Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye...

DISCLAIMER; IF YOU ARE IN ANY WAY SQUEAMISH, STOP READING HERE AND FOR THE SAKE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD, DO NOT LOOK AT THE PICTURES IN THE LINK ARTICLE!

Okay...that out of the way I can move on to the topic of my post EYEBALL TATTOOING

Yes, you read that right...tattoos on the EYEBALL.

Last night after church, my bossom-buddy, oft mentioned "partner in crime" and fellow CSI/Law & Order/Foriensic Files junkie, Cyndi and I were watching CSI/New York. Of the 3 this is not our favorite...but when it's that or a hockey game, well, you get the idea.

The "perp" was described as having "blue eyeballs." It was first theorized that he could have a genetic disorder called osteogenisis imperfecta that causes, among other things, extremely brittle bones, spinal deformities, muscle weakness and the whites of the eyes to appear blue.

Surprisingly, I am familiar with OI, as one of my Miracle League buddies has it. (Read more here http://www.oif.org/site/PageServer?pagename=FastFacts )

After that was ruled out, it was determined that the "perp" could have his eyeballs tattooed.Apparently the newest tattooing rage in New York! Don't it make my blue eyes...well, blue?!Of course, being CSI, we get to see the procedure being performed. Eeeww factor = 1000.

Luckily for our CSI buddies, despited being in one of the largest populatated cities in the country, only one place does it and they say only 4 people have had this procedure! Needless to day, they catch their "perp" rather quickly. They interogate him, his "blue" eyes glowing throughout. It made my eyes water.

So, I had to google it and guess what...eyeball tattooing is an actual procedure!

(supporting article .. http://www.nypost.com/seven/07312007/entertainment/health/dont_turn_blind_eye_to_eye_tattoo_risks_health_dr__rock_positano.htm)

I understand tattoos (sort of): Cyndi has a tattoo, my husband has a tattoo. The first time my mother saw Heath's tattoo, she embarrassed us in a crowded mall by shreiking "WHAT ON EARTH IS THAT ON YOUR ARM?!" I'd have a tattoo if I wasn't such a big chicken (my mother threatened me many years ago...I learned early that you don't cross Mother). But I don't really care for having something so permanent.

I can "put on" anything I want to. I compete in pageants....I play "dress up" all the time. But I can dress down and be "Mom" when I'm done too. I don't like the idea of having something I can't take off.

I also have a hard time getting shots to get well from things like pneumonia and strep. I know I couldn't PAY someone to repeatedly stick me and I'd have to be DEAD before I let someone stick one in my EYE!

Guess that's where that old saying comes from, huh?

Now that's what I call a "Home Run Assist"!

Sometimes I'm ashamed of the actions of my fellow man and then I see something like this that renews my faith in humanity.

Wish we could all display sportsmanship like this!

Read more at:
http://msn.foxsports.com/olympics/story/8091708?GT1=39002

AT 8:38 AM CENTRAL TODAY....

My daughter Julia will officially be 19!

(and I have the stretchmarks to prove it)

Happy birthday baby!

Love Mom

Reflections on the Past

It's 12:24pm Central time on Tuesday, April 29. 19 years ago, right this very minute, I was walking up and down the halls of Labor and Delivery at Brookwood Women's Hospital, trying to speed up the birth of my oldest daughter, Julia. She would still not make her appearance until 8:38am the next morning, after 2 shots of morphine ( that bruised my hip but didn't ease my pain), hallucenations brought on by a dangerous blood sugar dive, the best Sprite I will ever hae in my entire life and the start of a wicked UTI. My stomach hurts just thinking about it.

Little did I know at the time, this would set the precident for her life....Julia does everything in "Julia Time" and you can't rush her. I miss the times when I was so young that I had no worries.
Julia stands at the jumping off place between being a teenager and a responsible adult.

I wish she could be young, just a little longer.

I know of another young lady that is having to grow up a little too soon.

I've recently become "aquainted" (thru a blog) with the daughter of a man I've worked with for the past 17 years. Her name is Catherine. She's a 21 year old Senior in college, has a great boyfriend (hopefully soon to be engaged) and is also looking over the edge, at a whole new life. You know the one, where you finish, school, start your career, marry the man of your dreams and start a family. Traveling down the road of life, as it stretches out before her.

But she's hit a little speed bump....she has breast cancer.

I know what you are thinking..."Breast cancer...are you serious? She's only 21! Breast cancer only strikes women in their 40's!" Yeah, that's what your insurance company would like to think too, That is why they only "approve" mamograms for women over 40.

