Good News and Bad News

Which do you want first: good news or bad news? Good news is better, so I'll start with that, but you can read this entry from the bottom up if you prefer the opposite, right? That's me: accommodating readers since 2002! (That's actually when I started writing online, although at a now-defunct place.)

The good news: I had an appointment Monday for a mammogram, which I look forward to with all the anticipation of Christmas Eve. I think the worst part is not being able to wear deodorant, powder, or perfume; I feel so unclean without all my girly stuff. I kept hoping I wasn't giving off visible stink rays in the waiting room, although an elderly woman kept eying me suspiciously. Actually, the whole experience is one assault on my dignity after another, I suppose. After I'd changed into the spiffy front-closing gown and walked into the x-ray room, the technician asked me to open my gown and show her my boobs so that she could see whether she needed a different size film plate. There's no graceful way to flash a complete stranger, you know? The request threw me a little because no one's asked me to do that when I've had mammograms previously, and I almost asked her if she planned to toss some beads at me. I restrained myself and opened my gown obediently, but I did turn beet-red when she said hurriedly, "Oh, yeah, I'd better change plates!"

The second worst part is the Positioning of the Breast on the x-ray plate. You'd think after enduring 30 years of pelvic exams; going through labor and childbirth at a teaching hospital, with my lady business on display for every doctor, nurse, intern, and janitor in a 50-mile radius; and breastfeeding in front of a variety of lactation consultants, I'd have not one shred of modesty left, but clearly I do when a strange woman is hauling my boob around like a sack of oranges. I noticed that after the technician pressed the button to take the picture, the plates separated automatically to release my breast from the death grip. What a cool feature, I thought, and said so to the technician. "Oh, I know!" she exclaimed. "Can you imagine if it didn't? What if I fell over in a dead faint after taking the picture? You'd be trapped there!" We stared at each other for a minute, with that image crystalizing, and then burst out laughing. That's the funniest mental picture I've had in a while, and we both kept giggling and snorting while she finished x-raying my other breast.

The results came in the mail yesterday, and I opened the letter to find this sentence at the top in bold print: We are very happy to inform you that no evidence of cancer was found in your mammogram. Isn't that sweet? They're very happy--and so am I.

******

And now for the bad news: My cat Picard is gone. I noticed last Monday that I hadn't seen him all day, but I was on my way to the hospital for my appointment and worrying about visible stink rays and all. Later that evening, both Kevin and Daniel said they hadn't seen him all day, either. We searched the house, looking under beds, in closets, and all his favorite hiding places. Kevin took a flashlight down to the basement and poked around in the crawlspace, where Picard likes to prowl around sometimes. No portly black-and-white cat anywhere, though.

The few times Picard has gotten outside in the past, he's always stayed nearby. Once he climbed the neighbor's tree and had to be coaxed down, and another time he ran up on the roof, and Kevin had to climb up there and carry him down. So we checked likely places outside, but no sign of him. I put up a few flyers, but no one called. It's been almost a week, and I've about lost hope. He's such a sweet, friendly cat that I'm hoping he's wormed his way into a new family's affections. I keep thinking I see him parading by out of the corner of my eye, with that cowlick he always had near his tail sticking up. It always reminded me of a scruffy little boy. Or I imagine I hear the floor-jarring thud as he jumps down from the windowsill, where he liked to gaze hungrily out the window at birds. Every time I walk into my bedroom, I expect to see him curled up on the corner of the bed. I miss you, big guy. If you come back, I promise you daily catnip for life.

Operation Spring Cleaning: Mission Accomplished (Well, Almost)

Even though I'm much busier with work now, when I do have time to update, I sit and stare at an empty Word document. I have writer's block! Oooo, how dramatic of me. I'm a tortured, artistic soul, you know. Riiiiiiiiiiiight. I think my problem is frustration over not being able to do the 349 other things I want to be doing but CAN'T because I'm working all the time. And frankly, when I stop working for the day, the last thing I want to do is come back here in my messy office and open yet another document in Word. On the other hand, venting here does ease a little of my frustration, so . . . gah.

One thing adding to my frustration is that spring has finally arrived. My forsythia bushes have been blooming all week, the daffodils are popping up everywhere, and my crabapple tree is covered in little buds that will turn into gorgeous pink flowers soon. At this time of year, I always want to fling the windows open and clear away all traces of winter. I want to pack up sweaters and clean out flower beds and wash windows and mop floors; in other words, I want a fresh start. I've been fretting all week because I've been so busy with work, and warm, breezy days have been going by with nothing getting cleaned.

