Usually, I’m the first person to tell you what sucks, but since this is Black History Month, I’m gonna tell you all the things that I think are AWESOME!!!  [Note: these are things I think are awesome today, but I'm fickle. I might hate these things tomorrow.]

-Live Live’s Bee Yummy Skin Food
Unlike when I lived in LA, Tennessee winters can be a bit more brutal on your skin. Especially your face. And if you’re like me, you’ve been told by various people that you have oily….no, dry…no, combination…no, oily….no, dry skin. It’s overwhelming and annoying.  But this year I discovered Live Live’s Bee Yummy Skin food (which I order online) and it’s been amazing! It’s all raw and organic, and has so many healing agents in it, too.  I put it on right after I wash my face and proceed with “the process” (as my college roommate always called my getting-ready routine). It’s awesome! (Bee Yummy AND “the process”)

-Kiehl’s All Sport “Non Freeze” Face Protector
Speaking of faces, this SHIT IS THE BALM! Kiehl’s is obviously no slouch of a product line, but this is one of my favorites. I run, and when it’s windy and cold, it stings!  Rosy red cheeks are cute until your flesh is hanging off of them. I slap on this stuff and I don’t feel a thing!  It doesn’t clog your pores, it doesn’t drip when you sweat and it’s SPF 30.  Plus, I would be very slippery in water…if I were to suddenly jump into water. That would be kinda awesome…

-Arriva Headphones
Speaking of running, (damn, I’m the segue queen!) this is probably one of my top favorite discoveries of all time. I have to listen to music while I run…call it dangerous or whatever…but I’d rather be hit by a car anyway without my sweet beats while I’m running. But, of course, who wants to be fighting with headphones and cords and all that while you’re trying to get in the Auto-Zone? Not me. Enter Arriva’s headphones. Attach an iShuffle (which I’m pretty sure are not being sold anymore – so that doesn’t really help you), bend the headphone to fit your head snuggly and *BOOM* you look like an alien!  A running alien!  That’s pretty awesome!!

-The Mouseworks
Ryan Williamson runs The Mouseworks out of his home in the mountains of Virginia. He’s young, kind of quirky and lives the most eco-friendly life of anyone on the planet, I’m pretty sure. Probably more than Ed Begley, Jr.

Ryan Williamson sells hats. Hats like the one in the picture there, and more.  I bought a bear one for my husband two years ago and, I kid you not, he cannot go anywhere without someone commenting on his hat. So this year, I bought them for all my friends! And they all love them, too!! They’re warm, made from fully recyclable materials and BEST OF ALL, you can design them yourself!  Ryan is also very sweet. He’s awesome!!  His hats are awesome!!!

-Fred Flare
If you haven’t heard of Fred Flare, you’re missing out. They’re out of Brooklyn, New York and, not only sell fun/wacky tsotchke stuff, but they sell clothing and accessories, too.  I bought a couple coats there this season, and I get stopped ALL the time with compliments! Thanks Fred!  Compliments are awesome!!!!

Also…their Customer Service people are very nice….and, let’s be honest, nice people are the MOST awesome!!

-Moo Mini Cards
If you need new business cards for your business that isn’t very business-like, then these are IT! Wait. That wasn’t a very good sales-pitch, was it? Let me back up.

These are “mini” cards, so they are smaller than normal business cards (which some might say is not smart in the world of business… “If it doesn’t fit into a Filofax, you’re probably going to lose that sale!”). But I like to think of these as unique-pieces-of-art-with-my-phone-number-on-it. They have a bazillion designs for you to choose from, EACH one of your cards can have a different backside, you can custom design your cards for NO extra fee AND you get 100 for $25 (including s/h)!

As you can see from the picture, I designed mine to match my website. Girls love small because small is cute because cute is awesome!!!!

-Garfunkel and Oats

Photo by Chad Nicholson

Speaking of small and cute (*sigh* now I’m just boring myself with these clever transitions), meet Garfunkel and Oats…if you haven’t already. They are a folksy little comedy duo out of Los Angeles. Both semi-somewhat-accomplished actresses in tv/film, Riki Lindhome and Kate Micucci paired up to do songs and the like. Look them up. Specifically, the song “F**k You” is awesome!

-Scrunchies

I WEAR THEM IN MY HOUSE AT NIGHT WHILE WATCHING TV.
And you know what…I AM AWESOME!

So those are my awesome things for today. Awesome is pretty awesome, huh? You got any awesome things I should know about?

It was so fascinating, I had to buy it! When I brought it to the register, and the girl rang it up, I suddenly felt self-conscious for buying Practice Finger. I didn’t know what it was and it seemed really dirty. Either way, I didn’t want her to judge me for buying Practice Finger.

I laid Practice Finger on the counter and chuckled while saying, “I just had to buy this.” She nodded, uninterested. BUT because it’s me, I took it as harsh judgment. I had to speak up again. I had to let her know that I was buying this AS A JOKE! I really don’t NEED Practice Finger. I put on a clown-like smile and said, “It’s just the craziest thing!!” She half-smiled (which looked similarly like disdain) and said, “64¢.” All that coolness I was exuding (as described above) flew RIGHT out the window as I excitedly claimed, “What a deal for Practice Finger!!” As if I knew.

