A Charmed Life

Burning Ambition

Wow, is it Wednesday already?  You know what they say.."Time flies like the wind...fruit flies like bananas!"  At least when it's Wednesday I remember I'm supposed to actually sit down and write something here.  Lately I think most of my blood is going to my poor, overworked quads instead of my brain! 

At least, that's my excuse du jour.  The sad truth of the matter is, despite my smarter-then-the-average-bear IQ (around 140, just smart enough to know that I'm too dumb for Mensa) and nerdly little glasses, I am...an airhead.  I open my mouth and 90% of the time, I sound intelligent and highly-educated,  The other 10%...like, omigod, I totally can't believe I said that!  ::vapid giggle::

I could blame it on genetics.  My mother earned her bachelor's, master's and PhD, all while working at least one full-time job and raising three kids. However, when asked, "what color was George Washington's white horse?", she'd get stuck and have to think about it.

I could blame it on being follicularly-challenged.  I was as blonde as my daughter until my third birthday.  Maybe the lack of melanin in my hair allowed the sun to bake my brain. 

Or I could take it as a blessing.  After all, I've never had the burning ambition to be a sooper genius.  Really smart people know how screwed the Earth is and it makes them miserable.  Look at what it did to poor Stephen Hawking.  You can't tell me it's just the ALS talking...uh, or not talking.  He's simply so blindingly intelligent that he's figured out the human race is going to die out unless we manage to find and travel to another planet with clean air, water and Internet access.  It's driven him round the bend, I tell you. (Still don't believe me?  Check out how much Al Gore has aged, in comparison to Bill Clinton.)

No, my only ambition in life has been to be a writer, and there's nothing I like to write about more than the crazy, true stuff that happens to me.  I honestly don't care how ridiculous I end up looking, as long as someone's getting a laugh out of it. Well, royalties would be nice, too, eventually.

So this week's story is about fire.  I'd bet the 96 cents I have left in my iTunes account (hint, hint!) that none of you reading this has ever set a Bunsen burner on fire before.  No, I don't mean lit the burner itself, I mean to set the entire thing aflame.  Junior year chemistry class, where the otherwise very nice teacher made it clear that anyone accidentally setting a fire would receive a "zero" for that week's lab. The hose from my burner was kinked a bit tight, and the flame hit the cloth-like covering over the hose and ignited the whole thing within seconds.  Imagine, if you will, a skinny, beetle-browed version of myself, hopping anxiously about like Beaker from the Muppet Show, trying to extinguish the flames before the teacher reached my side of the room.  No, I didn't go for the readily-accessible fire extinguisher, because I would have given myself away, gotten an F for the day, and my mother would have hit the roof.

Not that she had room to talk. Back when I was in junior high, we bought our first house, which had been built in the 1960s.  It came with the original stove, which had the broiler pan on top instead of inside the oven.  She made steaks one night and set the broiler on fire.  I mean it, THE ACTUAL BROILER WAS ON FIRE. And no, we did not have a fire extinguisher.  In her defense, the mental midgets who designed the stove had lined the inside of the broiler cover with thick paper.  Don't look at me, even I'm not that stupid!  I have no idea how we put the fire out...undoubtedly, it was my ultra cool-headed father.

Come to think of it, he put out another dinnertime fire, while out at a restaurant with my mother's parents.  They went somewhere fancy, with candles on the table and a napkin-lined bread basket.  My grandmother passed the basket to my father before the main course was served, and basically made camp-style toast on the spot.  Hmm, is that genetic argument gaining some weight?

My best fire story, though, happened  a few years ago, in this very house.  We were hosting a dinner party, and I had candles lit everywhere.  Among them were two gel candles that I'd gotten as a 30th birthday present and only burned once before. I set them next to each other on the bathroom sink.  As we sat down to eat, the smoke alarm went off.  No self-respecting Wop every burns dinner, so I was confused until one of the guests calmly remarked, "there seems to be smoke coming down your hallway".  The gel candles themselves had ignited, and there were two-foot flames licking their way up the mirror.  I didn't panic, because it wasn't like there was anything else in there to burn...I stood there like a moron, slowly thinking to myself, "I wonder if my little stockpot is deep enough to smother the flames".  Right about then is when Dave showed up with our fire extinguisher.  What do I call this story, do you ask?  Why, "the Bonfire of the Vanity", of course!