The fact is, anyone with breast tissue (even men!) can develop breast cancer, at any age.

And Catherine is working to spread that message.

I remember when I, myself, was 18 and I found my first lump. It was about the size of a "mojo" marble (telling my age huh?) in my right breast. It hurt like hell and made my whole right side sore. I remember calling for the appointment and the nurse telling me, "Oh, lumpy breasts are common in girls your age, it'll be nothing." and booked my appointment for a month out.

I related this to a dear friend and her mother, content that I had nothing to worry about, because, I was "too young for it to be anything serious." The look that passed between them when I said this could have frozen the Gulf of Mexico. Her mother, usually chatty and upbeat, took my hands in hers and pulled me up close to her. She fixed her eyes on mine, and in a voice I will never forget, said " there is no such thing as 'too young'."

Fighting back tears, she recounted how, just a year before, she had lost her baby sister. My friend and I had been casual friends when it happened. I knew that she had died, but didn't really know the details, and never really thought to ask. She told me about the lump her sister had found, how the doctor told her it was just "lumpy breasts" and at her age it was nothing to worry about. By the time it became "something to w0rry about, " little could be done. She died of breast cancer at 22.

My mother called and successfully convinced the doctor's office to move my appointment up. The next opening was 2 weeks away. In that 2 weeks, my little "friend" had grown to the size of a golf ball. It hurt to wear a bra, it hurt to go without one.

The humiliation began almost immediately. I'd never been to an OB/GYN before and the thought of being naked in front of this strange man was almost too much to bear. The breast exam was painful. When I touched the lump, I did so gingerly, but he did not as he tried to determine size, depth, composition. I nearly came unglued when the doctor suggested he attempt to draw fluid off it to see if it was a cyst. It was solid and unyeilding and the whole process hurt like hell. They took me across the hall to where the pregnant women got their sonograms, to get a look at it. There were were joined by an intern class of about 6. Each one wanted to feel my lump too. Fabulous.

It was determined that not only did I have this lump, I had 2 more on the other side. Not quite as big, but noticable. Attempts to obtain a fluid sample from them were also unsuccessful. It was decided that they all had to come out. Surgery was scheduled for the next week, which was approximately 2 days after Christmas.

I was put to sleep that day, not knowing if I would have breasts when I woke up. I was exactly 6 months from my 19th birthday. I praise the Lord here! Things went well. The lumps turned out to be fibrocystic, which is why they grew so quickly...relatively common. I was told that I had one more small lump, just at the base of my breast. It seemed to be the same as the others and was left to avoid damaging the tissue surrounding it. I went home to recover and prepare for the New Year.

It was then that the bills started coming in. The bill for the mamography...DENIED by our insurance carrier....marked "medically unnecessary before age 40." How can something that is ordered by your doctor be called "medically unnecessary'?! My mother, single by this time, wrote letter after letter, copying and highlighting pages of doctor's notes but the insurance company would not budge. We wound up paying for that mamogram out of pocket.

Because of the condition, my doctor ordered a mamogram every 2 years since and every 2 years, I wound up paying out of pocket. I did eventually get that last lump removed. It grew to the size of a baseball. I had to have a breast reduction to "even things out." Funny...insurance didn't have a problem paying for that.

I am now finally 40, the age when my insurance company thinks I should be worried about breast cancer.

And I am....for the young girls like Catherine.

"...the best laid plans of mice and men..."

Well, looks like I havent' posted in four months.

Sorry .... they say "men make plans and God laughs."

Had a lot going on. Whenever I have good intentions, something always seems to go awry!

Which reminds me of a favorite quote (if you can call it that)

"The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry"

I say it aloud whenever something goes screwy...so much so, my children look at me like I've bumped my head. Guess they haven't gotten to Steinbeck yet.

I was in 6th grade when I first read "Of Mice and Men" (I'd read it twice by the time it was "required" in high school. Lucky me, I just kinda skimmed it as a refresher, while all my classmates groaned and slogged thru it LOL!) It was there that I first read that quote from Robert Burns poem To A Mouse.

I don't know why that has stuck with me all these years. It's just one of those funny little things stuck in my brain, like the phone number of our house in Lovick when I was 7 or this weird sing-songy exerpt from a Mark Twain story (always in the voice of my 7th grade English teacher, Mr Dawson!) "..punch brothers, punch with care, punch in the presence of the passenger". I can sing ANY of the School House Rock commercials in their entirety....go ahead, try me.