I decided that with Kevin gone this weekend at the convention, I had the perfect opportunity to get some cleaning done without him getting in my way or distracting me. So yesterday, I dragged the big area rugs out on the front porch and shampooed them, and then while they dried outside, I mopped the wood floors. I shampoo the rugs outside because I can't do it while they're ON the wood floors. At least, I don't think I can. If I can, don't tell me because I damn near killed myself hauling them outside. I can't believe how heavy those rugs are! My arms are killing me today, even though Daniel helped me carry them. Pushing that shampooer around makes me feel like Sisyphus shoving a boulder uphill, too.

Also, I washed windows in the living and dining rooms, which doesn't sound like much, but in those two rooms alone, I have six tall windows. I gathered up tchotchkes and knickknacks and bric-a-brac (all of which sound funnier and more interesting than "junk sitting around," right?) and threw them in the dishwasher. While I had the Windex out, I cleaned the glass on all my framed pictures. And the dusting. Oh my God, the dusting I did! If I didn't know better, I'd swear my furnace filter has never been changed, but Kevin does that twice a year, I think. He SAYS he does, anyway. Hmmmph. I still need to take all the--what do you call them? The metal thingies that go over the heating/AC vents? I need to take them outside and hose them off. The ones I have are big and squarish, which is just more surface area to collect dust and pet hair.

Aaaaand when I finish, I get to repeat all this work upstairs, much to the delight of my aching muscles. I'll have help, though, because Daniel's on spring break this week. I'm sure he'll be delighted I've come up with activities to fill his week. Hey, that's the kind of thoughtful mom I am!

A house plant I haven't killed!

I would like to state for the record that the little heart-shaped bamboo plant Kevin gave me for Valentine's Day is still alive. ALIVE, I tell you! Impressive, no?

Also, I meant to add last week, after teasing Stephanie with this story, that Febreeze is not the only substance my mom sprays on her dog Sophie. Prepare to be horrified: As my mom explained it, because Sophie's long, white hair gets so flyaway, sometimes she sprays Sophie with Static Guard to tame the flyaways. Oy. I can only assume my sister the vet is ignorant of my mom's dog-grooming habits because she'd throw a hissy fit, if she knew. Maybe I should suggest my mom try using a creme rinse when she shampoos Sophie; I'm sure the dog would prefer that to being sprayed!

Speaking of pets, this picture of Cairo made me laugh because she looks so snooty and haughty:

I definitely captured her personality in that picture.

******

Daniel is driving (haha) me crazy about taking the test for his learner's permit. I told him he needs to study the DMV booklet, but he scoffs at how "easy" it is. Whatever. I think flunking the test would be more embarrassing than waiting a week or two to make sure he knows the rules backward and forward. I took this picture the morning of his 18th birthday, but his look of barely concealed impatience hasn't changed in the two weeks since then:

I definitely captured one major aspect of his personality in that picture.

******

I don't know how Kevin's going to make it through this week. He's so excited about the convention for horror show movie hosts this coming weekend in Cleveland that he can barely sleep. Ghastly Ghoul, the host of the weekend horror movie show in Dayton, Ohio, hosts a big party Saturday night and has asked him to DJ again this year. When I lived in Dayton, the horror show host was Dr. Creep, but Ghastly is his "heir." Apparently, Rob Zombie is a big fan of Ghastly's, so, uh, there you go. Last night at dinner, Kevin was telling me about his plans for music he wants to use Saturday; Ghastly had e-mailed some requests to him. I asked him if Ghastly is married, and Kevin said, "Yes, his wife goes by the name Suspira." I told Kevin not to harbor any delusions that I'M going to adopt some horror show character name. I can't even imagine what name I'd come up with--Grammar-cula? Please.

Kevin's also made plans to get together with his two best friends from his high school and early college years in Cleveland. He found one, Peter, by Googling, and Peter put him in touch with Scott. When That '70s Show first came on, Kevin was thunderstruck by Ashton Kutcher's character's resemblance to Scott, in both looks and behavior, but I understand Scott's matured just a wee bit since then. Heh. I hope so--I can't picture a 48-year-old Kelso. Well, I can, but it's not an attractive image.

******

Work is continuing to get busier, but the increased cash flow is certainly nice. I've been scrimping and juggling bills for months, and it's such a relief not to worry about which utility's cut-off date is coming up first. The trade-off, of course, is less spare time, but until I figure out the road to independent wealthiness, those are the breaks, right?

Now with 101 uses!

Phone conversation with my mom last night:

Me: "I bet Sophie was glad to see you when you picked her up Saturday." [Sophie is my parents' spoiled, neurotic dog; she stays at my sister's house when my parents are out of town. My sister has, in addition to her dogs and cat, two Vietnamese potbellied pigs. Sophie has long white fur. These facts will be important later--but don't worry. There's no quiz.]