I got it home and examined it further. I was pretty excited about the self-adhesive base. You know…you don’t want Practice Finger to MOVE on you when you’re in the middle of….it. Whatever it is.

WARNING: Let me interrupt myself here to say that whatever you’re doing with Practice Finger, please note that it is “for Professional.” Not to be rude, but you’re most likely an amateur and I don’t want to see you get hurt.

Well, as it turns out, Practice Finger has an actual purpose: it’s used by cosmetology students to practice putting on fake nails. Now…I’ve never had a friend studying to be a cosmetologist, but I probably wouldn’t let her (OR him – doing nails is NOT just for girls anymore – ask any of the ONE male Korean manicurists always working at the sweatshop nail salons) practice on my fingernails.

So while Practice Finger makes sense “for Professional” reasons, I couldn’t help but think that there were a lot of times I could’ve used Practice Finger when I wasn’t QUITE ready to use my real finger. Here are some:

•  It just so happens the VERY day after I purchased Practice Finger, a friend suggested we pinky swear on something. I’ll be honest, friend, I was apprehensive about our deal. We’ve had our troubles in the past and to make such a strong commitment was causing me great anxiety. I’m so glad I bought Practice Finger when I did. It was sort of like “just moving in with someone.” So far, it’s working out. We’ll see.

•  With Practice Finger’s self-adhesive backing, it’s an obvious practicality for holding small items that I usually lose, like: keys, rings, sanity

•  Unlike any man that gets stopped at a light, I don’t really enjoy picking my nose. Or my butt. It’s dirty. Not my butt. Or my nose. I’m very clean. Well, maybe not when I have a cold or something. Sometimes your butt is just dirtier when you have a cold! I don’t know why!

Anyway… sometimes you have no other option for picking. Now you do.

•  I sucked my thumb until college. Now my left thumb is smaller than my right. Had I sucked on Practice Finger instead, I wouldn’t be the deformed monster I am today.

•  Given its unique “Unbreakable plastic” feature, Practice Finger is SO versatile!
- Got a flat tire? Keep Practice Finger in your glove box for quick plugs!
- Have a small, dark space you have to stick your finger in, but afraid of what might be in there? Practice Finger is ready for the task!
- Tend to smash your children’s fingers in car doors? Fear Child Protective Services no more! Now you can still take out your aggressions on them without really hurting them!

•  If I’m not mistaken, I think my housecleaner used Practice Finger to pull some hair out of a drain while I was out of town.

•  I’m learning to play the banjo, and I have found that my small digits make it harder to play chords with my left hand. This baby’s really gonna come in handy! Plus, I can just stick it right on the neck of the banjo! Sort of like a capo for weirdos.

•  A bonus of Practice Finger is its realistic look, flesh coloring (which I might add could be misconstrued as racist. I didn’t see multi-ethnic Practice Fingers at the store. Maybe it’s just where I live.), lifelike wrinkles and joints. This really makes Practice Finger camera ready. Prop Masters and Stand-In Casting Directors, I implore you to give Practice Finger a looksee. Jennifer Grey probably wore out her real finger in Dirty Dancing when she was calling her lover boy. I’m just sayin’.

•  Unfortunately, the one thing you’d really like to do with Practice Finger is flip someone off.  But alas, unless you want to look like you’re only half pissed about the situation, this bent Practice Finger is not very useful.

•  And finally, there are obviously many pornographic uses for Practice Finger…but I will leave those to your bedrooms, elevators, cars or wherever it is you do your pornographic things. (You can email me those ideas privately, however…I mean…for research purposes.)

I’m thinking about publishing a coffee table book on Practice Finger, so please comment below on any other wonderful uses you come up with. The best one will receive Practice Finger in the mail from ME! (How’s that for incentive, huh!?!)

As a typical “tail end” Gen-Xer, my favorite decade thus far is the 80’s. Those were my prime childhood years….which is to say that if I had been a teen or adult in the 80’s, I would probably still have a cocaine addiction. (No offense Robert Downey, Jr.)

In drifting down memory lane with myself, I remembered that somewhere buried deep in my garage are a very select group of vinyl records that I’ve kept all these years. I didn’t recall which ones they were, but I knew they meant enough to keep this particular lot. SO, I dug through box after box of vinyl records that were mainly relics of my husband’s youth and rock days…and finally found these gems**. My MOST IMPORTANT sensory flashbacks…that shaped me into who I am today.

11) Martika’s “Toy Soldiers”

Martika (left) and my personal copy of the single (right)

Who can forget the rough & tumble “tall” orphan in the movie version of Annie who went on to be the rough & tumble “tall” girl on Kids Incorporated? Sadly, plenty of people. This was Martika’s (nee Marta Marrero) only real hit…but it won her enough international success to afford a decent Latin music career. However, the success must not have been too great because she changed her name to Vida Edit this year and is starring in a web series called J8ded. …And she probably would like to kick Fergie’s ass.

