Two year anniversary, already

Today marks mine and Mr. Right's two year anniversary. This occasion has been celebrated with some Godiva chocolate and there will be an after work Swedish massage rendezvous (thinking I can get his back waxed while there). Further celebrating to resume next weekend at a Saugatuck (Michigan) bed and breakfast.

Don't tell Mr. Right (not that he cares)... but two years also marks the start of my impure thoughts about this man. Eric Bana.











Stops me dead in my tracks every time I see him.

-- Post From My iPhone

You can put lipstick on a pig...

I married That Guy. That Guy, who is so not metrosexual that it is a source of humor and sadness for me, at the same time. He's the guy who shops at Kohls for Dockers, or Men's Warehouse, or (ugh) JC Penney. He thinks this is what makes him look not douchey. He has also been saying he's a 50 year old man, since he was 41. Still not 50 dude. You probably got it now, I don't need to mention the bizarre eyebrows.

But what I don't understand is that he works in Marketing. Aren't these usually the guys that know better?

(ps: my cat is munching his toe nails behind me right now as I type, I'm trapped by gross men)

So last week I swear I heard angels singing. Mr. Right was offered a job after his 9 week hiatus (aka playing Call to Duty on the Wii and naps at 6:30 pm). This offer is to work at a European car company, in Marketing...

he came to me and said (I should have been warned here because I actually lost my breath) that he needed me to take him shopping to pick out some more "hip" clothes. Apparently, things are different at EUROPEAN car companies. I decided to downplay it and tell him that the fact he used the word hip, meant it was going to be painful. I clarified "you don't mean 'hip replacement clothes' right?"... "we're talking... Club Monaco, Banana, Nordstrom... right?".

Since that conversation, I have been trying not to scare it. I'm being gentle. Today is the day we should go shopping, but I'm going to wait for him to come and sniff my hand. I'm careful not to look him directly in the eye, just be patient. Sometimes it's best to go slow with the feral ones.

Do cheeseburgers cause tumors?

A while back I wrote about my fear of doctors, and hospitals. I'm not going to link back to it because I'm too afraid to.

At the time, I was having an ultrasound. No extraordinary issues there.

I may have been having some sort of strange insight to the future though because there is about to be some funny blog fodder coming. Or at least I hope it's lots of fun. I am going to have an MRI on Monday which is a prelude to UFE. Heard of it? Uterine Fibroid Embolization. Should be fun.

A very Doogie Howzer looking young man will be performing this procedure. He has no idea yet that I will be refusing the catheter they describe in the brochure. I just got used to the idea of staying in the hospital overnight, getting a brazilian wax before, the cheeseburger I plan to send Mr. Right to fetch for me from the Red Coat Tavern across the street, and the pain meds they have promised me. I was on a roll and they had to go and kill it by mentioning the word "catheter".

Worst word in the English language.

My plan is to not take in any fluids for 3 days before the procedure so that I'm so dehydrated that the nurse takes pity on me.

That's my dream anyway. If I'm up to it, I may blog from the hospital. If I don't grab my fuzzy slippers and escape that is.

or, how we gear up for Valentine's Day around here

When I got home from work tonight, I didn't even notice the dishes on the counters, or the full dishwasher, or the mess on the stove, or the toilet seat left up with kitty taking a drink, or Mr. Right pretending to be looking for a job on his Macbook.

I headed right to our bedroom to relax.

A minute later, it was the last straw. I was about to rip into Mr. Right for leaving his smelly clothes on the floor... when I noticed they were arranged in a heart shape.

He seriously does love me.

I envy her moxy

We have a cute little 10 gallon fish tank. We have some mollies, a swordtail, a guppy, three albino catfish because I like saying albino catfish, and two small fish that sortof glow. The fish that live here are happy, except for when my cat Oliver torments them.

We have one orange swordtail fish. A female. We had a male too, but she went all black widow on him. Can't say I blame her. He probably sweated on the machine she wanted to use at Bally's and didn't wipe up after himself. I envy her moxy.

A short while after the male was found murdered and an autopsy was done, three tiny little baby swordtails showed up in the tank that look just like girl swordtail. Some time goes by, they grow into bigger babies.

