Pseudo-Stream of Consciousness and My Squemish Cells

The other day, I went in for the big removal of the ugly wartlike bump on my neck. Yay! Well, not really "yay!" because I don't like having people poking around my trachea (or is that my esophagus?) Either way, I have serious gag reflex issues, even if it's just someone touching my throat. (My theory: I was strangled or hung or both in a past life. Then, because I like cats, I decided that I was a cat who was strangled or hung or both in a past life. Yes, I am one odd duck ... or cat.) Anyway, "yay!" as in get this thing off me so it doesn't spread and become something horribly worse (i.e., one of my worst nightmares, which, surprisingly, is not about being strangled or hung or both).

This bump o' mine was smack dab in the middle of my neck, right where an Adam's apple would be if I had an Adam's apple. (Girls don't have those, right? Weird memory flash: When I was in junior high, I was kind of obsessed with Adam's apples and thought they were so sexy, and I wondered why I didn't have one, because if they were sexy on guys, wouldn't they be just as sexy on girls? I was such an odd child. The guy who triggered the whole Adam's apple fetish was the big brother in ET, who I thought was sooooo cute back in the day. Apparently I had a thing for scrawny guys with crooked teeth.)

Anyway, cutting this sucker out required all sorts of poking and prodding and drawing and digging and scraping and sewing, all on that ultra-sensitive area of my throat. Blech, ick, ew. I'm so glad I didn't throw up all over everyone. I kept trying not to think about what was happening right under my nose, but then one or the other of them (the doc or the assistant dude) would ask me a question. As soon as I talked, the muscles right under where they were working would move, and then I'd be aware that while I was talking and he was talking, my neck was open and he was in there scraping all around. Gross ... and kind of ouch!

And what were we talking about? Well, after confirming that I was OK and that I was fine with listening to Rush (not really, but it was better than bad Christmas music), the conversation moved on to U2, then Celine Deon and REO Speedwagon (what a weird playlist they had), and then somehow morphed into a discussion of the war in Afghanistan and Obama's Nobel Peace Prize and circled right back to U2, with the doc concluding that Bono should have got the Peace Prize instead. Whether I agree or not (and I pretty much do, and not cuz I love U2), who really cares? I mean, who has these sorts of conversations during a doctor's appointment?

Apparently I do! I still remember the pap smear appointment where the doc lady and her assistant gal were discussing lobster and steamed clams (really?!?), all while poking around in my nether regions. Then there was the time I was doing the whole IVF thing, and the doc and Mr. J were discussing Mr. J's clothing line and the fact that the doc knew a venture capitalist who might like to invest in it all. The investing never panned out AND the doc totally poked the very back of my uterus (ouch!) because she obviously wasn't paying attention to me. And this could possibly be one of the many reasons we don't have kids today (though that is a whole different discussion).

I am happy to report that according to Mr. J, the stitches all look nice and neat and clean, and according to the Doc, he got it all out (just waiting for the latest biopsy). So I'm healthy and happy, though not thrilled at all that every Christmas photo this year will feature me looking like F. Murray Abraham after the (fictional) throat slashing in Amadeus.

OK, so maybe not this old and wrinkled;

p.s. this was a great scene in the movie, if it's the one I'm thinking of

Squeamish Cell Carcinoma

So, I had a mole removed last week. Actually, they weren't sure if it was a mole or a wart or an infected whitehead or what. So they scraped it off and sent it off for a biopsy, and that was that. Or so I thought!

Isn't it nice to be woken up first thing on a Monday morning with a call from your dermatologist telling you that the mole was indeed a mole and it was squamous cell carcinoma. I took it all pretty well. I am usually the one telling others that the two most common types of skin cancer really aren't that bad, as long as you catch them in time. It's the scary moles or scrapes that show up on your toe or your buttcrack or your armpit that (in my vast medicinal knowledge) are the scary ones. The horrible, terrible, very bad, no good malignant melanoma. So yesterday I was fine.

But this morning I woke up with every worst-case scenario running through my head while I overanalyzed every lump, bump, and scrape on my body. So thank God the appointment is in two hours, so I can ask all my questions, and they can reassure me and tell me that everything is going to be OK.