Do I have anyone "fired up" to tell a story of their own?  Leave it in the comments, and, um...no flames, please!  Have a great week!

I

A Bone to Pick With Mother Nature

I hate wearing glasses.  I've needed them since the fifth grade, while I was still in Catholic school and had to wear an ugly brown plaid jumper.  It could have been worse- their huge tortoise rims would have looked even more fetching when accompanied by the red, square-toed orthopedic shoes I was forced to wear in the third grade.  (They only came in red and blue.  I figured, brown uniform, I'll take the red, right?  Except I had HUGE feet, and I looked just like Ronald Mc Donald, except not nearly as happy.)  It's not even so much having to wear something on my face to avoid smacking into walls (although it saves on decor to have the whole blurry house look like a Monet painting.)  What bugs me is the genetic unfairness of having something so wrong with one of my senses that in an emergency, I'd be bumped farther down the food chain.  I'm like that guy in "The Mummy" who couldn't get away from the monster because he couldn't see.  I live in southern California, where The Big One could happen any day. I worry that it could hit in the middle of the night and I wouldn't know where the heck I was if my glasses got knocked off the nightstand by the tremors.  Consequently, I wear my contacts nearly 24-7, so I've scratched my cornea, and now I'm wearing glasses.

They are kinda cute, slim little oval wire rims that compliment my face shape.  They're a bit on the delicate side, though, since the lenses are so thick.  "Hey..", I often hear, "I know...you should get those Featherweight lenses!!". Awkward silence as I tell the helpful hopeful, "Umm, these are the Featherweight lenses".  Seriously, people, if I squint?  I can burn ants.  And I have the sneaking suspicion that my big Italian nose is a direct result of my other senses trying to overcompensate.

Since I'm blind as a bat this week, I thought I'd search the animal kingdom for this week's Weird Wednesday.  It's a great place to find  Teh Weird.  Take the baculum , for example.  This penile bone "aids in copulation when mates have only a short encounter and need to perform quickly".  I believe that the equivalent in the human world is called, "alcohol". Lots of mammals have baculums, such as the otherwise adorable-appearing scourge of suburbia known as the raccoon. Its baculum measures around five inches in length, which would seem modest until one remembers that the entire animal is only two or three feet long.  Proportionally speaking, a human male would be lugging around 10 or 15 inches. No wonder raccoons walk funny, and why they always appear to be smiling.

You know who really should be smiling is a walrus cow.   The baculum on their knights in shining ivory are the biggest of any mammal, both actual and relative to their size..a whopping two feet in length.  It's really only fair, because with the size of those boys' tusks, the girls aren't getting their lovin' any other way. Hey, maybe Darwin was onto something, after all!

Perhaps evolution is a bit spotty, though. I read an article several weeks ago that I'm still laughing over, that said, "Bats developed flight before sonar ".  Gary Larson, where are you?  That was poor planning on Mother Nature's part, don't you think?  But it would make an awesome Far Side strip.  Especially since bats also have baculums.

Happy Wednesday!

Smorgas-bored

It's still Tuesday night and I'm actually on time to write a "Weird Wednesday" post?  That's strange in and of itself.  I'm going to blame it on the migraine wanna-be currently infesting the inside of my skull that is preventing me from simply calling it a night.  I'm awake and I'm bored, so here's some mental leftovers, brought to you by the makers of Aleve, The Other Little Blue Pill, and by Dreyers Slow-Churned Light Ice Cream: So You Can Eat A Double Portion and Still Kid Yourself That You're Dieting.