Then today, I notice MORE swordtail babies. Tiny little newborn babies. How can this be? The male was executed. What the?

I asked Mr. Right how did this happen, and he actually.... ASKED ME IF I HAVE EVER HAD A SCIENCE CLASS. I almost went all black widow myself, but internalized it instead. I repeated, "there is only one swordtail, a female". Then I heard some mumbling about how swordtails breed with mollies?

I'm no fish expert, but I know this is the equivalent of a cat breeding with a dog. In science class, don't they teach you that doesn't happen?

I love google. Right away I found what I was looking for and sent this email to Mr. Right when I got to work.

So the swordtail does not breed with other types of fish... but, they are
livebearers and if you read at the very end of this article
"a month after the first batch expect another batch from the same female. Female
livebearers store sperm in a pouch for several months and can continue to have
fry without being near another male"

In your face.

Then I did my best George Jefferson swagger all the way to lunch.

Random Thoughts Friday

The Gingerbread Latte at Starbucks is now called the GingerSNAP latte. They have something against bread.

There is really a Chevy Chase Boulevard. Life makes sense now.

I don't eat blue jelly beans. What flavor is blue? It's not blueberry. What is that?

I don't like Christmas wrapping paper with any blue on it. It seems wrong. No, I'm not prejudice against Jewish people.

Only Princess Di could ever pull off blue eyeshadow.

Does it count if you just eat the custard out of a donut?

My New Year's Resolution is to give up Trader Joe's Nutty American Trek Mix. Hold me.

If Mr. Right asks me if I ever took a science class again, I may punch him.

People say there is a grace period after the expiration date on dairy. I'm not ready to live life on that edge.

"Latin is a dead language I always say" Rushmore, 1997

"These are OR scrubs, I just came from work" Rushmore, 1997

"O R they!" Rushmore, 1997

My favorite movie of all time is Rushmore (Jason Schwartzman and Bill Murray, 1997)

I could have married a UPS driver

You may remember that new headboard. I ordered some lights for the inside of it so that I wouldn't miss the functionality of the old skank headboard. I'm sentimental that way.

Off topic, there is a wall switch in our bedroom that I have been asking Mr. Right to replace for... 2 months now. I think he has been too busy being off work because he hasn't been able to fit it into his schedule. He does have a grueling tour with Call of Duty on the Wii so I totally understand.

However, when the lights showed up in the mail today (I know this via the wonderful UPS tracking website), I sent Mr. Right an email from work asking him to leave the box alone because I would like to supervise that installation.

This triggered an argument that I am not the boss of him and he is getting his tools now to do the installing.

This is what I like to call an epiphany. I need to rethink my whole approach. Rubbing meatloaf on items that need repairing is not the way to go.

An open letter to hair stylists

Dear Husband's Hair Stylist,

When you are cutting Mr. Right's hair, please don't out of the blue say to him "so are you going to go home and take a shower after this?", then just roll your eyes when he looks at you blankly and asks you if that was a suggestion.

Because, then I have to deal with a night of obsessive questions about what he smells like. Of course I didn't help when I said "you don't smell bad, per say...", but I was starting to feel like I have a high maintenance husband, and I'm the only one who is allowed to be high maintenance. Sure, I know you people are just more personal in the way you perform your profession than the average person. I get it because every single time I am getting my hair done, my stylist is on her period and likes to describe it to me in detail. However, Mr. Right is a hetero guy and not street wise in the ways of the stylist.

Thanks, alot.

kisses.

Emergency purchase

We have been married for 16 months now. From day one, there was something about the headboard that came with Mr. Right's king size water bed that I could not stand. Never could put my finger on it, so I put off buying a new one. I figured it was in our bedroom, out of the way, there were other things that were more important to tackle. A vibrating barcalounger for one.

Still, it haunted me.

I would walk by it, stop. Ponder. Was it the mirror in the middle? No. Well, that wasn't the biggest factor. I was down with that.

Was it the wood grain veneer? Not... exactly.

Was it the built in lights? No, I kinda liked that for reading at night.

Was it the built in shelves? No. I surprisingly had become a bookshelf headboard convert.

Then one day I was cleaning (it happens). I discovered it. CANDLE WAX on our marriage bed. Uh, we have never had candles in the bedroom.

