Thursday, March 31, 2011

A Pig's Valve Or A Coat Of Paint

Okay, you all know I love "House".  Did you ever see the episode where a blogger was the patient and she needed a new heart valve?  She had to decide between an artificial valve and a pig's valve.  She shared everything in her life with her readers (Sound familiar?  Anti-depressants?  An affair?  A dead husband?), so she let her audience decide.  Well, now I need you guys to decide something far more serious for me.

You really have to tell me what to do with my wall:

That's not (only) dirt on my wall.

It's a growth chart of my children, their cousins, and half the neighborhood.  It's on the main wall in my kitchen and I can't decide what to do with it.  Why, you may ask, did I put a growth chart in pencil on a wall in my kitchen?  I DIDN'T!!!!  My sister, Amie, thought it was a good idea and started it years ago.  (I strongly suspect that she wouldn't have a growth chart on the wall of her OWN kitchen!)

So here's my dilemma:  I can't decide if it's precious or trashy.  I'm redoing my kitchen from top to bottom, including granite counter tops (because none of my friends would talk me out of granite--please talk me out of granite), so of course I'm painting.  So do I paint over the wall because it's trashy, or do I keep the wall the way it is because it's precious?  If I paint over it, will I regret it in 20 years?  Is there something else creative I can do with it?

Seriously, help me!  Tell me what to do!


So, listen to the douchebaggery (sorry, Mormons, but it's my new favorite word) that happened to me: Google Adsense disabled my account for invalid clicks!! Now what the heck am I supposed to do? My family relied on that 37 cents a month! I guess I'll have to go back to being an attorney and a nursing home administrator. Damn.

In other news, today I went to the divorce hearing of Danny's ex-girlfriend and her (now) ex-husband. 

I'm guessing that's an experience most people don't ever have.  I went because he and I have become very close throughout this ordeal and he asked me to go with him.  It's strange the closeness that you develop with people when you walk down the same road with them. 

In his words, there is "a permanence" to our relationship, and we have become BFF's.  Our friendship is a tremendous blessing in my life that came from something so awful.  You just never know where you're going to find your blessings!

But I'm pretty sure they're not coming from Google Adsense.

Post Edit:  As I looked at the second picture above, I noticed that my blog is designed in the exact same colors as my house is decorated.  When I like something, I REALLY like it!

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Recycling Is Good

I was over at Kellie's place, and now I'm stealing her idea for a post.  (Before you go anywhere, read Kellie's for a good laugh!)

I've decided to recycle my favorite post ever.  If I do say so myself, it is absolutely hilarious!

Of Transvestites And Equal Time

Drama. That's what it's all about with teenage girls.

Everything is a HUGE deal to them, and my daughter is no exception.

"You went to the mall and you bought the baby way more clothes than you bought me!"

"You told the baby four times today that you love her, but you only said it to me three times!"

"You blogged about the baby embarrassing you by saying v*gina, but I've said lots of embarrassing stuff and you didn't blog about that!"

Now, I really try to be a good mother. I try not to show one of my daughters partiality over the other, but apparently I have failed (once again) in this regard. My daughter was absolutely correct; she has embarrassed me beyond measure with talk in public about genitals, and I was remiss in not sharing them with the world (a.k.a. the twenty of you that read this blog).

So, in an effort to diminish that special brand of household tension that is caused only by a teenage girl who feels slighted, I will attempt to rectify my mistake.

Picture it. May 2003, the elementary school auditorium. The room was filled with fourth grade girls and their mothers gathered together for "the talk" given by the school nurse. My daughter was so excited at the thought of finally becoming a "woman" as the school nurse discussed the various physical changes that would accompany her impending puberty.

I, on the other hand, was so uncomfortable I wanted to puke. I'm quite immature that way. I do not want to think about my daughters having breasts and menstrual flows and pubic hair. I know it's all natural, and I'm supposed to create bonding moments with my daughters during discussions of tampons and douches, but that's not the way I roll. The whole thing is gross when it comes to my daughters, and I don't want to know nuthin' about nuthin'.

