Remember when you were a kid and took one of those long car rides with your family? The ones where your dad would never pull over to let you pee until you were going to explode and mom kept trying to get you to stop fighting with your siblings? My brother and I literally were drawing blood and I had given him a black eye, yet mom wanted to play Uno over the backseat.
Long car rides in Florida suck. Just to get out of the state is nearly 10 hours. Then you ride more flat land until you finally hit some mountains. We never went any further than Chimney Rock, North Carolina to get dropped off and picked up at camp. Our usual road trip was to Disney World. Four hours to Mickey.
When I got to college my road trips around the South opened my eyes to kudzu, road side stands of fried pies, fresh vegetables, barbecue, and lots and lots of churches. Outside Montgomery, Alabama there is some kind of freaky religious shrine with hundreds of crosses.
Long car trips teach you patience. You know when you get out of the car you know there will be something good, something fun or at least a bathroom to look forward to.
I'm reminded of that patience as I wait for college football season to begin. It's been months since the Crimson Tide won their national championship. And while being the big winner has been fun all this time, I'm ready for something good and fun. A Saturday afternoon of cheers and "Roll Tides." Proudly wearing my shirts, shorts, and hats. Tearing up as the announcer yells "Here comes the Alabama Crimson Tide!" as the team runs through the tunnel on to the field. High fives and hell yeahs. Homecoming with my friends. Face painting and shakers. Hanging out on the Quad. And Yellowhammers.
Thirty six days to go. Are we there yet?
Saturday, July 28, 2012
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Boob Tube
Two weeks ago I got the frightening news that a routine MRI (I'll explain its "routine-ness in a moment) revealed two spots on my right breast and one on my liver.
After the initial shock (which according to my Confused Cuban/Puerto Rican lasted a brief twenty minutes) my thoughts went to two places:
1) Double mastectomy with reconstruction. Bright side--I would get huge new, perky breasts, would not have to wear a bra, pitch myself to Playboy as the first "reconstructionist" to be a centerfold.
2) Planned my funeral. Having just read about Nora Ephron's well-executed funeral plans (she left a folder marked "EXIT") I decided what my final goodbye would look like. Two hours of open bar to be followed by open mic and then the last Alabama Championship played on a JumboTron screen.
Back to reality...
My strong family history of breast cancer forces me to have a mammogram and MRI every year. I never give it a second thought.
Ten days later I had a liver ultrasound and a MRI guided breast biopsy. Being claustrophobic I was loaded on some good meds. The biopsy was especially bad. In and out of that tube, face down, for over an hour.
The GREAT news is that the liver spot was a shadow on the film and the biopsy was nothing--just two tiny cysts.
So regardless of what you think about health care reform, go get whatever tests you need--including skin cancer screenings--every year. If this was the worst case scenario for me, it would have been caught very early and likely saved my life.
Oh and sorry Playboy.
After the initial shock (which according to my Confused Cuban/Puerto Rican lasted a brief twenty minutes) my thoughts went to two places:
1) Double mastectomy with reconstruction. Bright side--I would get huge new, perky breasts, would not have to wear a bra, pitch myself to Playboy as the first "reconstructionist" to be a centerfold.
2) Planned my funeral. Having just read about Nora Ephron's well-executed funeral plans (she left a folder marked "EXIT") I decided what my final goodbye would look like. Two hours of open bar to be followed by open mic and then the last Alabama Championship played on a JumboTron screen.
Back to reality...
My strong family history of breast cancer forces me to have a mammogram and MRI every year. I never give it a second thought.
Ten days later I had a liver ultrasound and a MRI guided breast biopsy. Being claustrophobic I was loaded on some good meds. The biopsy was especially bad. In and out of that tube, face down, for over an hour.
The GREAT news is that the liver spot was a shadow on the film and the biopsy was nothing--just two tiny cysts.
So regardless of what you think about health care reform, go get whatever tests you need--including skin cancer screenings--every year. If this was the worst case scenario for me, it would have been caught very early and likely saved my life.
Oh and sorry Playboy.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Hoarders 1.0
These "Hoarder" shows try hard but hey, when you live with the hoarder prototype, they really don't pass muster. Just because you save every newspaper you ever read or dry cleaning receipt--that's amateur hour in my book.