Weird Things About Me That I Should Be Embarrassed To Share But My Head Is Pounding:

• When I'm making a sandwich, whether for me or somebody else, I spread the condiments, peanut butter, etc., to the very edge of the crust.  (Have I mentioned, I'm a Virgo?)
• I can't stand having my bellybutton touched.  I even hated it when I was pregnant with Seph and she would pull the "meal service cord" from the inside. :::shudder:::
• I sometimes crave cigarettes even though I've never even tried to smoke one.
• If I see a brownie, I have to eat it. Same goes for chocolate-chip cookies and soft-serve cones.
• I can't look at, hear, or smell, someone throwing up without retching myself. I'll give you a kidney if you need one, but if you barf, you're on your own ;)
• I think lots of things are funny but rarely laugh out loud
• Except when I drink, then I'm like a hyena on nitrous oxide
• I love my friend's Doberman yet am terrified of the next-door neighbor's Chihuahua
• I am training for a marathon but suck at running. I do run slightly faster than a Chihuahua
• Whenever I see a love scene in a movie and the characters are kissing, I unconsciously nibble on the tips of my fingers.  I really need to bring brownies to the movies!

Speaking of which, my chocolatey Lab is being a drama queen and whining that he needs to go out AGAIN. Bladder late then never, I suppose.  Have a great Wednesday!

TMI Elmo

This week's Weird Wednesday thought is a short one but perhaps blessedly so.  I like to think of myself as a creative and imaginative person, but the truth is, nothing I could ever make up to post on this blog will ever come close to being as strange as, well, the truth.  Some people have an ear for music, or an eye for color...I seem to have a "Spidey Sense" for Teh Strange.

I was rifling through the Craiglist ads today under "Wanted".  I'm too busy to hold a garage sale and too lazy to post items for sale.  I've had much more luck looking up what people want to buy, and then checking my attic or garage for the corresponding items. I'm sure I don't have what today's weirdo was looking to purchase, however: an adult-sized Elmo costume.  Thanks to this freakazoid (and to be fair, also partially to the Sprout Network), I've had the "lalalala, lalalala, Elmo's World..." lyrics earworming through my brain for the last several hours.  I welcome the pain, because it keeps me from having the attention span to wonder what one would actually do with (or in!) an adult-sized furred ensemble.  I almost want to post that I have one, just to see what kind of person would actually show up to buy it. 

Can you tell me how to get to Sesame Street?  'Cause I would hate to end up there by accident.

Wheeze On Down The Road

Happy halfway-through-the-week!  This post brought to you by: Extreme Patience- when you absolutely, positively have to get up in the middle of the night from a sound sleep to fetch your crying toddler some water and NOT lose your sh*t.  Also:  Aleve, the achy, cranky, crampy, can't find a comfortable position for my neck and not gonna sleep without it medicine.

It's a darned good thing I'm going for a run in a few hours because ::yawn:: I could really use that "runner's high" about now!  I can't  believe I am even typing this! I've always said that I'd never run unless it involved a mugger or an ice cream truck. (I about made the guy at the running shoes store wet his pants laughing when I told him I was going to get some Good Humor tunes for my iPOD.)  But I really do like to run, to my surprise.  Not so much while I'm running as I do afterwards when I devour some carbs and get to not have my jeans be so tight, but, whatever works, right?  Plus, now I have an extra incentive to run harder and faster.  No, not my upcoming marathon to benefit lung cancer research, although that's important and I'll get to that later. I'm talking about my new running pants.

Cool space-age wicking fabric?  Check. UV protection?  Check. Slimming tummy panel and a slenderizing jet black to boot?  Yup.  Tight enough that the casual observer can tell whether or not I've waxed my legs recently?  Unfortunately, yes.  They're the correct size, all right, but now my behind looks like someone has shrink-wrapped it with a Foodsaver.  I've decided to keep them, because nothing is going to keep me moving along like the threat of someone actually seeing what I look like in them.

But wait, there's more.  I've been reading the excellent advice of the esteemed Doctor Mama, who's well-known about the blogosphere for getting us newbie "maggots" off the couch and into the sneakers for a nice run.  According to her, the best underwear?  Is none at all.  OK, I bow to her expertise, but according to my calculations, here's what I'm advertising: "Out-of-shape, slow-moving newbie with giant bosom and $200 mp3 player, lumbering down the road with no panties on.  Coming soon to a neighborhood near you."  Reminds me of that old Far Side comic strip, featuring a dog on the phone, and the caption says: "Hello... I'm a big, fat Siamese with a broken leg and no teeth and I'm sitting here on my front porch with no place to run or hide....in broad daylight....".