Mom: "Oh, she couldn't wait to get in the car to go home! But you'll never believe what happened to her at Linda's."

Me: "The cat scared her?" [That's happened before. Did I mention Sophie's neurotic?]

Mom: "No, she got poop all over her! She was outside, and when she came to the door, she had black pig poop smeared all over her back and into her fur."

Me: "Gross. What did Linda do?"

Mom: "Well, she bathed her outside--with cold water from the hose, poor thing! But when we got home, Sophie still smelled a little, so I sprayed her with Febreeze."

Note: No animals were harmed in the telling of this story. Between guffaws, I determined that she sprayed Sophie only along her back, and Sophie didn't lick her fur afterward. Good Lord.

What I've Learned from Crosswords: A Partial List

As much as I love words, I guess it's not surprising I enjoy crossword puzzles. In grade school, I looked forward to the Sunday paper not so much for the comics, but for the big crossword puzzle in the Sunday magazine. The solution to the previous week's puzzle was there, too, so first I checked what I'd missed the Sunday before, and then began the new puzzle. I always did crossword puzzles in pen, but not because I was confident I wouldn't make mistakes. My hatred of writing in pencil was caused by those fat, unwieldy pencils first-graders were forced to use; they were too big for my hand, and I never could write as neatly as I wanted with them. By third grade, when I started doing the Sunday puzzle, school pencils had slimmed down to the standard No. 2, but I'd already discovered the joys of ballpoint and felt-tip pens, which I used at home because my teacher, the writing-implement Nazi, confiscated them if I tried to use them at school.

All week, I looked forward to the Sunday puzzle, but I wanted more than one a week. Then one day, during a trip to the grocery with my mom, I found whole magazines full of puzzles. After pestering my mom all the way through frozen foods until she gave in and bought it, I used my allowance to buy subsequent issues. I dabbled in other puzzles the variety magazines offered; I liked coloring in the squares for diagramless crosswords, but word searches bored me. Eventually, I discovered logic puzzles, which I love even more than crosswords, and I'm one the nerdy subscribers to a bimonthly logic puzzles magazine.

As I mentioned a couple of months ago, now I do crossword puzzles online, although I still like doing them on paper now and then. The other day, I was thinking about the stray facts and odd words I've learned from years of doing puzzles that are completely useless except in the context of crosswords. So if you ever decide to take up crosswords to ward off The Senility, here's a short list to help you:

• edda: An Icelandic literary work
• iter: A Roman road
• sten: A type of British gun
• Pele: Some guy who played soccer
• alb: A garment priests wear
• erose: Irregularly notched
• Edo: Tokyo's original name
• ogee: A type of architectural molding
• Orono: Where the University of Maine is located
• alate: Having wings
• epee: A type of fencing sword
• Ott: Baseball player Mel (and no idea on what team or in which decade he played)
• Volga: Longest river in Europe

I've never used one of these words in conversation, with the exception of mentioning "The Volga Boatmen" song (which can't be mentioned often enough, as far as I'm concerned). If I took up fencing or remodeled a house, possibly "epee" or "ogee" would come in handy, and one day, I might find myself in Maine, asking for directions to Orono. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt I'll never discuss sports, so I can't foresee using Pele or Ott's names for any reason. Nevertheless, these words and many more occupy space in my brain that could probably be put to use for, say, making sense of the stock market or figuring out why fools fall in love. Neither activity fits as well with my morning coffee, however, so I guess I'll continue amassing useless trivia and remain ignorant of other, more puzzling topics. Hey, it's the iter I've chosen!

