So, tomorrow I'm having a "procedure" performed.
I have this lipoma on my left forearm. I only have one and it's not as yucky as those two, but still, I hate it. I'm very self-conscious about it, though unless I point it out, apparently no one but me notices it.
Bill had lipomas removed a couple of months ago, and as a result had to wear the Cone of Silence. The vet tech saved Bill's lipomas and for some reason felt compelled to show them to us.
They pretty much look like big lumps of chicken fat. So, I have a big lump of chicken fat in my left forearm. Until tomorrow afternoon. I'm fairly certain I'm not going to have to wear a cone, but you never know.
"Pull up your pants boy."
Spoken by my daughter at a pool party today.
When I was a kid we had a fridge with the freezer on the bottom. I thought it was kinda goofy, but it was what my mother liked. To this day, that is her fridge of choice. I always wanted a side-by-side model. I thought they were the most glamorous type of fridge you could have. (Don't ask, I don't know where it comes from.)
When we moved into this house we put our old fridge in. Finally, something that went with the almond-colored, freezer on top, monstrosity. Problem is, there is a wall opposite where our fridge goes, so with a standard fridge you can't get the door opened all the way because it hits the wall. I don't know who was thinking what when they put that wall there, but it's load bearing so a little recreational sledge hammering is not an option.
So we went and bought a new fridge. Two actually. The first one was so huge it was ruining our lives so we returned it and I got the one I really wanted in the first place: a brushed stainless steel fronted KitchenAid 27 cubic foot side-by-side with filtered water and ice in the door.
I loved this fridge for about 45 seconds. Then I went to put my groceries into it. You can't put a freakin thing in it. Huge turkey? Forget about it, unless you having nothing else which requires refrigeration. Don't even think about getting a vegetable tray from Costco. Then there's the freezer. I think it's maybe 12 inches across. Sure, it's got groovy baskets that slide in and out, and they're pretty deep, but it sucks.
Yes, we still have the old almond-colored monstrosity in the garage, but it may as well be in another area code, because once something goes in that fridge it just dies in there because I forget about it.
I hate my refrigerator!
About two weeks ago my husband told me what kind of hair he likes on woman. He showed me. There was a woman on TV who had the hair he likes. Long. Dark. Parted on the side.
Well, two out of three wasn't bad. I had long. Parted on the side. But not dark. More light brown with blonde streaks. I have too much gray to have dark hair without trips to the hairdresser every 3 weeks for root touchups.
So, about 1 1/2 weeks later what do I do? Yes. I cut my hair. Off. Really short.
This was not about him. Not some sort of subliminal, passive-agressive dig at him since he just showed me what kind of hair he liked (on another woman). It was about me. And my hair.
The bad hair days were outnumbering the good ones but a growing margin. As a result it was always up or back. And then I'd get hairdo headaches. This, combined with the thought of spending 25 minutes in 100 degree summer heat, attempting to have cute hair, was more then I could stand anymore.
So I cut it off.
Don't get me wrong. It's cute. It's really cute. It's bouncy, behavin hair. It's low maintenance. Maybe 5 minutes with the blowdryer, some hair wax, and I'm off and looking cute.
But A) I feel kinda bad about the husband thing, even though it will certainly grow back and be long, and parted on the side again; and B) no one else has gotten the short hair message.
Everywhere I look--magazines, tv, on the street, there are women with long hair. Hair like my old hair, before I cut it off. Sarah Jessica Parker has my old hair.
I miss my old hair.
So last night I went a bit psycho on my husband. I have a variety of really good reasons for my nuclear melt-down, not the least of which is a serious case of PMS.
So I call my husband this afternoon and apologize for last night's melt-down and explain that I might be a "little PMS".
He told me he thought that might be part of the problem, and was going to ask me if it was, but then decided against it.
Finally, after eight years of marriage he's gotten a clue.
This made me very happy!
Congratulations Chris.
So yesterday I'm walking to get some lunch with my girlfriend Nancy. We're cutting through the building across the street, walking, and talking, and minding our own business, when all of a sudden I'm flying through the air and land on my right hip and shoulder, and my head hits the granite tile floor, two inches from a granite planter on one side and two inches from a granite bench on the other.