Oddly, I can remember all these things, but never anything important.

I can tell you the phone numbers of about 10 of the regular customers I deal with and the account number of a good 15 to 20 more. I can practically recited our product code list, but do not ask me what my home phone number is. I can't remember anyone's birthday, or the ABC's without singing them.

Well...of all the things I've lost in life, I miss my mind the most.

This Is The Way We Wash Our Hands....

(Repost...originally written & posted on Myspace on date listed below)Saturday, March 17, 2007

This is the way we wash our hands, we wash our hands...

My biggest pet peeve is people who do not wash their hands after using the bathroom. The mere thought of this, without fail, brings on a stress-induced case of hives. Studies show that hand-washing with ANY soap (not just the anti-bacterial ones) and tepid water is MORE effective than the best anti-bacterial hand sanitizer on the market. Washing your hands is also the simplest thing you can do to avoid infecting yourself or others with hundreds of harmful organisms. I know that I have mentioned this in previous blog, but I feel, given that cold & flu season is extending into Spring this year, now is the time to address it.

My mother tells me that from the time I was old enough to understand and tall enough to reach, I have done two things without fail: flush the toilet and wash my hands. Not flushing is another of my pet peeves. Who in their right mind thinks it is okay to leave human waste floating about? Nasty. Maybe they didn't have a good mother like I did. And don't give me this crap about wasting water. God, the wise and clever Creator, made the earth to naturally recycle it's water supply. Cloud to rain, rain to river, evaporation to cloud and so on.There is the same amount of water on earth today as there was 1000 years ago. We learned it in 5th grade science...look it up. Sorry for the "rabbit trail" there, but it was a related topic.

Where was I? Oh yeah... Anyway, Mother says that she only had to teach me to do these things once and never had to remind me. I'm told that it was obvious that I didn't really like to get dirty, but I'd play in the dirt like any other little kid. When the time came to clean up, there as never a problem. She said that I loved to wash my hands. If I were ever missing for any length of time, she'd find me in the bathroom, happily washing my hands.

She said I loved washing my hands, so much so, that she was afraid there may be a problem. One of my aunts was a nurse and was in the practice of not only washing her hands after she went, but washed them before as well. There was very sound reasoning behind it, and I soon adopted this habit as well. It became such a habit, that it was not long before I automatically washed my hands whenever I was in the bathroom, regardless of if I'd actually used it or not. It was a little inside joke between my mother and me. As I grew older, we called it my "Lady McBeth syndrome"...you know, "...out, out, damned spot !.." I actually still do this from time to time and my friends are somewhat bemused by it, but I can't help it. Now knowing that I am somewhat OCD, it actually makes sense.

I do not know if it was my mother, or perhaps someone at Valley View Kindergarten (like the beloved Miss Gail, who sang "I've got the Joy, Joy ,Joy, Joy, down in my heart," everytime she saw me) who taught it to me, but for as long as I can remember, I've known a little ditty called "The Hand Washing Song."

As catchy a little tune, as it is ingenius. It is just the right length to ensure proper hand-washing technique and is sung to the tune of "Here we go 'round the mulberry bush." It goes a little something like this:

This is the way we wash our hands
We wash our hands
We wash our hands
This is the way we wash our hands
Everytime we wash them

[Then, to make sure we get all the soap (cause there MUST be soap) rinsed off, we sing]

This is the way we rinse our hands
We rinse our hands
We rinse our hands
This is the way we rinse our hands
Everytime we rinse them

Sometimes people will catch me humming it while I wash my hands, even to this day. I taught my own children to wash their hands using this song, and was actually under the impression that everyone who was at least my age or younger had been taught to wash their hands with it. Imagine my shock and horror when I discovered that some people had never even been taught to wash their hands at all!

(Excuse me a moment while I take a Benedryl for the hives that have just started to develop)

This brings me to the story of a rather eye-opening Easter Sunday just a few years ago. I have attended the same church all of my life, as have many of my friends and their parents. Having grown up with these people, you think that I'd know nearly everything about them. This incident, however, shocked me so, that I shudder every time I think of all the time that I had spent with this person over the years. It was also the last time I ever served on nursery duty.

