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I just realized that today was my mother’s birthday. Well, I knew this morning that it was my mother’s birthday, because Princess Zurg reminded me that Coraline came out on DVD today, and so I remembered it was July 21. The connection I just made is that it was my mother’s birthday today, and today is also the day I got my ultrasound at the Center for Breast Excellence. There’s a connection because the whole reason I was going to the Center for Breast Excellence was to make sure I don’t die of breast cancer like she did.
Before I got my ultrasound, they took some more mammogram pictures. The technician assured me that the results of my mammogram and ultrasound would be shown to the radiologist on site so that I would find out before I left what was going on with my breasts. She said that she could tell I was frightened. I told her I wasn’t. It was okay that she thought I was; my body language is ambiguous and I have a flat facial affect, so how is she supposed to know how I feel? I thought it was sweet that she wanted to alleviate my anxiety.
Anyway, I told her I wasn’t really frightened. I was thinking about grocery shopping. My appointment was for 9:30 and was supposed to take about an hour and a half. I was hoping I’d have time to do the grocery shopping before I had to pick PZ up from school and take her to her drama camp at 12:30. So I was properly distracted from whatever might have been scaring me. Unless what was scaring me was the prospect of having to take Elvis and Girlfriend grocery shopping later on in the day.
So I had the mammogram. Then I went back to the waiting room and read a magazine until it was time for my ultrasound. The ultrasound was fine. The jelly was a little too warm, but not so warm that I got a burn and was forced to sue them for damages. I got a little tired of holding my arm over my head, but other than that, I was quite comfortable. Ultrasounds aren’t bad at all when you don’t have to drink a gallon of water beforehand and they aren’t sticking the thingy up your whatsit. Anyway, the technician said she was going to take the pictures to the radiologist and that it would be about five minutes. This was about 10:55 a.m. I thought I might still get to go grocery shopping.
At about 11:15 the technician came back and apologized for the wait. It was okay because I got to take a little nap on the table, but I figured I probably wasn’t going to get to go grocery shopping. Oh well. Anyway, a nurse took me to their “consulting room,” and went to get the radiologist, who came in and told me that there was some breast tissue that looked different from the breast tissue surrounding it and that it didn’t look like anything frightening, but she couldn’t tell what it was just by looking at it, and what they do in those situations is they have to biopsy it. She might have said something else, too, but that was the gist of it, and then she asked me if I had any questions. Well, no, not unless there’s something I need to know that you haven’t told me. Ha ha. I didn’t say that, I just thought it. In these situations I always feel like I ought to have questions, but I never do. I’m sure the people asking if I have any questions don’t mind that I have no questions, but I always feel vaguely embarrassed, like my lack of curiosity may indicate an intellectual laziness I oughtn’t to be proud of.
Anyway, the doctor left me to the nurse, who explained to me how a biopsy works and what I can expect on the day I have the procedure. She was very nice and very thorough. I’m quite certain that even the most intellectually vigorous person would not have had questions afterward, unless they were just trying to be difficult. She told me that they’d put a butterfly bandage at the nick site, and that I should put a waterproof bandage over it when I shower the next couple days. She took a card out of a hat box that had a butterfly bandage and a waterproof bandage on it, just so I’d know what they looked like. She had all the props for her little talk in that hat box. It was funny because I noticed the hat box sitting on the table when I first sat down there, and I thought, “That’s a very pretty box. I wonder what’s in it.” See, sometimes I am curious about things. And my curiosity was satisfied, without me having to ask a single question.
She also took out this Ace bandage-like thingy that she said they wrap around your breasts after the procedure for comfort. It’s supposed to create a sports bra effect–just to keep your breasts from “jiggling around too much.” So it looks like I’ll be calling in sick at my second job for a couple days.
Anyway…
As luck would have it, they were able to schedule my biopsy for tomorrow afternoon. I had to do some schedule juggling–that’s juggling, not jiggling–but I figured it was worth it because I’d really like to get it over and done with. I’m not scared or worried. The nurse told me that 80 percent of these biopsies come back normal. I don’t consider myself an unlucky person. I consider myself an unexceptional person, so I don’t expect to win the lottery, and I don’t expect to be outside of that 80 percent of biopsies performed on normal breast tissue. I’m just anxious to get to the place where I’ve proven once again that I am unexceptional, and this little tidbit doesn’t have to take up space in my brain anymore–because you know what it looks like in my brain? It looks like this:
there’s no reason to worry there’s no reason to worry there’s no reason to worry there’s no reason to worry there’s no reason to worry
And frankly, that’s just a waste of my brain space that could be wasted on other, more entertaining stuff.
I would not even be writing about this except that it occurred to me that it was my mother’s birthday today. She would have been 66.