What the fuck?
Well, it seems that some guy was angry after his interchange with a building security guard and he started to walk away in a bit of a huff, and body slammed me. HARD.
It was by accident, but I literally went flying and then crashing to the ground.
Ow.
My glasses few off my face, and the wad of bills I had been clutching to pay for my meager salad went flying too.
I picked up my glasses. Picked my sorry ass up off the ground, and then asked, to no one in particular, "where's my money?"
The jerk who had just body slammed me then said, "Oh, is this your money?" I said yes and took it back.
Nancy asked if I was OK. I said yes. The guy asked. I repeated yes. Nancy was all aflutter. She was nearly as shaken as I was. I was embarassed and just wanted to get the hell out of there, relieved I hadn't fallen on my other arm that still has a 3 inch gash with stitches in it. The security guard who witnessed the whole thing basically stood there with his thumb up his ass after barely inquiring as to my well-being.
We left, and when I got back to the office I had a good story to tell over lunch. But wait, come to think about it, I went to tell the story at Nancy's prompting, but had no clue what happened. All I knew is that we were walking, and then I was on the ground. Nancy recounted the story and it's come back to me with her reminding me.
So I took some Tylenol with my lunch. I figured it couldn't hurt. I went home a couple of hours later with a pounding headache. I took a Vicodin and went on my merry way.
Before I went to bed I told Chuck that if I was dead when he woke up to be sure and talk to Nancy cuz she knew all the details and the name of the building management company he should sue for $80 billion.
Well, I didn't wake up dead, but I kinda wish I had. The entire right side of my body is bruised and achey. I've had a headache for two days and the only thing I'm glad about right now is that I don't have a black eye from where the side of my face hit the granite floor.
I feel like I've been hit by a Mack truck.
I'm more flattered when I get complimented on an outfit by another woman then if I get the same compliment from a man.
I grew up in an age where it was improper for your bra straps to be showing.
Apparently we're in a totally new age right now.
Now that the heat of summer is upon us tank tops are everywhere. Cute little spaghetti-straps, racer backs, halter tops, wife beaters. You can't spit without hitting a woman in a tank top (not that all of these women have made the best fashion choice for their particular body type).
So tank tops are everywhere, and so are bra straps. Some of these women have made, what I can only assume, to be clear fashion choices in that they want their bra straps to show. Not a choice I personally make.
I suppose I should be thankful that they haven't opted for going braless.
Sleep is a precious commodity. You don't realize how precious until you can't.
I can't.
Sunday night I didn't fall asleep until about 3:30.
Monday night I fell asleep at 12:30, was wide awake at 3:00, and finally fell back to sleep at around 5:30, only to be roused by Chuck at 7:30 for work.
I thought I hit the jackpot last night. I fell asleep about 1:30 and slept through till 7:30. Had the curse been lifted?
Alas not.
It's 1:56 a.m. and I'm wide awake.
WIDE AWAKE.
I was up until 3:30 this morning, despite being tired when I spoke to Chuck at 9:00 p.m.
There is an ongoing dispute in my house. I say that you need to pick up before the cleaning lady arrives, Chuck thinks it's the job of the cleaning lady to pickup and put stuff away.
The problem with Chuck's theory is that the cleaning lady then spends her time putting your stuff away, instead of what she's supposed to be doing: cleaning toilets and stuff like that. To further support my argument, when someone else puts your stuff away, unless you have superior mind-reading skills, you're not going to have a fucking clue where it is.
OK, so you see my point. You'd think Chuck would, considering after every time the cleaning people have been here, he slams around looking for his shit and complaining because he can't find it (because they put it away).
In Chuck's defense, they are pretty stupid about putting stuff away. I have often found shoes that are clearly mine on his side of the closet. In my kitchen I have a pot rack, and when I look for a pot that I know they've cleaned, I have to look in the cupboard--they place they think the pots should go, rather than the rack--the place I think they should go.
All that said, we've reached a level of semi-understanding around here. Chuck has gotten better about putting his stuff away. The fact that's he's gone most of the time probably helps that.
And I was getting less unhappy with the cleaning lady. Until yesterday that is.