I went online immediately and ordered this. It came and within hours Mr. Right was putting it together and the old headboard is now firewood.

From the Bedrooms N More website I submit to you the Skank Free Bookshelf Headboard:

Marriage Detroit Style

You are about to read something very personal about my husband. I promised when I started blogging that I would stay away from certain personal topics. But my mood has changed, the economy has gone very sour, and I don't give a crap anymore.

You may have noticed his job was eliminated. Since we live in a Detroit suburb, I will give you 3 guesses who he worked for, indirectly. Funny thing is, his company is in Austin, TX. So no matter where you are, what you are watching on TV has touched us all and is very scary horrifying.

His plan. To work a contract job for 6 months or so until things improve. Our definition of "things improve" has verbage about Mr. Bush leaving office. I say that as kindly as I can, within an hour of taking my meds.

He is a project manager for automotive online marketing. Snooze fest. In other words, he tells website developers what to do. He has a huge ego. He will probably read this comment and only notice the word 'huge', and see a compliment.

Here is a little insight to our marriage, and how we communicate, Detroit style. He was contacted by a recruiter and sent me this email.

I bet oral that I will have this job. I will get called this week for an interview and I will have the assignment by the first of the year.
That is assuming GM gets bailed.

I know. You want to move here and get a piece of that action, don't you.

It's called Frankenmuth

On Saturday, we had our second annual family Christmas outing. Last year it was a Christmas tree farm, but this year in honor of the bad economy we decided to put up our anorexic fake tree. Somehow it seems fitting and not depressing at all. Insert sarcastic smile here.

Side Note: I'm afraid to watch 'It's A Wonderful Life' this year. Last year I smirked at the "run" on a bank scene. This year, uh - not so old school. Is 2008 the new 1929? Is crying the best medicine, or is that laughter? I forget.

So back to my story. We went to Frankenmuth, which is a Bavarian town about 50 miles away (Christmas every day all year but they step it up a notch in December, if that's possible). Famous chicken. Throw me a bone if you have heard of it.

We told Princess she could invite a friend. I'm learning lessons I tell you.

Turns out, she invited a friend who lives 30 minutes in the opposite direction. It was too late. Friend was already way excited. I didn't put much thought into wondering why this friend is able to go to her school when she lives so far away. I was hung up on the fact that Princess has about 13,000 friends right in our neighborhood.

We piled on our winter coats, left the house, and headed for the ghetto to pick her up. A half an hour later, Kayla comes bounding up to the car like a Great Dane and Princess jumps out to run and hug her. Turns out, Kayla is a little black girl. Just an observation, Princess doesn't even know the difference.

I spent the rest of the day reflecting on how Princess doesn't have to listen to the racism I did when I was growing up. When I think about all the stupidity in the world back then, then cut to today and the age of Obama, I can't help but feel warm an fuzzy inside (but that might be the Spanish Coffee I had).

Despite the fact that we are all headed for the brink of a very different disaster and people will soon be killing each other for a can of cat food to feed their family, I was happy we drove the extra hour.

Happy Holidays!

This is what we get

Princess is with us exactly half of the time. The other half, with her biological mother. Well, she is babysat by a TV there, to be more exact.

Yes, we walk around the house naked, make s'mores with the gas burners, and drink beer the whole time she is not at our house. Get over it.

Facts:
There is a cat ("Kitty") at her mother's.
Oliver, my cat, is at our house.
Mr. Right's job was eliminated last week. Don't worry, we will be fine. I'm practicing walking on my hooker heels as I type this.

Out of the blue, Princess sends Mr. Right an email with simply "sorry about your job daddy". Awe, that's nice. She couldn't possibly want anything, right? She's a 10 year old little girl. Her motives must be pure.

Mr. Right's reply was "don't worry about it honey, but we will just have to be careful with Christmas presents this year".

[ahem, there is a Wii and Guitar Hero sitting in the middle of my living room waiting to be wrapped for her]

Her response, was "that is fine, all I want for Christmas is MY own cat", and this:

Daddy i love playing with oliver but haven't lately much. i would put the litter
box in our bathroom and i would clean it and feed my cat and train it like kitty
i would play with it on my free time and i would do my best to take very good
care of it it will eventualy get used to oliver and oliver would get used to my
cat that is mostly all I want for christmas!
LOVE,

There were some other emails directing him to talk me into it, and more about how much a cat doesn't cost anything. Insert my sideways smile here. Yeah, I sortof look like Elvis with long red hair when I do that.