It gets even better.  Remember, it's Weird Wednesday, and this week the Weird is me.  I have to run the marathon itself without my prrecioussss iPOD, but there's no way I'm training without my tunes, so I take the risk of bringing it with me and stick it in my pocket.   Except I found out at the last minute yesterday that my new pants don't have a pocket.  I couldn't find my old armband-style holster, so on Dave's advice I stuck the player into the waistband of the pants instead.  They contain enough Lycra that I could probably stick a stereo system in there, so no problem, right?  Remember the part where I'm not supposed to wear underwear?  I spent half the run trying to make sure it didn't turn into a suppository.  I guess if I can't find that holster later this morning, I'm going to have to tough it out without my music.  So if you're sipping your morning coffee in San Marcos and happen to look out the window and see a voluptuous woman with really big feet who is running VERY slowly while trying to hum the words to "SexyBack"?  Bring me a cup, will you?  I'm really short on sleep!  Have a great week!

((Stay tuned for an upcoming "Mommy Monday" post, brought to you by some of my good blogging buddies and LUNGevity.org!!))

Don't Chase Me, Bro!

So I started my novice-level running program yesterday, and I've already learned a few things.  One: the $52 orthopedic looking, encapsulation-style sports bra is worth its weight in gold. I used to bounce like Tigger, and now I could probably jump on a trampoline without giving myself a black eye.  Two: with the "girls" tightly strapped down, I am amazingly pear-shaped.  Which is good, because three: oh man, am I not a natural at this. :::wheeze:::  There is no way on God's green earth I could ever outrun a mugger. My best bet will be to not brush my teeth before my run, and hope that the resulting dragon breath + panting will scare off any would-be attacker.  So, don't chase me, bro!  I suppose I could carry pepper spray, but I think my niece got the last vial...

I'll get better, I know.  For now the party line is that my cardio sucks solely because I have never before been able to procure ample support for my more-than-ample bosom and therefore to avoid injury have remained safely on the couch.  Also, someone needs to keep Netflix in business.  Ahem.  That and I could use some better sleep than I've been getting, not mentioning any PERSEPHONES...

Poor baby.  She's been waking up with good reason, her first ear infection (albeit a minor one). At least, I hope that's all she has, after waiting for an hour in the "sick child" side of the pediatrician's office, yesterday afternoon. She was bright-eyed and laughing and active, in marked contrast to her listless, red-eyed and weeping peers.  I have a sneaking suspicion that I may have actually contracted the Ebola virus while in there, so you may want to spray your monitors down with rubbing alcohol after reading this ;)

What, you didn't think I forgot to bring the "weird", did you?  Yet again it is brought to you courtesy of T*arget pharmacy.  I went in to fill Seph's Amoxicillin scrip, her first antibiotic ever, and saw that I could finally try out that newfangled flavoring thing they have going on.  Back in *my* day (you know, when we had to walk to school, uphill, both ways, in the rain?), amoxicillin came in a pink "bubblegum" flavor.  It was so nasty that to this day I can't take Pepto Bismol because it's the same color!  Bubblegum?  Yeah, if you're talking about the kind of gum that came in a package of baseball cards, mixed with the flavor of the actual baseball cards!  We were tough back then!  Retching up your medicine is part of the essential childhood experience!  Builds character, too.  So I got her the raspberry flavoring.  I figure it will probably save me on her therapy bills, later.

But that's not the weird part.  See, there are oodles of flavors available, but just like a wine pairing at a fancy restaurant, there's a "wheel" of suggested flavor combinations for different medications.  The pharmacist was moving the wheel toward "penicillin" when I noticed "Prozac" was on there as well. I was about to make a joke about just soaking the pills in Tequila when she clucked her tongue and told me that Prozac was available in liquid form...for CHILDREN.

Dude.  How messed-up does your little childhood existence have to be if you're young enough to need your medicine flavored but you already need Prozac?  I think psychogenic drugs should be a sometime food, myself.  Maybe take up a hobby instead, like...running?