I had done a load of laundry the other night. When I left for work on Thursday morning (cleaning day) it was in the dryer.
While the cleaning people (cuz it's a husband and wife actually) are here, they wash the sheets that they change. If there is something in the dryer, I usually find it either in the laundry basket, or neatly folded on the couch in my bedroom. I say usually.
That would be until this week.
I know that in the dryer were a pair of khaki cropped pants that I was planning to wear to the party I was going to yesterday.
So I shower. I start to get dressed. I look for the pants. I look in the laundry basket in my room that's filled with neatly folded clothes. No pants. I look in the pile of neatly folded items on the couch. Still no pants. I look in the dryer. You can guess that I found no pants.
Where the fuck are the pants??????
I figure some creative "putting away" took place. So I look in Chuck's dresser. Nope. My closet shelves and drawers. Again, no. Last resort: Zoe's room. Dresser, closet, and everywhere in general. No. No. And again, no. Family room (don't ask). No. Dryer three more times (perhaps they're hiding). No.
You might guess that by now I'm flipping out. I'm running late for leaving and can't find the pants and of course there is no other outfit that will possibly be OK, because I had my heart set on wearing those pants and had orchestrated the rest of the ensemble around them.
I emptied hampers. I looked under the bed. I pretty much looked everywhere in the whole house.
Then, for some reason I'm still not sure of, I decided to look in the washing machine. Perhaps because I'd already checked the refrigerator and they weren't in there. I don't know why I did, but sure enough, a whole load of freshly washed clothes were jammed into my washing machine.
You can be sure I'll be chatting with them about this. How do you say, "Don't ever fucking do that again!" in Spanish?
I would say that the best way to describe the way I dress is modest. I generally don't wear tight fitting clothes, or plunging necklines (despite the fact that I have a great "pair", or "the twins" as my husband likes to call them).
Well, something must have come over me the other weekend, because I went out of the house in a tight fitting, low cut tank top. Plus, it had a built-in push up bra in it. My old man was pleased with the results and said it looked good so I went out.
Stop one: pick up my sewing machine from service. The guy who worked on it was more then happy to spend a lot of extra time with me showing me what to oil, where, and when, so I wouldn't have the same problems I had to take it in for service for anymore.
Stop two: hardware store. Ladies, if you want service at a hardware store, I have two words for you: show em.
You see, the sink in our guest bathroom has been leaking. OK, pouring water may be a better description.
I'm a pretty handy gal so I decided that I would just change out the faucet myself. Me and the twins toddle over to plumbling supplies.
OK, there are two types of faucets, ones with a pop up and ones without. What's a pop up I wonder? (It's the little thing that controls opening and closing the drain, fyi.) Well, I had to find a salesman to tell me this. I find one me and the twins wait our turn.
Was it just me, or was he rushing to finish up with the customer he was helping?
While I waited I was looking through one of those "Do it Yourself" plumbing books.
The salesman finally finished up and eagerly offered to help me. I explained what I wanted to do and asked about the pop up thingie.
Well, never before have I had such service. He did everything but push my cart through the aisles. He put the faucet in the cart, found me plumbers putty, teflon tape, replacement supply lines, and new shut off valves. He put it all in my cart. He then spent quite a bit of time explaining the procedure to my breasts, promising that I wouldn't need that silly book and if I had any problems, I should feel free to call him. Anytime. Was there anything else he could help me with? At all? Ever?
When you get a sandwich from the little cafe in my building it comes in one of those multi-compartment styrofoam boxes. You get a sandwich and a side salad. Your choice: cole slaw, potato, pasta, or fruit salad.
When you get your sandwich with a side salad, even though the (often saucy) salad is in a separate compartment from the sandwich, they put a little square of waxed paper there so that there's no chance that the dressing from the salad will sog out your sandwich.
It's a good thing.
As a courtesy to me, if you know me and you read my weblog, please make yourself known to me. You have a couple of options: post a comment (to those of you who have done this/do this regularly, thanks, I'm sending you the love), or send me an e-mail , then I'll send you some love too.
Having said the above, if you know me and read me and don't out yourself to me and I talk smack about you here you have no room to complain about it, take offense to it, or even mention it to me.
Thanks.