10) Waterfront’s “Cry”

My copy of Waterfront's Cry single

Believe or not, the band Waterfront (from the U.K.) had a Top 10 hit in the US with this single entitled “Cry” in 1989, but I sure as hell don’t remember it playing anywhere.  I always assumed I was the coolest 7 year old around by listening to a little-known British pop band. Unfortunately, this was their ONLY Top 10 hit….UK, US or otherwise.  But they haven’t given up these last 20 years! They are currently in the studio recording a new album with an adult contemporary/ alternative country vein.

9) Wet Wet Wet’s Popped In Souled Out

Wet Wet Wet

Well, Waterfront wasn’t the only British-pop-band-that-starts-with-a-W I was into, apparently! I attribute this fascination (or even knowledge of existence) to the fact that my next door neighbors were British. The Broomheads. That was their name. They were very British. They also introduced me to Fraggle Rock (mainly because they got the “good” cable), Adam Ant and the Little Miss books.  The Broomheads also had a cool trapeze swing.  None of this pertains to Wet Wet Wet whatsoever.

The Smurfs All Star Show

Smurfs All-Star Show

As anyone who has known me for the last 20 years can tell you, I don’t get into cartoons.  MTV was the undoing of my childhood. Once I caught a glimpse of “hooligans prancing around in their underwear” (as my mom would complain), cartoons were LAME.  However, I was a mere seven years old when The Smurfs appeared on television…three years before Ted Turner could start rotting my brain with MTV…..and I LOVED The Smurfs! I will always cherish this album (which I find myself singing every so often) and my Smurfette shrinky dinks.

7) Chris de Burgh’s “Don’t Pay The Ferryman”

Chris de Burgh (lft) and my copy of the single Don't Pay The Ferryman (rt)

While he might be best known for his #1 single “The Lady In Red,” the only song I ever cared about was this 1982 non-hit (it only made it to #48) “Don’t Pay The Ferryman.” Sure, I was only 8 years old…but what a great song about death to dance to in my bedroom!

6) Sesame Street Fever

Sesame Street Fever

Everybody had this one! But that doesn’t make it any less special! This 1978 disco inferno featured the classics “C is for Cookie” and “Rubber Ducky,” but my favorites were “Doin’ The Pigeon” (Bert did know how to make the girls swoon) and “Has Anybody Seen My Dog?”

5) Julian Lennon’s “Valotte”

Julian Lennon (lft) and my copy of the single "Valotte"

Let me be frank here: I have no eff’ing idea why I own this 1984 single. I don’t even remember how this song goes. BUT I was a huge fan of his other single from this same album called “Too Late For Goodbyes.” I could sing it for you now, if you asked. So why do I have the lesser single “Valotte?” Beats the shit out of me.

4) Rebbie Jackson’s “Centipede”

Rebbie Jackson (lft) & my copy of "Centipede" (rt)

As the oldest of the Jackson kids, Rebbie didn’t have much of a chance to out-shine her cute younger siblings, but she managed to get to #4 with this 1984 single.  On a highly disturbing note, I was very sexy when I slinked around on the floor to this as a 10 year old. Or at least I thought I was. It was that evil MTV, I tell ya! With lyrics such as “Like a centipede that’s hot/ The fire is in your touch/ Just like a centipede you’ve got/ A lot of lovin’ to touch” how could I not be forever tainted…

3) Fonzie Favorites

Happy Days: Fonzie Favorites

This album came out when I was 2. It sort of makes me wonder why I owned it, but it may have been my mom’s and I just inherited it. Either way, I wore this sucker OUT! I absolutely loved Happy Days (and its subsequent spin-offs Laverne & Shirley, Mork & Mindy and Joanie Loves Chachi), but this odd little album was basically just a compilation of Oldies….with the occasional Fonz reference (such as the A Side “Impressionist Track” with all of Fonzie’s phrases set to music). BUT it introduced me to some of the best lesser-known songs of the 50’s like “Charlie Brown,” “Bird Dog,” “You Talk Too Much,” and “Silhouettes,” which impressed my husband when  I first met him. (Although, now that he’s finding out I learned them from a Happy Days album, I might lose my luster.)

Incidentally, this record is technically in my collection, but it will NEVER play again. During one of my mother’s numerous summer garage sales, she insisted I set up my portable record player outside to play music. By the end of the day, this record had curled into a lovely bowl with a hole in the bottom. Whadayagonnado….*Aaaaaaay*

2) Reader’s Digest – Popular Music Hit Parade

"122 All Time Favorites"

This goofy box set was definitely my mom’s originally. In fact, she may have insisted I play it at the beginning, but damn if those up-with-people-esque-singers don’t get to you after a while! While this touts having “122 All Time Favorites,” I only really cared about one: Tequila.  Imagine 40+ lame-ass choir people singing “du du du du du du” a capella to finally reach the big chorus where they all conservatively scream “TEQUILA!” Then go right back to “du du”ing the instrumental part. Two words: Awe. Some.