Until them, wonderful Mr. J is taking me out for breakfast and then to Home Depot (ain't he sweet) to keep my mind off things. And right now he is on the phone planning a possible trip down the Grand Canyon next summer! And if we get that trip (which would be awesome), I will be packing my entire dry bag full of sunscreen.

High on Life

Well, OK, so I'm really high on B.I.N. shellac-based primer. But I'll take what I can get. Actually, we are going to be escaping the overly stench-a-cious place that is our home by checking out a friend of a friend who is performing with his fellow jazz-band members at the local steakhouse/bar. It sounds great, but at this point, anything that gets me out of this overly heated house that smells like about a million Dry-Erase markers sounds good.

The label on the paint can was extremely helpful, by the way. Something to the effect of "Use in a well-ventilated space with as many windows open as possible. The fumes should be no worse than if you were painting outside." Well, when it's 14 degrees outside and dropping fast, I can tell you that the windows and doors did not stay open long. However, we did open them for short bursts. Just to try to clear our vision! Oy!

But the floors are going to look so much better than the manky, munky, ucky cat-pee-stained carpet that was there. Even if we didn't sand it all down properly and you can see a faint outline of Mr. J's sneaker in one spot. I'll take that any day.

I have a whole list of fascinating, interesting topics for this blog o' mine. But this is all I have time for today. And it's also about all the few remaining brain cells in my skull can handle. Here's some pictures worth a thousand words (or maybe about 100) to fill in the blanks.

Before


During


Camera battery is dead, so no photos of the paint fumed floors.

P.S. I realize that the during photo is a thousand times worse than the before photo, but photos just do not capture the remaining 900 words, which would all describe the horrible stench of cat piss that those two layers of carpet and one stubborn layer of linoleum contained.
P.P.S I just reread this, and wow is this all over the place. I am blaming all the empty spaces in my narrative on chemical-induced brain-dead-ness.

Intimidation

So I spend my procrastinating hours blog-hopping. My, oh my, are there some fabulous bloggers out there. Witty, funny, smart, insightful, a joy to read (is that even a word?).* And I think that is why I have been so quiet here. That and the fact that now that I have an audience (of 1), I feel the need to write something a little more meaningful than my usual whiney-ness. Well, all that AND the fact that I have spent the last couple weeks essentially chained to my desk or cooking or walking the dogs. Nothing earth-shattering. I don't even have great stories about appliance mass suicide and the good things that come from that. :-)

Maybe (most likely) it's that perfectionist in me who wants everything to be amazing, world-wise, hilarious, thought-provoking, maybe even poignant. All at the same time. Every time. All the time. I don't know why I expect this when I'm not that way in real life. Every now and then I'm one of those things for a few minutes. Sometimes even for a whole afternoon! (though I don't think I'm ever poignant)

So, how do I let go and write? Pretend like no one is reading and just say what I want to say? Get some get-started prompts from some how-to-write book or website? Or just take a few minutes out of the day to actually think about things, look around, observe, witness, reflect, and see what I see?

Anyway, subject change (to prevent this from becoming too whiney): Can I just say how incredibly excited I am to be going "home" for the holidays? I cannot wait to see my three little nieces, my cousins, my folks, my sister, my Nana. Well, OK, everyone!! I am not in the Christmas spirit AT ALL yet. Every time I hear a Christmas song on the radio, I scream in aggravation (really) and then have this near-violent knee-jerk reaction to change the station. Mr. J finds it all very hilarious, as he doesn't really pay attention and probably doesn't realize half the songs are carols, as they are being sung by Sheryl Crow or some such thing. Perhaps if they hadn't started playing these songs before Thanksgiving, I'd be a little more forgiving. Perhaps. But I do love Christmas time, and I am very excited for it all. I am hoping for snow and walks in the snow and maybe getting to the lake, only to find it frozen over with that perfect-for-ice-skating glasslike ice (not that that has happened for years). But even if it's 70 degrees and sunshiney, I can't wait. I love Boise, but I miss my family. Why can't they all just pack up and move out here?

OK, enough procrastinating. Fa la la la la.

*Disclaimer: Each of these blogs is all the words mentioned; I did not categorize them according to an overriding characteristic. Just seemed like a fun way to give a shout out to a few of the fabulous women out there who are entertaining me these days.