway, right? It looks like that just got bumped back to March. Darn.