1) Taco’s “Puttin’ On The Ritz”

Taco (left) and my copy of "Puttin' On The Ritz" (rt)

Yep, you guessed it! I DID save the best for last!!

This 1982 masterpiece cover of Irving Berlin’s 1929 movie musical classic is…um…  Well, you know, it’s weird and kind of stupid, but I LOVED IT!  Not only did I sport my gold glitter derby and umbrella while acting out every word, I even made up my own tap routine to go with the shoe-instrumental-bridge-thing in the middle. Man, I was GOOD, too! I liked performing this so much that it lasted WAY in to high school whenever any of my friends came over. Come to think of it, I may even video said spectacle and put on youtube! Take that!

———————————

Well, that’s it.  That’s my cherished collection.  I do still have all my Beatles albums, the Broadway soundtrack for Annie and many “cooler” vinyl albums from my later years of discovering New Wave, but those aren’t that funny.

**As I look back at this particular list, I realize they were all pretty silly….but in my defense, I was an only child, thus having no guidance from older/cooler kids. I had to entertain myself a lot.

What entertained you when no one was watching? (musically speaking, that is….)

Haribo started with the “Dancing Bear” in 1922 by Hans Riegel of Bonn (where I lived) and has become a $716 million a year industry worldwide…having spawned long past bears to mice, rattle snakes, Die Schluempfe (or The Smurfs to you and me), etc. and was even made into a Disney animated cartoon in the early 90’s. It makes perfect sense to me as they are Frisch and Fruchtig!

However because I’d been spoiled by the original German recipe early on, I was always thoroughly disappointed with Haribo bags purchased here in the States. It didn’t take me long to figure out that their taste varied depending on the country in which they were manufactured. Even the bags that they sold in “Germany” at Disney’s Epcot were manufactured in Maryland. That would never do! Thus I became obsessed with acquiring German bags.

Yes, there ARE more orange ones than necessary...

And I mean “obsessed.” I have asked people to bring them back from Germany for me many times. I know Haribo’s distribution centers around the world and will not accept any not made in Germany or Hungary. The last time our friends came back from Germany, they brought so many packages back in their suitcase that they were stopped by customs because they thought they was trying to sell them on the black market.

Since then, I discovered the only online candy shop that sells the imported Germany product: eurofoodmart.com. And after several trips and intense label reading, I could occasionally find the Hungarian manufactured bags at World Market.

WELL recently my life came to a screeching halt when I found out the worst thing a pre-menstrual, vegetarian girl could possible hear: Haribo uses beef and pork gelatin in their ingredient list. Sadly, several of my enablers knew full well that there were animal by-products involved and never told me because…as they said…. “Haribo macht Emily froh!” Sweet of them, but sneaky.

Surely, Haribo would take us vegetarians into consideration, I thought, so I did some research. They indeed offer some vegetarian candies, but they are not my beloved Gummi Bären. (For the record they are: Dunhills Kids Mixture, Freaky Fish, Giant Strawbs and Liquorice Twists.)

Since I have no choice, I have come to terms with my break up with Haribo Gummi Bären. But, being the positive person that I am (yeah, you can laugh), it just allows me to open a window to date yummier, more animal-friendly, teeth-rotting vehicles. Wanna be a matchmaker? I’m not a slut, but I will swallow.

Really? Who made this? Luckily, this picture alone has helped a lot in letting go.

This only happened once for my dad to be forever on the lookout for any “accidents,” and I quickly learned that all I had to say was “I need to potty” and he would throw his hands up immediately and say “okay, go!” Eight out of ten times, I was lying and would go on the tickle attack ². That is to say, I was a normal kid without pants-wetting issues. So, I have determined, that a certain future tenth grade Sadie Hawkins Dance ³ moment must’ve been…a fluke?

One of the many ridiculous traditions associated with Sadie Hawkins dances is to wear a matching outfit (usually jeans and the same top) with your date, so several of my friends, my dance companion Garrison and I headed to the mall to find something to wear. I remember I was wearing neon green shorts that day at the mall. If I also recall correctly, the material was some sort of moisture-wicking nylon…which was great because I leaked a little pee that day, too.

I couldn’t help it. I’ve always been a sucker for a funny guy, and Garrison was a funny guy. So between the nervous laughter from having a little crush on Garrison and his witty repartee, it was all too much for my urethra, apparently. No biggie though. It was just a little. No one knew. We bought our apropos-to-the-early-90’s Cosby-esque sweaters ⁴ and had a lovely time at the dance. I never wet my pants again.

Until eleventh grade’s Sadie Hawkins dance.⁵

This time there was really no excuse. My date, who was my boyfriend at the time, was dull and, quite honestly, not that bright. But he was cute and sometimes you have to compromise. In addition, the couple we went with was bor-ing.

