Archives for May 2012

TMI… Even For Me.

I believe we’ve determined that I don’t have a weak stomach.

I spent five years working for a law firm that specialized in medical malpractice defense and personal injury cases. Somewhere along the line I told you about my ability to peruse photos depicting bits of what was once a person’s leg before it traveled through a wood chipper. It was surprisingly surreal. Rather more like the set of a gory slasher film than some dude’s right leg.

I saw surgery photos, post-surgery horrors and read detailed medical records about a man who ignored a cyst for so long that, after it was drained, it left a cavity the size of a grapefruit requiring gauze packing. Ultimately, that neglected cyst robbed him of his ability to poop. (Attention: If you have a large cyst – especially on or near your anal cavity – run, run, I say – to your physician, because the last thing you want is some broad pouring over your medical records and highly graphic photos of your anus while she noshes on falafel.)

Are you still with me? I realize it’s highly likely that I lost a considerable number of potential readers with that last paragraph…

The reason I provided that bit of nasty background information was simply to prepare you for what is to come. I am about to share my circuitous adventure through the darker regions of the internet. That scary, horrible place you stumble across when you make the grave mistake of combining the idiocy of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills with Google searches.

Last Wednesday night I was reading a book. For some odd reason, I like to read/write/think to the soundtrack of whatever morons Bravo or E! is airing at any given moment of the day. Turns out that on Wednesday night, I was listening some woman named Alexis yammer on about her sinuses and the reason she wasn’t having a “nose job.”

So…after her nose job, she brought a camera crew to her follow-up appointment. She was attired in the requisite post-plastic surgery uniform – a Juicy sweat suit, fedora and a giant pair sunglasses resting upon her heavily bandaged nose  – when she informed her doctor that he “beat the hell out her.” Needless to say, I completely dropped my book when I realized the surgeon whipped out a picture showing exactly what he “pulled out of her nasal passages.”

Of course I had to look, but because I was actually reading and only semi-listening, I missed the picture!

I wanted to see the photo showing a giant gob of slime that her doctor called a “nasal mucus plug.”

So immediately this woman’s nasal mucus plug became all about me because, in addition to my stomach of steel, I’m self-absorbed and obsessed with my own on-going sinus issues. I’ve been avoiding surgery for two years. As I type, the left side of my face feels like someone is repeatedly plunging a knife into it. It’s been that way all week so Alexis’s mucus got me wondering about my own potential sinus mucus plug.

I Googled “sinus mucus plug.”

No, I didn’t find any photos of nasal mucus plugs, but I was lucky enough to stumble across a Google image of what I initially believed was someone’s nasal mucus plug.

Silly me…turns out some over-zealous pregnant gal wanted to share what her pregnancy mucus plug looked like. You know, for all those people who are just dying to know.

Seriously? You swiped a gob of mucus from your hoo-ha, took a picture of it and posted it on the internet?!

As if that wasn’t enough insanity for one pregnancy board discussion thread… after that brave gal posted her plug, it began a trend. Now it seems that proud passers of plugs from all over the US of A want to show off their mucus. And no two are alike.

I know this because I looked at them.

I don’t know why. Call it morbid fascination. Shock and awe. Disgust. Disbelief.

I shook my head and wondered what type of person would post photos of her….her…mucus plug?

Then I remembered that I filled the world in on Cheeseburger Crotch. Sans photographic attachments of course. I tend to limit my over-sharing to descriptive phrases versus photographic displays.

So, a few nights later Dave and I sat down to eat and, for some reason, I decided to share my internet discovery as he took a bite of his dinner. I was still in shock. Apalled that women thought it appropriate to share photos of this stuff. I was embarassed for them – as if anyone perusing that freakish board would see through the screen names and be able to identify a person by her secretions.

“Oh, hey Sally! I saw your mucus plug pictures this morning. GORGEOUS…”

It’s truly hard to express these types of observations and opinions to a man. While he’s eating dinner.

I need a few more girlfriends.

Used Booby Traps

Sometimes I feel like this has become a blog about my three year old, Kate. All Kate, all the time. Kate and her potty mouth. Kate not using the potty. Kate mortifying me. Kate being Kate.

I’ve actually hesitated several times, fingers poised over my keyboard, pondering whether or not I should really write yet another play-by-play of Kate’s ability to drop salty words like a world-weary sailor. Really? I thought. Should I? People must be tired of this storyline by now. I know I am.

Whatever. In the end this endless cycle of blog posts dedicated to Kate will become part of her history, her moments of naughtiness preserved future consumption. Maybe it’s because she’s the baby of the family, or because she’s so petite, or because she’s so petite and now sports a saucy little bob. She insists on pulling her own crazy outfits together each morning and she’s just so.darn.cute.

She has the best comic timing.

She makes me laugh when I know I shouldn’t but I just can’t help myself.

Part of her charm comes from her vast range of facial expressions.  She also punctuates her words with her hands. As in those open-handed chopping movements while she impatiently reminds me, “I toad you I don’t wike hot dogs, Mom!”

A few weeks ago I decided to kill some time while Gwen was at preschool by hitting the local Goodwill. Kate loves Goodwill. She finds Beanie Babies like a champ and, during this particular visit she discovered an unopened package of SpongBob paper cups. Her excitement was infectious. I understood her joy at having found an unexpected treasure in an unlikely place. After all, that’s why we hunt at the Goodwill, always searching for white American pottery or vintage oil paintings. I didn’t score that day, but Kate sure did.

She loves the tactile experience of touching things I’d rather she didn’t touch. Though this particular Goodwill is clean and lacking that musty thrift store smell, I have a slight problem with her diving into a rack of ogre-sized bras. I mean, are they used? Who the hell buys a used bra?

“Oh.My.God,” I heard her say, “Wook.At.Dis. WOOK AT DIS, MOM! It’s a gweat big booby twap!”

“Jeeeesus, that is big!” I breathed, and was momentarily hypnotized by a set of bra cups the size of my head.

I shook it off and said, “Kate, put that back now and let’s walk over that way,” pointing to anywhere but the vicinity of potentially used undergarments.

“Wait, wook at dis booby twap. It’s got polka bots!” she screamed, holding a giant black and hot pink polka dotted bra up to her chest. She gave a little twist back and forth and admired herself in the mirror.

“Pretty!” I cooed, “Okay…let’s go this way now.” I began leading her away from the booby traps…erm, used bras.

Reluctantly, she hung the bra back up and began to follow me, the heels of her yellow rain boots thunking against the floor. As we neared the checkout, the thunk, thunk of Kate’s boots abruptly stopped. After a moment of silence, I turned to see what distracted her. The moment we made eye contact she shrieked, “Oh, no! I weft my SpongeBob cups! My SpongeBob cups!” She took off, her boots thunking at a high rate of speed as she retraced her steps.

I couldn’t see her anymore, but I followed the sound of her boots and the heads of other Goodwill shoppers who looked down as she ran past, their faces breaking into a smile. Eventually, her boots came to a stop and I heard her little voice say, “Oh! Dere dey are!”

On her way back up the aisle, and once more in my sight, she triumphantly held the SpongeBob cups up and called out, “Don’t worry, Mom. I got the ficken SpongeBob cups!”

She must have noticed my wide-eyed look of horror because she immediately said, “I said ficken not fuck. That’s okay, right Mom?”

A woman perusing winter coats began howling with laughter and turned to look down at Kate as she passed by. Then she looked at me and said, “She makes a good point!”