Anyway, the school nurse passed out slips of paper and told the girls to anonymously write down any questions that they had and she would answer them. The girls took a few minutes to write their questions and the nurse collected the papers.

The VERY FIRST question the nurse read was, "Why do girls grow hair on their uterus?"

There was dead silence in the room and the "What the...huh?" feeling was still hanging in the air when my daughter raised her hand and proudly exclaimed, "THAT'S MY QUESTION!"

Instinctively, I grabbed her arm, pulled it down, and said, "Shut up! Don't EVER tell ANYONE that's YOUR question!"

I know what you're thinking: bad parenting. I should have supported her and told her there are no stupid questions. And I definitely never should have told her to shut up.

But don't you DARE judge me until YOUR kid asks in front of 100 people why girls GROW HAIR on their UTERUS! HAIR ON THEIR UTERUS! If you somehow manage to live through the embarrassment, then you can talk to me about my parenting skills!

But that is nothing compared to what she did a few years earlier in the fitting room of Macy's. It was Christmastime and the place was packed--packed, I tell you. It was one of those days where there are so many people that you have to stand in line for 15 minutes just to get into a fitting room to try on clothes that you don't really want to try on anyway because of your horrible body image.

But I digress.

My daughter and I waited patiently and finally got into a fitting room. I took off my clothes and stood there in only my bra and pantyhose. Now, I don't wear underwear with pantyhose because it's uncomfortable, and it's just redundant. I mean, they have panties sewn into them, hence the name pantyhose. Unfortunately, the panties in the pantyhose are sheer. Apparently, the sight of my naked lower half horrified my daughter because she yelled, in a fitting room crammed with people, "MOM, I CAN SEE YOUR P*NIS!"

Holy crap! I didn't know what to do! My first instinct was to cover up my p*nis and run out of there. Instead, I waited in that little, tiny room until I thought most of the people in there had gone.

Despite my efforts to get out of Macy's with some dignity intact, I'm certain that word of the woman with the p*nis circulated throughout the store. When I walked out of that fitting room, I swear to you, dozens of people were gathered and I watched their eyes shift downward and try to check out my "package."

So, my dear teenage daughter, I love you just as much as I love your little sister, and I consider you equally embarrassing.

Things I Can't Live Without

Love. Peace. Oxygen.

No. No. No.

These are products I can't live without.  You need to get in your car right now (well, after you read the post and leave a comment and click on the "Follow" button).

Seriously.  This shiznit is fantastic!

I thank the heavens for the day that I was standing in the local Waltrash and decided to try the Aveeno Skin Relief Moisturizing Lotion.  OMGosh!  Forget all that stuff from the fancy stores in the mall, because this lotion runs rings around all of it.

It's great to put on after your shower and all that, but here is why I love it:  I have the ugliest hands in the world.  Really, I do.  (Just ask my sister, Amie; she'll tell you.)  I'm actually ashamed of my hands because they make me look 10-15 years older than I am.  But when I use the Aveeno, my hands look (dare I say it?)

I have to thank my friend, Margo, for the next one.  If any of you are not wearing Revlon Colorstay Overtime, I have no idea why.  Maybe you are just ignorant of its magnificence like I was before Margo enlightened me.  It's 7:41 a.m. right now, I put the lipstick on at about the same time yesterday morning, AND IT'S STILL ON and looks fresh!!!  There are a boatload of colors available, but my favorites are Stay Currant and Relentless Raisin.  I get more compliments on the Stay Currant than I can stand (not true--I love compliments)!

I really want to bow down and worship the person who invented the Magic Eraser!!!  I love it!  This thing removes absolutely everything!  Honestly, I have never found anything it doesn't work on.  My little one colors on the walls AND I DON'T EVEN CARE because I know I have my friend, the Magic Eraser.