The evening started as any other. The four of us went out to dinner at some forgettable restaurant with lots of faux-memorabilia all over the walls. Then we headed to our high school’s gymateria for the dance itself. The massive utilitarian hall was dark and decorated with haystacks and other things-that-people-from-Las-Vegas-think-is-country-looking. Before you could even get to the dance, all couples were ushered into a sectioned off area to have their picture taken. Well, it was somewhere between entering the dark gymateria and the brightly lit photography area…I wet my pants.

Now I’m sure something made me laugh very hard, thus again causing this embarrassment, but I can’t for the life of me remember what that was. I just know I was wearing jeans now. Dark jeans. And denim doesn’t wick away moisture like neon green nylon does, in case you didn’t know.

I was trapped, too. I couldn’t get out of this photography line without everyone in the room looking at me walking away. I hid behind my boyfriend, who, as I mentioned was dumb, so he had no idea. We neared the front of the line. I watched as the photographer strewed each of his subjects over haystacks in poses of his choosing. I realized if I was watching each couple getting posed, so would everyone behind us be watching me…and my pelvic perspiration. I was starting to panic. It was finally our turn, and I closely followed my boyfriend as if we were attached like dogs in heat.

I decided the only graceful way out of this mess ⁶ was to pose us myself. I had seen enough of the photographer’s positions now to figure out the best way to hide a big, wet crotch stain. So I swung around from behind my boyfriend to face him. I put my hand on his outward-facing shoulder and popped my knee. Turned my head. Smiled at the camera. Perfect. Take the picture, cheese ball.

Apparently, photographers have issues with control that probably date back to their mothers ‘cause this guy was not letting me take the wheel. He directed me to sit down. I ignored him. He said it again. I remained standing, saying not a word. My boyfriend just looked at me with a blank face. ⁷ I grabbed his shoulder tightly and smiled brightly.⁸ The photographer got a little more forceful in his directions, but I was not playing. He finally looked at his assistant and said, “Well….okay.” and went back to his camera and snapped away.

Whew! Done. Thank goodness.

Not.⁹

The photographer instructed the other couple in our party to join us so we could take a group picture. The nerve! How dare he think that (a) he was going to get me to strike one of his poses just to prove a point…and (b) I want to be forever linked to this common couple through film. He did not win.

We were finally headed to the darkness of the dance and I wouldn’t have to worry about being called “Miss Micturate” for the rest of my school days ¹⁰. I headed right to the restroom to see if I could fix this but I was stopped by Joe. Joe was my best friend’s boyfriend and he was even dumber than my boyfriend. But, for as slow as Joe might have been, he was the first person to spot my…spot. He started laughing and pointing and I was mortified. Luckily, I quickly remembered how dumb Joe was and said, “I spilled lemonade on me at dinner.” ¹¹ Joe continued to laugh and said, “Sure,” but he bought it. Why would a 17 year old girl pee her pants at a dance?

After the dance we were scheduled to go with a big group of people to a go-kart center. My pants were still noticeably wet and no amount of butter-churning or tootsie-rolling ¹² could dry them, so I hopped into a go-kart and, if you can imagine Christoper Cross’ “Ride Like The Wind” playing in the background, I drove as fast as I could with my legs spread eagle and hanging over the sides. My friends tried to wave as I passed, but I didn’t notice. Within five minutes, my pants were dry and I was finally ready to have a good time.

And my boyfriend still only cared about one thing. Little did he know what kind of golden treasure he was after.¹³

However, ALL of them were WONDERFUL to receive and see how people saw me. To some I have big boobs, to others my eyebrows have magical powers to kill people. To all I had hair….which is good that they noticed. It proves my friends are quite observant!

Anyway, here are all the submissions and links to their individual website so that you can find out more about them! All my friends are talented. Maybe not at drawing…but in MANY other ways!! Thank you, each and every one of you!!!

**Although the contest is over, you’re most welcome to send in your submission and I’ll gladly post it and link to your own website!!

All in all, I’ve had a lot of firsts. Some in a timely fashion, some not.
And this is My First Blog.

Now, I’m going to watch Star Wars. Don’t tell me what happens!

Earlier this year, I had my annual physical and, since my doctor knows about my mother’s history, she recommended I get a mammogram…just to be safe. I had actually had one a few years before because of my mom’s condition, but that showed up clear. So I figured I had little to worry about this year, too. I was only 34 years old. ¹

Not so lucky. The technology used just three years ago has changed so much that they now have very detailed digital mammography machines. That meant, they could see every little spot in my voluptuous lady lumps ² this time. And they saw something that worried them. Something they wanted to see a little closer, so I was scheduled for a core-needle stereotactic breast biopsy, by which they use “a large hollow needle to remove one sample of breast tissue per insertion.” This sounded a tad scarier than a mere metal-disc-boobie-smashing mammogram.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who thought this. After my biopsy was done ³, I had to have another mammogram. There was a lady waiting to have her biopsy done right after me. I never saw her face because of the way they wheeled me into the room, but I saw her hands…and they were shaking like a washing machine with tennis shoes in it. We were wheeled and parked almost back-to-back, and I could hear her sobbing just a little. The nurses were trying to comfort her, but they were harried by the back-up of patients.