I had flashbacks to the missing $8,000 I spent in vet bills for my last cat Smokey, over 16 years.

We are both feeling a bit manipulated. What is the deal with her cat at her mother's? What is this "a cat of my own" crap?

I told Mr. Right to keep it simple. Stick to "whose cat would it be when you are not at our house?" because that should be enough to throw her off track. I'm looking for ways to avoid telling her "hell to the no kid".

Consumer confidence rises in November

Today the Associated Press has a story all over the Netz about how, surprisingly, consumer confidence rose in November.

Um. That would be me. Sorry. I couldn't pass up all those great pre-Black Friday sales. Add to this, someone showed me how to google "coupon code" and use these little treats for online shopping.

Since I'm one of like 3 people with a job left in Michigan, I feel it is my duty.

Homework

Be sure to check your kid's homework before they turn it in.

In this case, Mommy works at Home Depot and here she is selling a shovel.

For My Friend Karen

Dear Karen,

Thank you for talking me in to getting a Kindle. Today alone made it worth the 300 bucks I spent on it. As you know, I got called back to the hospital for more glamour shots of my thyroid.

I have to tell you, the Image Center at that hospital is chock full of blue hair patients. They have no problem asking you "what are you here for?". No need to look mortified. I just buried my nose in my Kindle and ignored them all. I think there was a discussion about Cloris Leachman but I can't be sure, I tuned them out. One little lady was kind enough to offer me a butterscotch candy from her purse though. The lint was a bonus.

They left me sitting in the scan room afterwards until the radiologist felt like coming back from lunch to tell me they had everything they needed. Did I notice? Not so much. I whipped my Kindle out of my tote and Edgar Sawtelle kept me company. Not once did a 'what the hell' enter my mind. Which is a miracle because 'what the hell' is my motto these days.

Except, there is something to be said for sitting in the corner shaking like a nervous dog. I scored a coupon for a free icecream from the nurse. I must look 12 years old because she told me that I could get my icecream *after* I was done, and tousled my hair.

Ok, thanks.

I was thinking about keeping the identification bracelet on they gave me. This thing could come in handy for my 3 o'clock meeting with clients. Over the top?

By the way, you need to get these people on board with the latest hospital shoe fashion. They are still hung up on their Crocs (oi vey). I think a strongly worded email is in order with some links to the Keen website. Get a clue, people.

How much longer should I let Mr. Right sweat before I call him and tell him I'm ok? I've already gotten a dozen roses and a mixed boquet out of this deal, should I go for the Michael Kors Austin Cross Body bag, in black? You're right, that would be too mean. I do want that bag bad though...

See, you don't even have to answer me back. I can answer for you.

Hugs,

Me

Exposed

I consider myself a reckless person. There isn't much I'm afraid of. I'm not even afraid of the current economy. I get motion sickness when flying but in reality I'm not afraid of it.

However, I do have a phobia. I can't say it outloud, but this isn't really outloud so here goes.

Doctors. Otherwise known as Latriphobia. Ok, I am self diagnosed but I have no fear that I am wrong.

There I said it. I am acutely afraid of doctors, hospitals, anything related to the medical field. I purposely got into computer science to avoid that nightmare. I would rather go to jail for a night than a hospital. Real gangster jail, not that work release country club shit.

The only time I have ever had surgery in my life is when I had my tonsils out when I was 5 years old. My parents packed my little Holly Hobbie overnight case, stocked up on popsicles, and set off to the hospital with me in the backseat thinking I was going to Sesame Street.

In 1969, they sent parents home for the night.

That mistake may have been rectified immediately after my visit.

Don't think I didn't put on my pink fuzzy slippers and try to escape. You'd also think a 5 year old curly red mop top in Burt 'n Ernie pj's would be a dead give away. Turns out, I made it all the way to the main entrance. I had a taxi in my sights and my kool-aid sale money in my sock. Nurse Ratchet caught me and confined me to a bed that looked like a cage. The next morning, it took 6 nurses to hold me down for a sedative injection to the glutious. In 1969, nurses could kick your ass for realz. They wore white caps, starched white dresses, and white support hose. I do believe they were convent rejects, traveled to work on a broom, and gave enimas just for the fun of it. I lived, but I was scarred for life mentally.