The Spice Girls, or, Salt and Pepa Spray

Seph and I are having a gas here in Boulder county, CO.  No, I mean, literally.  Since I can never manage to have a completely normal day anyway, I don't know why I should expect anything different when I spend time with people who are related to me. 

The two year-old cousins are getting along famously and giving me cavities from the pure sweetness of their constant kissing and snoogling and "I yuff yoo!"'s.  However, watching them together is like seeing a cross between the Three Stooges and Tiny Toons.  Restraining them is about as easy as pinning down a rabid octopus.  The alternative - letting them out of our line of sight for more than thirty seconds - has proven to be bad for our health. 

I watched the girls by myself this morning while L. brought my older niece to school and went to the gym. When she arrived home, I hopped upstairs to check my email and she took over.  When I came down, we chatted for a few seconds (literally!) and our two little Frito Banditos left the room.  Within half a minute we heard Niece #2 (I'll call her "Y") cough, followed by Sephie.  I'd just seen Seph playing with her tootbrush and thought she'd gagged on it, until we heard Y start to cry, and both girls coughing harder.  I ran in and got there first and started choking, too.  "There's something in the air!  Don't you smell it??", I asked L.  Figures, the Italian with the big schnoz is the one gagging and retching. 

"Pepper spray!", she cried.  "Get the girls out of here!!"  For a split second I thought someone had somehow gotten near the house to spray us intentionally- we did just have two tragic shootings here after all.  But no, the culprit was Y, who can climb like a spider monkey and had gotten hold of her daddy's bag, found the pen-like container of pepper spray, and made like it was Binaca and spritzed it directly into her mouth. 

((No flames here, please.  My brother-in-law is one meticulous guy when it comes to his gear, but in a house crammed to the gill with kids, especially toddlers, things get tossed around and accidents happen.  Plus, this pepper spray was completely natural and thus only irritating and not dangerous.))

So, is there anything worse than being in a room full of pepper spray?  How about sitting on the garage steps with two toddlers in the middle of a Colorado winter?  Nope, you're wrong.  Containing two keyed-up toddlers who are eating Push-Up pops to counteract the sting of the pepper spray/pacify the jealous cousin who did not get sprayed and didn't strictly need the ice cream?  Pretty challenging.  I dont even want to see the electric bill that results from having to open all the windows when it's 20 degrees outside.

As soon as I reaized my poor niece was going to be OK, I thought the whole situation was hilarious.  They don't make a slot in the baby book for this stuff.  First smile, first tooth, first steps...first mace-ing?  If you read my blog, you'll know that I think the weird things that happen in real life are funnier than anything you could make up.  It's worth the pain in the neck just to get a funny story to tell later.  I suppose when the girls start to date (only 27 years from now!) and we arm them with pepper spray, we'll laugh all over again.  Really, I'm only sore about one thing.

I near coughed my damn lungs up, but *I* didn't get any ice cream!  Now, where did that backpack go...

Not Wrapped Too Tight

Has anyone seen my brain?  Gray, about three pounds, right side-dominant?  It's gone missing and it's too little to be wandering around by its lonesome. 

I think the moving stress is finally starting to get to me.  Trouble is, since I'm not much of a drinker and I refuse to devour an entire frozen cheesecake like a normal female, my stress is choosing stranger outlets, such as forgetfulness and generally geeky behavior.  Haha, I can just hear my friends asking themselves, "how can she tell this from a normal day??".  Good question!  Lately, every day is starting to feel like a Weird Wednesday to me.