When the nurse left the room, I quietly threw out into the atmosphere, “Are you having a biopsy?” The woman’s sobs stopped for a moment. She squeaked out a “yes.” I reassured her that I just had it done and it really isn’t that bad. I didn’t lie. The actual biopsy was more on the uncomfortable scale of having to hold a yoga position for an abnormally long time (you can feel the burn, but it’s not excruciating pain). She took a deep breath and said, “Thank you. Thank you…..Good luck with everything.” I readjusted my ice-packed sore breast and put on my best cheerleader voice, “You too!”

The nurse returned and wheeled me into the mammogram room where I had to stand and have my recently-drilled knocker pressed into a pancake again. Although it really didn’t hurt, I hadn’t been allowed to eat or drink anything since the night before, so when I stood up, I got a little light-headed. I calmly mentioned this to my nurse and she sprung into action like I had just gone into cardiac arrest. Two other nurses ran into the room with cold towels, pretzels and a Sprite. ⁴ While I appreciated the care and concern (and probably would’ve been annoyed with anything less), I think all the hubbub sent the faceless, scared woman waiting in the other room over the edge. All the nurses running around must’ve given her just enough time to escape because she got out of her wheelchair and walked herself right into a bathroom and wouldn’t come out. Those nurses were still trying to talk her out when I left.

I was the exact opposite patient for the nurses and doctor. Mind you, I was as nervous as the other woman, but I tend to be inappropriately funny in those situations. You know, the one who uses humor to distance myself from fear and intimacy.

Although I was only having a “day surgery,” I was checked into a hospital room anyway. Rod came with me and we waited in the sterile room ⁵ for someone to tell me what happened next. Finally, my room nurse came in to make sure I was who I said I was, take my vitals and give me my gown. In my defense, I’ve never been checked into a hospital that I can remember, so who am I to know what’s okay to say and not okay to say. George Clooney seemed to enjoys banter with his patients on ER. Plus, these people are going to be hurting me soon and I wanted to get on their good side.

So I try to tell a few dumb jokes to lighten the mood. The pulse machine made a flat-lining sound when she first put it on me and I do my best Fozzie Bear and say, “Hey, you’ve killed me already!” Not even a smile. Apparently, they take death very seriously at hospitals.

Instead, she instructed me to put on my gown and another nurse would be in to take me down to the biopsy room soon. That nurse did come and she was bearing a warm blanket to wrap me in. It was wonderful! Forget that the blanket had probably seen some nasty shit prior to my visit. It was warm! How cozy!

When I got to the biopsy room, I had to wait for the woman before me to finish her biopsy. ⁶ There didn’t seem to be any screaming or “why, God, why me” coming from the room, so between that and the warm blanket I was feeling a little more confident. They wheeled me in and explained what they would be doing to be…again. I’m all for being educated and informed, but at some point, hearing that they are going to be making an incision and coring out one of my girls with a long thick hollowed needle is just too much. But they have to follow the rules…the many, many rules.

The first rule was to make the patient write the word “YES” on the jug du jour. This is to ensure that both the patient and the doctor are drinking out of the same cup, as it were. I’m fairly modest (read: nervous to be exposed), so as I tentatively whipped my left bussom out and scribed the required affirmation, I giggled something about never having been so desperate to be felt up. The nurse just looked at me in shock. I’m sure it didn’t help that I do live in the South where they do a lot more thinking dirty thoughts than saying them outloud.

The next procedure is to have the doctor, of whom I’ve just met this instance, make a check mark next to my “YES” to acknowledge that he knows which one he will be working on. This seemed strange to me. Doesn’t he have my chart? Does he get his lefts and rights confused often? Does he really have to make a confirmation check mark? Are they grading him? Oh my god, is he still in school!?! My nervousness had returned. He lifted my gown, marker in hand, and my mouth opened before I could stop it. “I hope you have a lot of one-dollar bills today, Doc. Huh huh huh.” I had turned into Beavis AND Butthead. ⁷ Needless to say, he too stared at me, not knowing how to react.

Now it was time. The hard part. I took a deep breath and climbed atop the large horizontal table. I untied my gown and lower myself stomach first onto the table, where I was instructed to insert my jug du jour into the open padded hole. Imagine a cow’s utter poking through a donut. ⁸ I wondered if they would even be able to see my boob. ⁹

The nurses warned me that whatever I do I should not move. I could breath, she said, which was very nice of her. But any other movement in the slightest could cause I problem. What kind of problem, lady?! I held my breath, hoping maybe I would just pass out, but they started to raise the entire table into the air. As they continued to lift me until I was high enough for the doctors and nurses to work from underneath, I loudly proclaimed, “I’m just here for a lube, people, so don’t try and sell me any tires!”

Come on!! That shit is funny! Only one nurse laughed. The other one told me not to move. It was a tough room.