Then I used to watch TV shows like Emergency, then later General Hospital, then even later Grey's Anatomy like people watch horror movies (oh man they are giving her 800 cc's of lactated ringers, stat, what are they going to do with that needle, what the hell).

Anyway. Cut to 2008. Imagine my surprise when I felt something strange about my neck last month. In true Latriphobia fashion, I went to see my kinder gentler holistic doctor.

Who requested a thyroid ultrasound at the hospital.

Shit.

My sister the endocrinologist assistant told me "maybe they will do a needle biopsy to rule out thyroid cancer". What the hell? "uh yeah I gotta go to a meeting or something bye" then assumed the fetal position under my desk in my cubicle.

So yesterday I dragged myself to the hospital, let them check me in, read my Kindle while I waited, then let the technician lead me to her little ultrasound dark room. I thought my joke "is that the heartbeat" was funny but I guess not so much. After about a minute in to the ultrasound, she got up and said she had to "go get someone else to look at this". Before I could crap my pants, 3 doctors stormed the room, there was alot of whispering ("there are 3 over there, 2 over there, be sure to get that, and that"). Hello! I'm right here! I can hear you!

This.is.not.happening.

The smartest looking doctor walked me out. Actually handed me her card. Said "your doctor will be calling you in a few days, if he doesn't, get ahold of me at that number". And "we got some really good pictures".

I was too afraid to ask.

This morning already, as I'm getting ready for work, the hospital calls my house. The lady on the other end said "the radiologist took a look at your ultrasound and would like you to come back to the hospital, can you come today?". Not my doctor, this was the hospital on the phone. For all I know this person's full name was Shit The Hospital.

My best attempt to deal with my fear was to get cocky "you caught me off guard, I'm not sure about today, how about Friday?". She said that "should" be ok.

Again. I was too afraid to ask. Haven't picked up the phone to call anyone. When they say "come back to the hospital"... in my head I hear things like "so we can give you an upper and lower GI, at the same time", and "the needle we will stick in your neck is only 9 inches long", and my all time favorite "catheters only hurt when they are going in".

Why would I think a gastrointestinal exam would be involved? I don't know, it's my phobia, leave me alone.

I will check back in with you on Friday, if they can get me out from under my bed.

Happy Birthday Oliver, today you are 4

Oliver, I know your vote was for Malia and Sasha to get a kitty, not so much a puppy.

Turns out you won't be joining the 53% of us who are singing in the streets.

Sorry dude, maybe next time.

On the bright side, Happy Birthday! My gift to you is socialism. You are going to enjoy it, I promise.

Second Opinions

Princess saw an orthopedic doctor today, who said that her knee is not fractured. She has some condition that I can't pronounce (and it takes a while for me to give up) which is related to growing pains.

To hear Mr. Right explain it to her, it is swollen because she talks too much.

Fractured

Princess has been complaining about her knee for a while now. Mr. Right finally broke down and took her to the doctor. Turns out, it is fractured. Great. More ammunition for her to build her case that her parents are losers.

I believe this is related to the Great Ski Accident of 2007. Aggravated by gymnastics.

Both of which (especially skiing) will probably be out of the question this year.

I was so looking forward to reading my Kindle at the chalet by a toasty fire while Mr. Right and Princess take to the slopes. If global warming doesn't get in the way.

The idea of the first few snow flakes falling while she looks out the window and wimpers is driving me to have dreams about developing an alcohol problem.

I'm doing this for Marinka

Motherhood in NYC is a girl blogger I am in love with I read most days. She keeps posting these cool pictures of sites from Manhattan every day. Taunting me.

So I decided to post a picture of what we get to look at in the great city of Detroit. We affectionately refer to it as the Fist Cock (it's really supposed to be a Joe Louis monument). I actually saw a homeless man peeing on it one time, the nerve!

Nice, isn't it? Gives you a real warm and fuzzy when visiting the city.

Take that, Marinka! Snap!