The next one is like crack or crystal meth or something else addictive.  Yesterday, My friend, Traci, introduced me to the Eighth Wonder of the World:  Puffs tissues with the scent of Vicks.  Okay, I know it sounds really lame that I'm excited about a tissue, especially in light of everything else in my life, but these tissues are...some word meaning great that I'm not smart enough to know.  Trust me, you will love these so much you better sit down before the first time you blow your nose in one.  In fact, that should be a warning label on the box.  Oh, you'll thank me for this one!

Now, click the "Follow" button, comment, and go, go, go get this stuff and make your life so much better!

Tuesday, March 22, 2011


My mother told me to sit down.

She was never a dramatic person, so I knew it was serious.  In the seconds before she told me the news, what seemed like a million scenarios went through my head.  Did something happen to my precious father?  Were my beautiful sisters alright?

No, it wasn't anything like that.  She wasn't upset enough for that, but she was scaring me.

I hesitated on the question, "What is it?"  Part of me didn't want to know.

"Stay calm, Missy, but Brian is dead."

The silence was heavy between us.  Finally, I asked, "Brian who?"

A look of bewilderment went across her face as she said the words I already knew somewhere inside me.  "Brian.  Your husband.  He's dead, Missy.  He had an asthma attack and he's dead."

Now I understood the drama: my mother didn't want anything to happen to the eight-month fetus I was carrying.

Tears started streaming down my face as I imagined the horrendous pain and panic he must have felt as he left this life.  Then I realized the date:  Brian took his last tortured breath exactly ten years from the day that he came into my life.

Nearly two decades later, as I remember the scene as though it were only moments ago, I realize that Brian, my high school sweetheart, was one of the most influential people in my life.

If there are blogs wherever you are, Brian, I hope you are reading this, and I hope you know that I thank you for helping me become the woman I am today.

God be with you til we meet again.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

My Vomit in the Bucket List

When I heard the term "bucket list", I had to look it up.  I use a bucket for nothing but cleaning and vomiting, both of which I detest, and both of which I sometimes do simultaneously, so I had no idea why anyone would be blogging about buckets.

So imagine my surprise when I found out that a bucket list is a list of things you want to do in your life.  Hmmm...I still can't imagine it associated with cleaning or vomiting but, whatever.  I don't make the rules.

Of course, I had to come up with my own bucket list.  Live in a new, beautiful house?  Nice, but not the first thing I thought of.  Visit Paris or Hawaii or Rio?  Again, nice, but not really my thing.

I swear to you, the first thing I thought of--the very first thing that popped into my head--was to have an entire set of silverware (defined as twelve forks, twelve salad forks, twelve spoons, and twelve knives) that all match.  It would be nice, but not necessary, if there also were a matching hostess set.

I just went through the spoons in my silverware drawer and found some stainless with stripes (I can't think of the right word for anything) down them, some with stainless beading around the edges, some with stainless AND gold-plated beading around the edges, and some hideous cut-out fancy things that look like my mother would have owned.

(If any of the above descriptions sound like your flatware, send me an e-mail.  I'm sure I have your missing pieces.)

WTH??  I'm a forty-two year old woman; I should have flatware that doesn't look like it came from the "5 for a quarter box" at the neighbor's garage sale!

How nice it would be to set a holiday table without pretending that the mismatched flatware is supposed to be that way and is "chic".

I have vague memories of trying to make this dream come true.  It just seems like the first time you're out of plastic spoons and you send the kids to school with pudding cups and real spoons, they get thrown out with the apples they never eat and become part of the landfill.

The very next thing on my bucket list that came to my mind is to clean my garage.

Yes, that is REALLY my 2.5 car garage.

As you can see, the bucket list will have to stop there because it will take me every second of the rest of my life to deal with that mess.

What's on your bucket list?

If you like what you read, go to the right and click the "Follow" button.  Even if you don't like what you read, please click the button anyway because I have self-esteem issues.