Despite the fact that these people probably wouldn’t be following me on Twitter any time soon, I retained my unseemly sense of humor throughout the ordeal. I was definitely sore for weeks afterwards and honestly never realized how often breasts involuntarily move in a day. No matter their size. But it all turned out fine in the end. The cluster they had dissected was non-cancerous and I hope to be able to say that it always will be. I really want my breasts to have a healthy immune system, and that comes from feeling loved. So I write “YES” on each of them everyday now.

It’s the little affirmations…

We’ve all seen what being wealthy, famous and adored-by-all gets you. Sometimes it’s first-class service, sometimes it’s annoying and sometimes it makes you feel lower than the most anonymous person in the world. Since I have been on the peripheral of all those, my stories contain wealthy, famous and adored people, as well as those of which you’ve never heard. But, mainly, my stories are probably just like the stories you’d write about your own life. And, just as in your life, you’ve been scared, embarrassed, aroused, saddened, thrilled, angered, maybe vomitous and definitely bored.

I have always thought of myself as nauseatingly normal, yet in every instance where I have tried to be like everyone else, my choices/thoughts/life have veered me against the “should.” Several years ago, I began to compile my stories for a memoir I was going to entitle “Just Another Memoir; Stories of a Girl Who Looks Like Someone You Know.” But I am a fatalist, and I know there is no way anyone would care about publishing this shit. So I’m putting them on my website…for lurkers who hang out at libraries for the free internet. ENJOY!

**For best results:
I use footnotes alot….as you can see below.
I refer to my husband, Mark, in many of my stories, but he wanted to be known as “Rodolfo.” Don’t ask me why. However, that’s too long to type every time, so I will call him “Rod.” Although I want you to know, I would’ve never married someone named “Rod.” But if your name is Rod, please don’t be insulted as I’m sure you’re VERY nice and handsome.
All stories are self-contained and are not listed chronologically or purposefully. Read none, read ‘em all. I won’t know the difference.

So it was a date! We were to drive up to his house in the Glendale hills and enjoy a delicious dinner with Gordon and his wife. Oh, let me back up here. Rod doesn’t have the best of patience and has a habit of saying “we have a dog” when he wants to leave a party or dinner or whatever. We do have a dog (2 actually), and I know he honestly is thinking of the dogs’ well-being when he says this to people, but much of the time…the dogs are fine…he just wants to leave. He still uses that to this day. “We have a dog.” That’s the code for “I want to leave now.” But this time, I made him promise that he would not cut the night short with “we have a dog.” This was going to be something special and I didn’t want him to ruin it by being rude.

So we got to Gordon’s neighborhood, and how lovely it was! Big, beautiful houses arranged perfectly along the mountainside. Each house more handsome than the next. Rod commented, “Gordon must have done better than I thought.” We were getting close to his address, and as we rounded the curve we saw a gorgeous white house with columns. We stared in awe of it. Then we realized that was not Gordon’s house….it must be the next one. But no, that house is a hideous, over-grown monstrosity with the shutters falling off. Not to mention the creepy guy with an over-grown shave peeking out from the garage. Just then, the guy ran away. Shuffling for the scratch of paper Rod had written the address on, sure enough, the address matched the one he had written.

We walked up to the door and rang the bell. A man slowly opened the door and just said, “Yes?” as if he had no clue why we were disrupting him. Rod said, “Gordon?” He just stared at us. We looked at each other. Finally, the man said, in a very heavy British accent, “AH-HA! I’m just fuckin’ with ya! Get in here before the neighbors see ya!” An air of digested Guinness beer filled the entrance hall.

We nervously followed him into the house. Suddenly, I longed for the smell of Gordon’s Guinness breath because the overwhelming stench of parrots was unbearable. Yes, parrots. There were caged birds everywhere! Squawking and throwing their food. Gordon seemed genuinely happy to have us at his house. Very proud. Excited someone was there. He walked up to one of the birds and started to tell us its name, but it came over to the side of the cage and bit him. He screamed and slurred, “Fuckin’ bird! I’ll shoot you all, you fuckin’ shits!” ²

He led us around the house and walked us by a door that led down to a carport. At the bottom of the stairs were three dogs that looked like they wanted to kill us, and I’m a total dog person. Dogs love me. These dogs hated everyone. Gordon yelled at them as they barked, “Ah, fuckin’ dogs. Shut up!” Then it was off to the garage (the same garage he was peeking out of when we drove up).

He opened the door to a two-car garage FILLED from wall to wall with one big miniature train set. Rod pretended to be interested and asked questions about the cars. Gordon became excited and seized the opportunity to talk “shop” with someone who shared his train fetish. He insisted we get in the middle of the little town. Part of the track could be lifted up, similar to a drinking bar, and then lowered back down. We were stuck. We couldn’t run or escape. Gordon opened another Guinness. Apparently one of those train cars doubled as a fridge.