My mom--let's call her Miss Judge-mental--bought THEN saved everything. There is a big difference. Old newspapers are worth next to nothing. Seven closets of shoes at about $300 a pop. Now we're talking. Got a few hundred TV Guides? Kindling. Now, three hundred pieces of St. John Knit is some good coin.
Miss Judge-mental did not keep her hoarding to the closest. The kitchen was a particular point of pride. Ever had chipped beef? From a jar? If not, she had seven jars around at all times. Candied ginger, anchovies, corn meal and Mandarin oranges were also in high supply. At least 20 boxes of sugar free banana Jello and low sodium chicken broth, too. What all those things make combined sounds like a Sandra Lee "Semi Homemade" recipe nightmare. From every meal a scrap was saved--nothing went to waste. Three peas, a lone bread roll, or half a canned peach were put in lunch-sized baggies and stuffed into a Sub Zero freezer that screamed "HELP ME" every time the door was opened.
Paper weights in crystal and china--boxes full. Pillows with sayings on them like "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most" covered every couch, chair and bed. Silver in every form--like four sets of place settings with 24 pieces each. Silver goblets, pill boxes, gravy ladles, grape scissors, grapefruit spoons and ash trays ( no one smoked) filled cupboards. Three complete sets of china, dressers of antique table linens and hundreds of Christmas cookie cut out shapes.
The attic was so interesting. Fifty years of tax returns, a pair of brown men's shoes that fit no one, Nixon buttons, boxes of my baby clothes (I'm 46), scraps of fabric and a flight manifest signed by Charles Lindbergh. Boxes of cut crystal, Christmas decorations, and wedding albums.
My theory on this 4,000 square foot junk fest we called home harkens back to the Great Depression and a fried egg sandwich. As a young child, saddened by a man begging for food on a street corner, Miss Judge-mental went home and fried in costly butter the only black market egg in the family fridge, carefully wrapped it in two priceless pieces of bread and went back to find the man--to no avail. Returning home, her furious mother forced her to eat that cold egg sandwich as a lesson she never forgot.
I mean really, it should have gone in the freezer.
My mom--let's call her Miss Judge-mental--bought THEN saved everything. There is a big difference. Old newspapers are worth next to nothing. Seven closets of shoes at about $300 a pop. Now we're talking. Got a few hundred TV Guides? Kindling. Now, three hundred pieces of St. John Knit is some good coin.
Miss Judge-mental did not keep her hoarding to the closest. The kitchen was a particular point of pride. Ever had chipped beef? From a jar? If not, she had seven jars around at all times. Candied ginger, anchovies, corn meal and Mandarin oranges were also in high supply. At least 20 boxes of sugar free banana Jello and low sodium chicken broth, too. What all those things make combined sounds like a Sandra Lee "Semi Homemade" recipe nightmare. From every meal a scrap was saved--nothing went to waste. Three peas, a lone bread roll, or half a canned peach were put in lunch-sized baggies and stuffed into a Sub Zero freezer that screamed "HELP ME" every time the door was opened.
Paper weights in crystal and china--boxes full. Pillows with sayings on them like "Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most" covered every couch, chair and bed. Silver in every form--like four sets of place settings with 24 pieces each. Silver goblets, pill boxes, gravy ladles, grape scissors, grapefruit spoons and ash trays ( no one smoked) filled cupboards. Three complete sets of china, dressers of antique table linens and hundreds of Christmas cookie cut out shapes.
The attic was so interesting. Fifty years of tax returns, a pair of brown men's shoes that fit no one, Nixon buttons, boxes of my baby clothes (I'm 46), scraps of fabric and a flight manifest signed by Charles Lindbergh. Boxes of cut crystal, Christmas decorations, and wedding albums.
My theory on this 4,000 square foot junk fest we called home harkens back to the Great Depression and a fried egg sandwich. As a young child, saddened by a man begging for food on a street corner, Miss Judge-mental went home and fried in costly butter the only black market egg in the family fridge, carefully wrapped it in two priceless pieces of bread and went back to find the man--to no avail. Returning home, her furious mother forced her to eat that cold egg sandwich as a lesson she never forgot.
I mean really, it should have gone in the freezer.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
The Rudest Place on Earth
There are many places you may think of that are rude. Now I know people are usually rude but I am taking that to the next level. I mean a place that rude people are attracted to, flock to, get their horrible energy from.
So what is your rude place? Macy's the day after Christmas? The mall parking lot? A crowded bus? The DMV? Your mother's Thanksgiving table?