Post edit:  Okay, okay, I get it!!!  I'm an idiot!  The bucket list comes from the term "kicking the bucket."  And there was even a famous movie called "The Bucket List".  Duh.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

My Biggest Confession

Sometimes I really wish I didn't tell you guys everything.

This is the one thing I'd like to keep a secret in my life, but I can't;  I have a deal with all of you.

You would think that my husband's affair or my anti-depressant use or my children screaming "vagina" and "penis" in public might be the things I want to keep private.

Not so much.

So here it is...

I bought new jeans the other day.  Rather, I HAD to buy new jeans the other day.

I'm 5'1" tall and I've worn a size O or a 2 most of my adult life, but these jeans are a size...not 0 or 2.

I don't know what happened.  The whole thing is perplexing to me.  I guess the dryer is too hot and it shrank all my jeans.

Or maybe something else is the culprit.

Friday, March 18, 2011

The Most Miserable Place On Earth

My friend, Andrea, just took her family to Disney World, and I feel so bad for her.

I HATE Disney more than you can imagine.  (I know: I'm going to hell; but, quite honestly, if this is the thing out of everything in my life that sends me to hell, I'm alright with it.)

Danny and I took our kids AND MY MOTHER to Disney a few years ago.  You can't even begin to imagine how much I dreaded it.  I'm not a Pooh sweatshirt-wearing kind of girl anyway, and all those giant rodents and sickeningly sweet princesses walking around totally creep me out.

But I try to be a good mother, and I knew I had to take the little one to Disney because it's just a rite of passage.  I didn't go happily though, especially when I realized that we had to put my mother in a wheelchair and push her around the Magic Kingdom in and out of the crowds I knew I'd want to kill (yes, I took my anti-depressants), and the whole time I would be in the miserably sweltering Florida heat.

So my bad attitude and I packed everyone's bags and headed off to the airport. 

We didn't even get onto the plane before the nightmare began.  My mother had bilateral hip replacements, so she had to go through the "special security" line.  Fine, except that she also has Alzheimer's and started yelling that she wasn't going without me and the TSA agents weren't touching her.


We were yelling at each other across the security section of the airport.  She yelled she wasn't going; I yelled to be quiet and I'd be over in a minute.  Everyone was looking at us and I know they were thinking, "I hope that trash doesn't sit next to us."  I don't blame them.

We finally made it to Florida and to Disney.  It was hotter than Hades, I had the old lady in the wheelchair and was hitting people in the horrendous crowd every time I pushed.  On top of that, I was putting sunscreen on someone every five minutes.  I was miserable, and I hadn't even been there a half hour.

Then something beautiful--dare I say, a gift from God--occurred:  I found out that if you have someone in a wheelchair the whole party goes to the front of the line!  (Cue angels singing, "Hallelujah!")


It was pure Nirvana.  (Except that the workers at the Haunted Mansion got quite testy because I couldn't get my mother out of the cart in time and they actually had to stop the ride, which, I found out from the screaming going on about us, never happens.)

So we went through the whole Magic Kingdom in about two hours.  It was fantastic!  We spent the rest of the day riding Space Mountain--over and over and over again!

Later on that night when my mother was rushed to the hospital......

Seriously.  She had some sort of attack in the hotel room and had to be rushed to the hospital that night.

When we got to the hospital, Danny walked in, looked at me and jokingly said, "Could your mother POSSIBLY f**k me anymore than she already has?"  When the man has a point, he has a point.

By the time the doctor walked in, I was crying.  The doctor asked me what my mother had done that day, and I told him.  He said, "You made her ride Space Mountain the whole day?"

With terror in my eyes, I blathered, "Wheelchair...huge of line....

Turns out she was okay, but she had to be hospitalized.

Consequently, I laid around the hotel's pool and didn't go to Disney the next day.  I will NEVER go to Disney again without a wheelchair!

So, Anj, the next time you go to Disney, break one of the legs of your beautiful daughters and get her in a wheelchair!!!

P.S.  Don't forget to go to the right sidebar and click the "Follow" button (or whatever it's called; you know what I mean!)