I'm not ready to throw in the towel, though.  That would require actually remembering to bring mine.  To paraphrase "Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy", home is where your towel is...and that's exactly where I left it on Monday, when I'd intended to shower at the gym while my carpets were being cleaned.  I had to be out of the house for several hours, and thought it would be brilliant to enjoy a long, hot shower without having to worry about corralling a toddler.  So I dropped Seph off in the children's room at my gym, and headed back to the locker room.  I discovered the lack of Egyptian cotton goodness right away.  Did I act like a sensible person, retrieve my child, and drive the two miles back home to fetch my towel?  Nope.  Did I decide to put up with bedhead and feeling kind of grungy, and go on with my day sans shower?  Nope.  Did I decide to take my shower anyway and just put up with drip-drying instead?  Bing bing bing, we have a winner.  Bonus points if you guessed that I also forgot I'd run out of shampoo, and had to wash my hair with liquid soap.  On the bright side (yes, there always is one), J. Crew cotton T-shirts are not only beautifully fitted and come in a gorgeous assortment of colors, they're also very absorbent. 

Today, I thought I'd perk us up a bit by going out to lunch.  Our lunch date, Auntie C., had to cancel, so we took our lovely neighbor, Auntie KQ, to Panera's with us instead.  I felt like ditching my usual SAHM uniform of T-shirt and jeans (umm, also, my favorite green T-shirt was mysteriously wrinkled and a bit damp), so I was wearing my favorite Libby Dibby wrap skirt instead.  K. rang my doorbell and instantly noticed that I'd gotten the hem of my sweater caught in the knotted tie that closed my skirt.  (Thank you, K., for not actually dying of laughter, because as you know, I did just get those rugs cleaned.) 

As slow as I am lately, it didn't occur to me that simply plucking the sweater out of the ribbon tie would loosen the skirt.  I had to find that out the hard way.  As I walked through the door of the restaurant, I noticed that my skirt felt really heavy...and that I could actually see several inches of my tights from the waistband down.  A few more steps and I'd have been a walking wardrobe malfunction.  I was wearing tall suede boots with those tights, so it's possible that I would have been mistaken for a gigantic elf, instead. The bright side?  I figured I should really eat up at lunch.  No sense in letting that waistband get loose again!

I think I'll just spend Wednesday in my bathrobe!  In the meantime, if anyone finds my brain, wrap it in a towel and come on over.  We'll do cheesecake. 

 

Cloud, Nein?

I'm still a little too stressed out to muster up much "funny" this week, so "Weird Wednesday" will be just an update this week.  However, this is my week, so by definition it has to include something strange, right?  Of course!  Would I ever disappoint you?

This morning I had my "special views" mammogram.  Kudos to the lovely and witty Margalit, who sagely pointed out to me that "nobody wants to feel that kind of special".   When the tech showed me the film of my left side from last week, it was a toss-up whether I wanted to pass out or throw up from fright.  There was a big, white cloud over a large area.  Not wispy cirrus cloudy, I'm talking deep white cumulus clouds here.  I figured I was toast, and it was just a matter of finding out what kind of toast.  I'm thinking a nice, sour Jewish rye, myself. 

My tech was wonderfully sweet and friendly and made me chuckle by oohing and aahhing over my cute red bra that perfectly matched my shirt.  (And my belt, shoes, and underwear.  I am a Virgo, after all!)  She was very gentle, but I had to yelp when she rotated my breast medially before compressing it in between the plates.  I've never thought of myself as a good dancer, but apparently I can "twist and shout" with the best of them. 

Then it was time to wait. There was supposed to be a mammographer on duty to do a "wet read" on the film right away.  As for me, I was all wet myself, trying to stop crying like a ninny and take it like a warrior like my mom did.  (Mixed results.  I'm a lover, not a fighter.)  I thought of everyone who was pulling for me, and everyone who was praying for me.  I thought of my SIL, who I have no doubt been driving insane, since she is utterly convinced that I am fine.  She knows me probably better than anyone else does, and is one of the only friends I have that is as religious as I am, so when I called her last Saturday morning to tell her that I really thought there had been something in my breast, and it felt like it was gone, she didn't bat an eye.  She's been part of my family for so many years, and has seen so many things happen that are out of the ordinary, that she never questioned my feelings.  And don't get me wrong, I"m Catholic and I truly believe, but I'm a logical person by nature as well, and this? Felt very strange.  And illogical.  Hey, it was very early in the morning, coming out of a dream state, obviously hadn't had my coffee.  And nobody could blame me for a little fantastical optimism, right?