My rude place is a doctor's office. But not just any office. No, this is the office of Dr. Bland (names barely changed to protect the innocent) a highly sought after "enhancement" dermatologist.
Note: Before you get all preachy on me, yes I get Botox. Yes, I know its poison. No, I don't care what you think.
This week I visited Dr. Bland and in his waiting room was a plethora of extremely enhanced, 60-ish women who were all looking over each other to see who looked better. There was one expecption, a smallish 14 year old girl who was there with her overprotective mom and having a fit over one zit the size of an ant hill.
Every woman there insisted to the lowly, hourly wage receptionists that Dr. Bland "wanted" to see her and that she needed to get in first. This turned into an all-out shouting match with the receptionists, who could be zombie stand ins. I checked in with the receptonist and the only thing they could do was smile meekly. I had a feeling I was in for a long wait. The shouting, gesturing, sour faces and preening was to only be broken up by a delivery of 25 red ballons for Dr. Bland. Turns out, it was his birthday.
Horrified that they would have to see Dr. Bland empty handed on his big day and full of fear he would unleash his retribution with an over-filled needle, they all told the receptionsist they would be back in hour so they could go to Needless Markup and buy him some overpriced trinket. Leaving me and a small zit alone.
The nurse called me in and the first thing I noticed is that Dr. Bland had redecorated and he had in his office a huge black and white photo of himself in his medical white coat injecting a much younger, partially nude man. Balloons were everywhere. Dr. Bland obviously loved latex in all forms.
The deed was done and I went to the desk to pay or as my confused Cuban/Puerto Rican says "handed over your first born." As I reached into my wallet the woman next to me, who looked like she has spent every waking moment baking in the sun, shouted "HERE TRY THIS ONE!" She shoved a Platinum American Express card in front of me to the receptionist. I turned to her and said "I'm trying to pay." "SO AM I" she screamed. The receptionist told her "Ma'am this card doesn't work either."
Since two rudes make a right, I said "Well I'll only have to give you ONE card, because it works" and handed her my plastic generic Mastercard.
Botox may make you look younger. But apparently it unleashes a rath of rude.
So what is your rude place? Macy's the day after Christmas? The mall parking lot? A crowded bus? The DMV? Your mother's Thanksgiving table?
My rude place is a doctor's office. But not just any office. No, this is the office of Dr. Bland (names barely changed to protect the innocent) a highly sought after "enhancement" dermatologist.
Note: Before you get all preachy on me, yes I get Botox. Yes, I know its poison. No, I don't care what you think.
This week I visited Dr. Bland and in his waiting room was a plethora of extremely enhanced, 60-ish women who were all looking over each other to see who looked better. There was one expecption, a smallish 14 year old girl who was there with her overprotective mom and having a fit over one zit the size of an ant hill.
Every woman there insisted to the lowly, hourly wage receptionists that Dr. Bland "wanted" to see her and that she needed to get in first. This turned into an all-out shouting match with the receptionists, who could be zombie stand ins. I checked in with the receptonist and the only thing they could do was smile meekly. I had a feeling I was in for a long wait. The shouting, gesturing, sour faces and preening was to only be broken up by a delivery of 25 red ballons for Dr. Bland. Turns out, it was his birthday.
Horrified that they would have to see Dr. Bland empty handed on his big day and full of fear he would unleash his retribution with an over-filled needle, they all told the receptionsist they would be back in hour so they could go to Needless Markup and buy him some overpriced trinket. Leaving me and a small zit alone.
The nurse called me in and the first thing I noticed is that Dr. Bland had redecorated and he had in his office a huge black and white photo of himself in his medical white coat injecting a much younger, partially nude man. Balloons were everywhere. Dr. Bland obviously loved latex in all forms.
The deed was done and I went to the desk to pay or as my confused Cuban/Puerto Rican says "handed over your first born." As I reached into my wallet the woman next to me, who looked like she has spent every waking moment baking in the sun, shouted "HERE TRY THIS ONE!" She shoved a Platinum American Express card in front of me to the receptionist. I turned to her and said "I'm trying to pay." "SO AM I" she screamed. The receptionist told her "Ma'am this card doesn't work either."
Since two rudes make a right, I said "Well I'll only have to give you ONE card, because it works" and handed her my plastic generic Mastercard.
Botox may make you look younger. But apparently it unleashes a rath of rude.
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