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

We Will Not Be Ashamed

So, I was reading some public safety article that said it's estimated that the use of seat belts saves 17,000 lives per year.

Big deal.

My anti-depressants save at least that many lives.

Don't get me wrong:  I'm not saying people shouldn't wear seat belts.  My sister, I'll call her Ebbie-day, for the sake of anonymity, got her face ripped off in a car accident because she wasn't wearing a seat belt (and she still doesn't--idiot), and a good friend of mine lost two siblings who weren't wearing seat belts in car accidents.  Personally, I won't ride in a car without wearing a seat belt. 

And I won't go a day without taking my anti-depressants.

So, seat belts are good.  All I'm saying is that my anti-depressants are good too.

Do the math:  17,000 people per year divided by 365 days a year equals 46.575 people per day.

My anti-depressants save 46.575 people in my life every day. Without a doubt!

My typical day starts off with my mother coming upstairs from her bedroom and waking me up.  She's making these strange noises constantly now and it drives me crazy!!!!  But I don't kill her.  One life saved by anti-depressants, and it isn't even 6 a.m.

Then my 17 year-old gets up, doesn't even say, "Good morning," and starts on me because I haven't planned her graduation party and I haven't filled out her FAFSA for college, and I didn't give her all the checks she needs for her various activities, etc, etc.  And yet, I let her live.

Then I get to work, unlock my office door and see tons of pieces of paper under my door, most of which are anonymous (they think) complaints about me.  When I pick up the hate letters, I notice that my office STILL isn't vacuumed.  And STILL, no one has even told me where the vacuum is so I can do it myself.  But I let all those people live.

Then the work day really starts.  The call-offs start flooding in, and I have to get on the phone and call forty-two people who don't answer the phone--EVER--to cover the call-offs.

Throughout this daily debacle, employees come into my office and complain about each other over the most asinine things you've ever heard.  I want to tell them to just fight it out and the winner is the last one conscious, but I don't.  I run around and try to solve their problems.

Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live. Live.

And it isn't even noon.

So, I am thrilled to death that I am on anti-depressants, and the rest of the world should be thrilled I am too. 

In fact, I'm not really so sure why people are ashamed to be on anti-depressants.  They just help the brain balance out the chemicals in your body, just like if your pancreas didn't produce enough insulin (or whatever organ produces insulin--I don't research this stuff, people; I just write what comes into my head).  You wouldn't be ashamed if you were on insulin, would you?

(Legal disclaimer, because I AM an attorney:  Don't try this shiznit on your own!!  Anti-depressants can be dangerous in some situations, so don't buy the fake stuff (or the real stuff) on the Internet and don't try your friend's Zoloft.  Go to the doctor and see what he or she says.  I don't want your family suing me when you jump off a bridge.)

So, let's burn our bras or jock straps, come out of the closet, and rip the doors off our medicine cabinets to help get rid of the stigma associated with anti-depressant use!

My anti-depressant of choice is the Lexapro/Abilify cocktail.

Your turn!

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Poor Danny

Isn't she just gorgeous?!!

No, she's not a supermodel, although she should be (clearly).

This is actually my friend.  (No, she's not an imaginary friend!)  But she's not just any friend; she's a friend that I tried to set Danny up with.

Not only is she gorgeous, but she's also intelligent, highly educated, successful, friendly, and witty.  You know, your basic nightmare--the perfect woman.

Oh, and did I mention that she works out like a fiend so she has a super-fantastic bod?

Anyway, when I tried to set Danny up with her, Danny called me and said that he was really interested in me.

And look what the idiot got stuck with:

Granted, it's a very, very bad picture of me, but it's still me, and NOT my gorgeous friend!

You really screwed up, Danny!


(But I'm totally glad that you have poor taste in women!)

Saturday, March 12, 2011

Dumb and Dumber

Okay, you guys know I tell you everything, right? And you know I make a fool out of myself all the time and don't care, right?