Finally, after a lesson on the difference between Lionel Pennsylvania and Virginian Locamotives, he led us back into the house. So far it was like we were Golden Ticket winners for the Chocolate Factory, and we hadn’t even seen his wife. As we entered the house, again, Gordon screamed ³ to his wife to come and meet us. He told us all about her and how they had met at one of his shows. She apparently was a big fan of his (or, dare I say, “groupie”) and hung out at shows all the time. Not just Gordon’s either. He told us she was on several of the 60’s dance shows and “knew” many other bands. He said she also was an actress and stunt woman for Farrah Fawcett and other attractive women in the 1970’s. She must be quite a catch, I thought.

His wife entered the room. She could barely walk. Her legs moved up and down like she was a souped-up gansta’ car with hydraulics. She grimaced with pain but smiled through it. He instructed ⁴ her to take us on a tour of the house while he finished making dinner. She led us into the master bedroom and closed the door. She showed us a wall of pictures, many featuring her in her hey-day on the set of Shindig. The others, of him from his long-ago career.

Then she gathered us close to her and whispered, “Help him!” Her tones were pleading. Help her husband. Help them! She told Rod she didn’t know where else to turn. He needed help. He was drinking too much. She didn’t know what to do. ⁵

Then she abruptly opened the door, spread a smile back across her face and led us to the dinner table, as if she’d never said anything. Gordon told us where to sit…I had to sit next to him. Appetizers were served first. Steamed artichokes. I had never had a whole steamed artichoke before ⁶, so I didn’t really know what I was supposed to do with it. I tried to be nonchalant and wait to see what other people were doing. I looked around. Gordon started in on his artichoke. He started cursing again. This did not look good. “Fuckin’ artichoke! The damn ‘fing isn’t even fuckin’ cooked! Give ‘em back! They fuckin’ have to be cooked some fuckin’ more. Fuckin’ ‘fings!” He grabbed everyone’s plate and stuck it in the microwave for a minute or two. And, dang, if mine wasn’t the first one he brought out. I tried to pretend that I wanted to wait for everyone else to get there’s, but everyone was staring at me. Gordon piped up, ”Go on! Is it done now?” Shoot! I didn’t know how to check to see if it was done. I looked to Rod for guidance, but I quickly gathered, from his bouncing eyebrows, that he didn’t know how to eat an artichoke either. Gordon told me I needed to pull off the leaves (or whatever they are called), dip it in butter and then pull off the “meat” with my teeth. Well, I did this and got about a half inch of something soft. I assumed this was right. Gordon seemed happy with it; so I was.

We all continued to eat the leaves, and I was happy to be done with that part of the meal. Oh, but I was wrong. “You know how to get out the ‘eart don’t you?” Gordon said. I did not know how to get out the heart. Gordon really wanted me to enjoy it, so he grabbed mine and started to explain how you have to cut the top off and carefully expose the heart, then you can scoop it out with a spoon. While he cut away at my artichoke with his steak knife, I noticed something red on his hand. He put my artichoke back on its plate and started to hand it back to me. He was bleeding on my artichoke! He had cut himself while cutting my artichoke and didn’t even know it because he was so drunk! I thought, “Well, that’s it. I am NOT eating that artichoke now!”

I don’t even remember how I got out of that one, but I was done. I didn’t care! I figured I at least had the bread to eat, but that turned out to be horribly freezer-burnt, just like grandma used to make. Finally dinner was over, and Gordon began talking to Rod about various projects he had in mind. Meanwhile, Gordon’s wife proceeded to tell me about her many ailments and injuries from her stunt days. Usually I don’t mind listening to people list their maladies because that seems to make some people feel important, but something about this made me unusually depressed. Maybe it was the way she longed to be back in time or the way she clung to the last bit of stardom she could find or was it that she had to ride her horse with her legs in braces sticking up in the air.⁷ I don’t know, but it almost made me want to talk to Gordon more…although after the three more cans of Guinness, you could hardly understand him.

After dinner, Gordon insisted we go to the sunroom and listen to the solo album he had just recorded. We graciously listened to about 40 minutes of it. Then Gordon, clearly a master of “knowing his audience,” started to tell us of his newest venture. He was flying back to England in two days to meet with….drum roll please…Paul McCartney. Now we’re talking!! This is what I came for!!! He told us he had an idea and business proposition to talk to Paul about, but he couldn’t tell us about it… it was top secret. However, he could tell us that Paul will not let anyone in his house that is wearing anything originally from an animal. He ran over to the other side of the room to show us his new canvas tennis shoes he had bought just for the big meeting. Then out of nowhere, Gordon asked Rod to play the guitar. “Go on! Play us your songs!” Rod sputtered and looked over to me with those honey-do-something eyes. God must have seen those eyes, too. Just then the doorbell rang, and in walked some guy who used to play guitar for somebody…I can’t keep track anymore. Gordon’s attentions were suddenly diverted to a new vict.., er…friend, to whom he could chatter away with all night long. I looked at Rod…he looked at me….yep….“We have a dog!”

Luckily, no one seemed to care that we had to go. If Gordon or his wife ever wrote a story about the night we came to dinner…I can only hope we came off as interesting.