The tech came back into the room and explained that the mammographer wasn't there that morning but would come in the following day.  Cue the waterworks from wimpy Deb again, who's freaking out over that two or three inch-long white spot on the scan.  Then the tech told me, "well, we didn't see it  this time".  So I asked her to show me the film.  Sure enough...nothing like the first one at all.  She said maybe it was just the way the tissues were lying against each other in the first scan, and "we really squashed it this time".  (I'll say!) 

I don't have the all-clear yet by any means.  I'm also not trying to preach to anyone- I'm simply sharing my experience of what I felt and what happened.  I am grateful that whatever they may find in today's film, it probably won't be a lesion the size of what I saw on last Friday's mammogram.   Am I saying that I think I had a tumor and that God took it away?  Actually, I'm not. I'm simply saying that if I'm a person who believes in a God who can act in anyone's life, it should follow that I have to allow that He could act in mine.  Hey, maybe that feeling was just a little message that the "something" that was there was a hormonal change that was going to go away naturally. I don't think God is above little stuff like that. Not all miracles have to  be big ones.  Frankly, the idea that I have so many people in my life willing to pull for me, pray for me, or put up with me?  Is the really big miracle.   And that's what has me on Cloud Nine.  I'm grateful for my life, no matter what those scans are going to say.

But, you know, keep those candles lit anyway, OK?  And feel free to share your own points of view and experiences.  Weirdest winner gets a bag of partially-defrosted mixed veggies.

Stupor-hero? (Rise of the Web Surfer?)

I am soooo tired..and I'm such an idiot, I forgot to call my dad today, so now I have to wake up at four in the morning (7 a.m. Florida time) to wish him a safe trip.  To Italy.  If he manages to stay put at his gate in Philly and not wander off and end up in the Congo instead.  Ugh.  Alzheimer's is bad enough, we really don't need him spreading the Ebola virus, too.  Hey, it could happen, the Bubonic Plague came from Sicily in the first place.

Not like I am going to get much sleep tonight, anyway.  My stoopid doctor's office ignored my message to them today and never called me with my mammography (is that the right word?  I think I like "mammogrammination" better, but I don't want to blow up my spell-checker or have Dubya start IMing me) results.  Which the radiology center has already read.  I swear, if I ever get my hands on that no-message-taking nurse, I am going to clamp her into that Mammograminator myself and take a leisurely lunch while she stands there trapped on her tiptoes trying to take shallow breaths.  Don't worry, I'm not completely rotten, I'll bring her back a nice chicken cutlet sandwich...

I really need a good old-fashioned superhero.  (Oh great, now I have the song from "Robin Hood: Men In Tights" running through my head.)  The problem is that the only person I know rushing around to save the day is me!  Can't you just see me in a leotard and cape, with a big D (or DD) on my chest?  Nahh, my getup would have to have lots of pockets, for both phones, cell and home, ringing off the hook, a Kashi bar for the bottomless pit of snacks that is my child, business card slots for three different realtors' cards (California, Colorado and Florida)...and have built-in Spanx, a la Jessica Alba's costume.  Hey, tights ain't kind to the cellulite, and I can't save the day if I'm blinding innocent people!  Since I'm more than halfway to being Looney Tunes anyhow, maybe Acme can make me a costume.

I'm probably asking too much, wishing for superpowers.  I did have a discussion with friends one time about which minor superpower they'd choose for themselves.  Nothing potentially life-saving, like being able to produce a tiny flame at will, and nothing you could get from surgery, like 20-10 eyesight or a Bionic Rack.  I'm talking about a power that is more of a convenience, like for instance never getting tan lines.  Me, I'm tossed up between two choices:  first, the ability to see my reflection in the palm of ny hand so that I could discreetly check for parsley between my teeth while on a dinner date.  It's either that, or just enough telekinesis to adjust my thong when I forget and wear one with a skort (anyone else have this problem?  Seriously, there's just something about a skort that wants to eat my underwear..).

What's your secret minor superpower of choice? Winner gets a new pair of brown cable-knit tights (my superhero persona is very preppy) , and half a chicken cutlet sandwich. Happy Wednesday!