So today I heard someone close to me say something really, really stupid, and that caused me to think of the dumbest thing I've ever said. There have been so very many, but I managed to narrow it down to three.

(Saying "I love you" to numerous complete idiots over forty-two years doesn't count--mainly because I can't remember them all, and I would never be able to decide which was the biggest idiot.)

The first was when I was in a political science class in college. The professor kept referring to a President Andrew Johnson. He said "President Andrew Johnson" over and over again during the class, and every time he did, I giggled. How stupid could he be? And the more I giggled, the more people in the class turned and looked at me with that "WTH?" look on their faces. Obviously, they knew what an idiot he was too!

Finally, the professor looked at me and said, "Melissa, what is so funny?"

As politely as I could, because I didn't want to embarrass the poor guy, I said--and I swear this is true--"I'm sorry, but I think you're a bit confused: it's Andrew Jackson and Lyndon Johnson, not Andrew Johnson."

As the room exploded with laughter, the professor rolled his eyes, took a deep breath, and simply asked, "What high school did you go to?"

Well, I went to a very respectable high school, thankyouverymuch, and I even skipped a year (which was probably when everyone else was learning about President Andrew Johnson).

Really? Andrew Johnson? Who knew?

At least that wasn't memorialized on tape as was one of the other stupid things I said.

I was eight months pregnant and it appeared that my baby hadn't grown from the last month, so I had to have an ultrasound. I took my VHS tape so I could record my precious baby, but I was a mess from all the worrying.

The technician started the ultrasound and a few seconds later, she announced, "Well, I see ten fingers and ten toes."

That was all I could take. I started sobbing and screamed, "Oh my gosh! How many is she supposed to have?"

As long as I live, I will never forget the mystified look on that poor woman's face.

And finally, I really do mean it when I tell everyone that I LOVE CHARLIE SHEEN!

Now it's your turn. C'mon and spill the dumbest thing you've ever said. Won't you please help a sistah feel not so alone?

Thursday, March 10, 2011

What They Don't Teach You in Law School

While teaching my adult Sunday School class, one of the students said to me, "We all know what the Lord thinks about lawyers." Rude? Yeah, I thought so.

I'm not sure what the comment means, but I do know that I will never regret my career choice, which is why I still practice one day a week. How could I not when I've learned so much over my fifteen years as an attorney?

One of the biggest lessons I've learned is that apparently nothing says "I love you" like a good ass-whoopin'. It must be true, because the alleged domestic violence victims keep going back to their alleged abusers time after time after time.

So, abusers, read carefully: Forget about the candy, flowers and jewelry; just whoop her ass. She'll love you forever. Trust me. It must be true; I've seen it enough times.

I've also learned over the years that it is apparently quite common for people to put on other people's pants (sweatshirt, shoes, coat, whatever) and, amazingly, those pants tend to contain in them crack that doesn't really belong to the wearer. I generally wear my own clothes, sans drugs, but I guess there's a whole population out there that doesn't roll the way I do.

Oh, and never, never, stop at a light with your car windows down because, very often, people will walk up to your car and throw crack/crystal meth/marijuana into the car. That has never, ever, NOT ONCE in twenty-six years of driving, happened to me, but I guess I'm in the minority.

Another thing that amazes me is that SO MANY people drive people around in their cars and don't know the names of their passengers. They also never know that the unknown person in the car has a gun or drugs that the passenger slides between the seats when the police approach. Thank goodness I never pick up strangers; I would be in so much trouble!

And don't ever smoke crack with your parents. That tends to get really, really ugly in a lot of ways. I hate it when that happens to me, so I usually avoid smoking crack with my parents. I don't smoke crack with my sisters either. You can't be too careful, ya know.

Also, did you know that it's common for a man to have sex with his ten year-old daughter and for him to think it was really his wife? Not being a man myself, I would have no idea about such things. I'm always amazed when I hear that defense.

And guns? Wow, they are more dangerous than you know. They actually go off during cleaning (or when they drop on the floor) and shoot people in the head in excess of six times. Who would have thought?