On this particular Sunday, I was put in charge of the three year old class. There were eight little girls and the preacher's son. Because it was Easter, we were all dressed in our finest from head to toe, including eight pairs of nearly identical, white, patened-leather shoes and frilly white socks. The preacher's boy decided right out of the gate, that his shoes and socks were a hinderance. Despite my reasoning, he quickly peeled them off and left them in a little pile at the classroom door. This started a riot and soon I was faced with a pile of white leather and lace in the middle of the floor and no clue as to who's were whom's. Despite this, I chose to make the most of the time and passed out the cookies and Kool-aid. I planned to read the little Easter storybook I had and was then going to let everyone color until their parents came for them and help sort out the socks & shoes mess

This is when a little girl, I will call "Miss Priss" for the sake of annonimity, came to me and told me she needed to use the bathroom. Miss Priss is the child of a person I've known most of my life. I had been a guest in not only the childhood home of this person, but the adult home as well. I had spent a great deal of time around this family over the years. That is why what happens next is so appalling to me.

At our church, all the Sunday School classes on the children's floor have a bathroom in them. Having had a three year old girl myself, not once but now twice, I knew that there was only so much they could do by themselves. So I left the class under the care of the teenager sent to help me and accompanied Miss Priss into the bathroom to supervise and assist if needed. I helped her to gather up her frilly dress and onto the potty, that had thankfully been equipped with a stool and one of those seat inserts that keep child-size behinds from falling through the adult-size opening. I turned my back and asked if she thought she needed anymore help. She assured me that she did not and went about her business, which took forever and made me wonder if I'd given everyone too much Kool-aid.

When she was done, she hopped down, pulled up her panties and out the door she went, not even giving the sink a passing glance. I had half-expected her not to remember to flush, but not stopping to wash her hands was something different entirely.

"Miss Priss!" I called after her, "You forgot to wash your hands." I sang."No I didn't." she sang in reply, "I don't have to.."I felt a knot form in my throat. "Oh yes ma'am you do.." I choked back"No, I don't!" she said smiling and she turned back to the group, listening to the teenager reading the story."Yes ma'am" I said sternly and took her little arm to lead her back to the sink, "you just used the bathroom"

Then she said something that has made me question the parenting skills of this life-long friend ever since.

"But I didn't touch the potty!" she screamed indignantly, trying to twist free of my grasp.Suddenly visions of eating with this family, utensils and plates passed to me by them, pot-luck suppers where I knowingly ate food prepared by them, came flooding back to me. The hives popped up immediately.

At that point, I was more determined than ever to get Miss Priss's hands washed. I squirted soft soap clean up to her elbows,so she wouldn't miss a spot, all the while singing "The Hand Washing Song", every last word. She yowled in protest for the duration, trying to drown out my singing. When we were done, she retreated to a corner, where she sat in a huff, arms crossed, bottom lip protuding, until her parents came to collect her after the service.

Mercifully, every mother was able to identify her child's shoes and socks effortlessly and had busied themselves re-shoeing their children as the Priss parents arrived.

"Why is she sitting over there like that" Mother Priss asked me."Oh, we had a little disagreement." I responded, " Nothing major. I'm not punishing her, though. She sat there on her own.""What happened?" she asked."Well, she used the bathroom and then wouldn't wash her hands. I think she's mad at me because I made her come back over here and do it." I laughed, sure that this mother would respond that they've been working on it,or she's had the same problem, or any other mother-to-mother response. I mean, the child was three. I 'd been there. I understood it was a process that some had to teach repeatedly

Instead, Mother Priss looked at me like I'd just spoken to her in Chinese.

"I see." she said coolly, pursing her lips together like I'd seen her do when she disapproved of something.

I see..? I see...! How about " Oh, thank you!" but I SEE?!

Then, I had another thought that I can't shake to this day: this child learned this at home. At home, she was taught that as long as you don't touch the toilet when you use it, it is okay not to wash your hands afterward. If this child wasn't being taught to do something so basic, what else were they missing?

"Well, okay then, ya'll have a nice Easter" I said, smiling weakly, scratching the expanding patch of hives on my left arm.

Needless to say, ever since this incident, I have been quick to decline any invitations to the Priss home and am sure to have their pot-luck dishes identified at every church function. I point them out to my family and suggest that perhaps they "wouldn't like it and shouldn't try it."

Okay, I admit, I have some quirky habits. I am a packrat from way back and I like to feel of interesting fabrics. I enjoy mustard on my french fries, and salsa in my eggs. But none of these are a threat to public health!

I saw a commercial this week, promoting hand washing as a means to help end this unusually long cold & flu season. They are encouraging everyone to sing "Old McDonald" while hand-washing.