The Wearin' o' the Green

My folks just left about 30 minutes ago. I'll say one thing about them: They never wear out their welcome. They're all about the short visits, which is a sterling quality to have. Daniel was ecstatic about their main birthday present to him--the cutest little docking station (is that the right term? you know, with speakers and a recharger) for his iPod. It even has an alarm clock in it, which will be perfect for a dorm room.
One of my parents' irritating traits, however, is insisting on paying for any restaurant meals, and they always suggest going out to eat. I decided to nip that in the bud by saying I'd already bought ingredients to make my magic meatloaf. To be honest, I don't know what it is about my meatloaf; I think it's pretty good, but Kevin and Daniel go stark raving mad over it and eat like they're playing Henry the VIII in one of those cheesy Renaissance "dining experiences." It was a big hit with my mom and dad, too. My dad, who usually eats like an anemic bird, had an almost trucker-sized portion. I wish I could give you the recipe, but I can't because it's embarrassing. The ingredients are decidedly nongourmet--downright pedestrian, even--and you'd lose all respect for me.
In the middle of the night, however, I had a moment of panic that I'd poisoned everyone with the magic meatloaf. I woke up with horrid waves of nausea and spent the next hour or so getting rid of any remnants of dinner, with thoughts of food poisoning dancing in my head. Daniel and Kevin were fine, but I was an interesting shade of sage green when I got up and felt like a horde of Irishmen had been Lord of the Dancing all over me in my sleep. Happy St. Patrick's Day! I sent Kevin and Daniel out to breakfast with my parents and stayed here, sipping tea and reading People. That Sandra Bullock is the prettiest thang, isn't she?
******
I'm disappointed that American Idol is underwhelming me so far this season, but of course I won't stop watching. The top 12 is such an odd mix, with Melinda and Lakisha standing WAY out from the rest of the pack in talent. The rest can be lumped into fair-to-somewhat-good, with a few "what the hells??" in there. That little Sanjaya is just pitiful, and the sooner that poor kid goes home, the better. I'm worried about the next atrocity with his hair. What's next? Corn rows? Blonde extensions? I suspect the AI stylists gather backstage and hoot "I know! Let's try hot rollers on his hair this week!" "Ha, that's perfect! Let's suggest that dangly earrings are the latest trend for men, too!" STOP IT, you hateful stylists.
Next week is British Invasion music, and normally I'd be excited about it because I love that music, but if Chris Sligh (or anyone else) slaughters "Mrs. Brown, You've Got a Lovely Daughter" the way he murdered a Diana Ross song this past week, I'm going to be pissed. Now, I know you lovely people who have fine musical tastes know better, but I heard, to my dismay, that teenagers on the AI message boards were all excited because they thought "British Invasion" meant Oasis and the like. I'm scandalized, I tell you!

Noel Coward would have been proud

I'm rushing to post something before my parents get here because I have approximately 4,372 things to do before the white-glove test, er, my parents arrive. Also, I should pick up my panties from the bathroom floor, no? Kidding. Kevin's the only one who leaves his panties on the bathroom floor.

ANYway, the experiment in Noel Coward Levels of Civility and Sophistication went quite well Wednesday night. We arrived at the same time as the Ex's Wife (hereafter referred to as EW because I am a lazy typist) but before the Ex, who was driving separately from work. The Ex is chronically late, too, although that's not the reason I divorced him. (It was just one of the many reasons I wanted to kill him occasionally.) The time flew by while we chatted and perused the 47-page menu. Man, Japanese menus are detailed and wordy, aren't they?

Finally, the Ex arrived, and Daniel opened some cards from the Ex's family and presents from the Ex and EW. The Ex had bought Daniel's iPod a couple of months ago as an early birthday present, so he got Daniel an iTunes card and an armband holder Daniel can use when he goes for walks. He kept referring to Daniel's "ih-pod" (short "i" sound) because he enjoys jokes that make him sound like an old fogy, and Daniel was kind enough to crack up every one of the 32 times the Ex did it.

Going back to the menu for a moment, I haven't seen so many phonetic misspellings since I tutored in the ESL lab in college. For example, next to one item, the menu said "Ask the Waitless about this Special!!" I kid you not.

The food was great and much less expensive than the sushi restaurant Daniel and I love. This restaurant has the unfortunate name of Ocean World, however, which prompted Kevin to keep making remarks such as "I'll have the Shamu tempura!" or "Is the porpoise sushi good?" Hee.

I had so much sake that at one point, I was standing up acting out a story from the days when Glenn and I ran a dinner theater. Trust me: Telling this story without acting it out is much less funny. If you could see me, I'd act it out for you, too. It was so funny that we spent the next 45 minutes telling old theater stories. (All four of us have done theater, so we could have spent far longer trading stories, believe me.) Poor Daniel was appalled by some of his parents' past antics.

I realized something odd about EW while we were telling theater stories. I really do like her, but she is the worst, most long-winded, boring storyteller. She includes way too many details and explains things that aren't essential to the crux of the story. However, she seemed to think I was the one most interested in her tales and addressed most of them directly TO me, so I had to keep a fascinated look pasted on my face, even though I could feel my eyes slowly glazing over. It was like being hypnotized v-e-r-y slowly. No, the sake had nothing to do with it. Hush.

I think Daniel had a good birthday, though. By the way, he was surprisingly thrilled with the new clothes I bought him. He must be growing up because normally, he reacts to clothes as gifts the same way Ralphie and his brother reacted to getting socks in A Christmas Story. He even wore one of the new shirts to dinner that night and looked quite handsome (mom bias aside). Here's what I was most proud of, however. The waitress gave us comment cards to fill out that said "Thank you very mach!!" at the bottom. So on his card, Daniel wrote "I liked our waitless very mach." Have I mentioned how much I love that boy? His snotty humor fills me with pride!