I guess I was just naive.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Paging Dr. House

I suppose the next step is for me to spew bloody mucous from my mouth or any other orifice, for that matter.

My potentially terminal illness started out as a cough and some sinus drainage. That was enough to bother me because I watch A LOT of "House", so I know it's not that simple. My disease/disorder has to be something more sinister.

Then a couple nights ago I rolled over and it felt like the room was spinning; not that I was spinning, but that the room was spinning. (I haven't had even a single drink in years, so perish that thought!) I went back to sleep.

That morning when it was time to get up, I put my hand on the doorknob and the room was spinning again. I fell over and hit my head on the bedroom closet. I now have a giant goose-egg on my forehead, and I'm positive I have a concussion.

In the process of getting the kids ready, I couldn't walk a straight line down the hallway. Everything was spinning and I kept bouncing off the walls, literally.

Then Danny said something to me, I said it back to him, and he said I repeated it wrong. This is really just an aside because I'm convinced he said it wrong to begin with.

So what's wrong with me?

I know I need an MRI and a CT scan. House would definitely do that. And a lumbar puncture. House loves those. Oh, and he would send his team to break into my house to find environmental toxins. I better finish this post in a hurry and start cleaning.

He would probably find that I was supposed to be a twin and my twin attached itself to my brain and is causing my symptoms. In that case, I'll be fine.

Or, once he hears that my sister died of brain cancer, he'd decide I have a brain tumor. Maybe operable, maybe not. That's when Wilson would come in and say there's some other type of cancer, probably lymphoma.

Then I would remember to tell House that my father has Guillain-Barre Syndrome. He would yell at me for being stupid, do yet another lumbar puncture, and treat me for the neurological disorder I have.

Or I need a liver, kidney, or bone marrow transplant. I would have tons of donors because everybody likes me, remember?

Or it could be a scratch that I got on my body and it went septic. In that case, I'm a goner because House would miss the sepsis and treat me with something to prevent my body from fighting it off.

I do know one thing for sure: It's definitely not a sinus infection accompanied by an ear infection that is throwing off my equilibrium.

Way, way too boring.

Thursday, March 3, 2011

My Backside

Today was one of those skirt-caught-in-your-pantyhose days.


I was in a hearing in Juvenile Court this morning and I did a good job, if I do say so myself. After the hearing, Nature called. I went into the bathroom, and when I came out I noticed that the place was packed. I said hello to some friends as I walked down a LONG and VERY CROWDED hallway, and I hugged another attorney that I hadn't seen in awhile.

All of the sudden, in unison it seemed, several women yelled, "Honey, fix your skirt. It's caught in the back of your pantyhose!" Then one of the women actually REACHED OUT and PULLED MY SKIRT OUT OF MY PANTYHOSE!!!!

If I didn't make such an idiot out of myself all the time, I probably would have been embarrassed. It was really a shame, though, because it was also one of those rare wow-I-look-really-good-today days.

I didn't look so good another time the skirt in the pantyhose thing happened to me. (However, I was A LOT younger so my backside looked A LOT better, but that's a different post for a different day.)

That time, I was working as a waitress at a Perkins/IHOP/Waffle House type of place. It was a Sunday afternoon and, as every waitress knows, Sunday afternoons after church are when old people and families with young kids flood the place.

Anyway, Nature called, so I answered Nature's promptings. When I came out of the restroom, I continued working all over the restaurant. About a HALF HOUR later, I had my butt up in the air as I was bending over a booth seat into an adjoining seat to pick up something that had fallen.

That was when an old lady and her husband called me over to their table and the lady whispered, "Honey, your skirt is caught in the back of your pantyhose. We wanted to tell you sooner, but we didn't want to embarrass you."


I RAN into the bathroom and looked in the full-length mirror. Suffice it to say that the entire restaurant got quite the show that day.

Oh, did I mention that I don't wear underwear with pantyhose?