Well, like everything else I do, I'll be washing to a different tune.

"Smiling Bob" Must Die

(Repost...originally written & posted on Myspace on date listed below)Wednesday, February 21, 2007

"Smiling Bob" Must Die

DISCLAIMER: THIS BLOG MAY BE OFFENSIVE (especially to men) THIS IS JUST MY OPINION. IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED, DO NOT CONTINUE
***********************************************************
Okay, raise your hand if you are sick to death of "Smiling Bob." Don't act like you don't know who he is…anyone who watches television just one continuous hour (even if it's just once a week), will see him at least once. Yes, he's the guy who's taking a little pill to "help" him along. Well, if I had my way, Smiling Bob's days would be numbered.

A couple of things bother me about Bob and the otherwise unnamed, "Little Mrs."

1) If my wife looked like that, I'd need a little pill too. That was ugly, yes, I know, but you'll just have to judge for yourself. They don't exactly match. You know, they don't look like they should be a couple. (Don't pretend you don't play this game too.) He looks like he might have been a jock once, and she looks like a mousey computer nerd that may have caught him drunk (& maybe passed out) at the Senior Skip Day party, did the nasty just that once, and was soon having a lovely, shotgun wedding, while his bleach-blonde- bimbo cheerleader girlfriend cried on the back row.

2) Bob eerily resembles Diedrich Bader. He's another one that you know, even if you don't know his name. He was Oswald on "The Drew Carey Show" (one of my favorite shows by the way…love that Drew Carey!) He was Jethro in the new "Beverly Hillbillies" movie. In fact he was Jethrene too, which is partly why the resemblance to Bob creeps me out a bit….Smiling Bob, in a dress, with Little Mrs… Need I say more?

3) In all the scenes, no matter where they are, the Bob's attract quite a bit of attention. It seems that all the neighbors know what's going on at the Bob household. Little Mrs. must be a screamer.

4) That incessant whistling theme song! I thought the Andy Griffith show theme was hard to get out of my head! I catch myself whistling that blasted little tune all the time.

Smiling Bob is not the only commercial that raises my hackles. Commercials for all of the "E.D." medications seem to be popping up (pardon the pun) at ever turn. One that I find particularly funny is the one where the couple walks into the surprise party. Yeah, he looks surprised alright. His expression up to that point is "Gonna have sex, gonna have sex … D'oh! People in my house!" I laugh my evil little cackle every time!

What disturbs me most is that someone, some where decided it was okay to talk about "E.D" on television! There are just some things that need not be mentioned outside the four, lime green walls of your doctor's office! For the record, I am equally uncomfortable with "feminine hygiene" commercials. I don't want to be thinking about someone's period while I'm eating dinner either!

Someone needs to do something, and it looks like it has to be me.I knew I had to start the campaign to evict Smiling Bob and all his flaccid friends from our airwaves when my 11 year old asked me what an "erectile" was! I knew that there was no way to delicately answer this question my baby girl had asked in her wide-eyed, innocent way. So like any good Southern lady, confronted with an uncomfortable situation, I promptly fainted.

Those of you who know me well, know my stand on E.D. medications. I am a firm believer that God created man and woman to naturally "wind down" with time. Hormones drop off and they can enjoy peaceful life as they enter their sunset years. This is why women enter menopause and the urges naturally dwindle away. They no longer have to be bothered with "marital service" and they can occupy their time with gardening and knitting and holding up lines in the grocery store. E.D. medications upset this delicate, natural, balance.

I have friends (all guys, by the way) that tell me that I am just jealous that there is not a little pill for women. (There is one by the way, it's called NYTOL…if you crush it up really well, it blends into nearly everything!) Perhaps they are threatened by the thought that they will actually have to hold a conversation with their partner one day, or horror of horrors, just cuddle. Yes, guys, there is more than one way to be intimate. Perhaps they are threatened by the fact that one day, Mr. Johnson will no longer be needed, and thus they are no longer a true "man."

Being a true man has nothing to do with appendages or how well they work. In my book, a true man is one that knows and respects God; is loving, faithful and respectful of his wife, dirty laundry and all; puts his family first, keeping a roof over their heads, and food on the table; thanks God daily for all He has given him.

So I will begin my letter writing campaign to rid our family viewing time of 'Smiling Bob" and all his sex-obsessed buddies. Perhaps I can get enough people to join me.

By the way, a common side effect of E.D. drugs is "temporary blindness." See, just like your mama told you…too much sex really WILL make you go blind!