Writing the blog has been like pulling teeth lately, but I insist on doing it. It’s like I have to prove something to myself.
I had a mammogram today. It was my first, so I am to be congratulated. Last night I was anticipating the mammogram, and even though I was not nervous or dreading it or anything like that, I still felt melancholy. Granted, I feel melancholy most of the time, but this seemed to be mammogram-informed melancholy because my brain was fixated on the fact that I would be getting a mammogram the next day. It bothered me because a) I prefer my melancholy a little less specific and b) I couldn’t figure out what it was about a scheduled mammogram that would make me melancholy.
I should have been happy that I was finally getting a mammogram because I was supposed to get my baseline at 35, and I’m now 38. That’s three years overdue, for those of you who didn’t major in library science. I wasn’t putting it off on purpose. First I was pregnant, then I was breastfeeding. By the time I had weaned Girlfriend, I was 37, and I totally meant to get one right then, but I kept forgetting to make the phone call. And no, I don’t mean I “forgot” to make the phone call. I “forget” a lot of things, and I will own the scare quotes when they are warranted, but I honestly did not “forget.” I actually forgot. Because the phone number for the imaging place was on a business card, which was in my purse, and every time I thought to call, my purse was nowhere near me. Or I was driving. Or it was the middle of the night. This happens to me a lot. So often, in fact, that if you knew how often it happened, you would swear that I really was fake-forgetting. But I wasn’t fake-forgetting; I was just failing to remember at a convenient time. For a year. Is that so hard to believe?
I’ll tell you why I believe myself, and it isn’t just because I’m biased. It’s because I have never had a problem with the idea of getting a mammogram. I mean, a mammogram is a lot less invasive than a Pap smear or a colonoscopy. When it comes time for me to get a colonoscopy, you can bet your sweet bippy that I will be “forgetting” to schedule it. It’s a lot harder to “forget” a Pap smear because I have to go to my doctor periodically to get my thyroid checked, if I want to keep getting prescriptions for my thyroid medication, and while I’m there the doctor will say, “When was your last pelvic? Well, let’s just take care of that right now, shall we?” And I don’t even mind pelvic exams that much anymore. After giving birth four times, there’s not much point in playing hard-to-get, you know? [Uncomfortable silence] But they’re still invasive, and the thought of enduring another one is still worth an “ugh.”
I have had no such anxiety about getting mammogram. I have always heard that if they’re done properly, they don’t really hurt, but I thought that even if they did hurt, it’s not like it would hurt like childbirth or last even a fraction of the time that childbirth takes, so I really wasn’t afraid of it. I suppose I could have been creeped out by the idea of having my breasts flattened like a pancake–like some people are creeped out by needles–but I wasn’t. Again, it’s not like a pelvic exam. A speculum, now that’s creepy. A breast-flattening machine just can’t compete.
Of course, some women are creeped out by the idea of standing around naked from the waist up while some stranger handles their breasts, but after nursing four children for a combined total of 85 months, not much fazes me in that department either.
Totally irrelevant aside: A friend of mine once said that between her husband and her kids, she’s been manhandled so much that if some random person on the street walked up and grabbed her boob, she’d probably just say, “Yeah? Whaddaya want?” I kind of feel the same way, only I’m not convinced I’d even notice something untoward was happening. End totally irrelevant aside.
Here is where the blog could become a commentary on how much women’s bodies are not our own, how frequently we’re subjected to having our personal spaces invaded and how easy it is to get used to it and just accept it–but I’m not gonna go there. For one thing, I think it’s been done by better people than me, and for another thing, I’m still trying to figure out what was upsetting me so much about the mammogram in the first place.
I think an armchair psychologist might posit that I’m worried about getting cancer, or perhaps I’m just sad because my mother died of cancer. Well, I am sad about my mother dying of cancer, but I pretty much get sad about that whenever I think about it and not just when I’m anticipating having my breast flattened by a machine, so I don’t think that was it.
And I’m not worried about getting cancer. I don’t worry about stuff like that. It’s probably a character flaw. I don’t worry about big, horrible things happening. Which is not to say that I don’t believe they will happen, just that I don’t spend time worrying about them. I kind of take for granted that they will happen, but it’s too depressing to plan for, so I pretty much just plan on winging it when the time comes. For example, when I was growing up, I fully expected that the world would come to an end before I was thirty. (It was a combination of the Cold War, Mormon indoctrination and being a little bit twisted to begin with.) But I never thought about the world coming to an end. I just figured it would, and I’d have to cross that bridge when I came to it. It’s not about enjoying life while you can–I don’t really enjoy life–but it’s about procrastination. I used to think I procrastinated without meaning to, but now I think of it as a sickness I don’t want to be cured of. I’ll have to blog about that another time. The point is, I don’t worry about getting cancer. I think I probably will get cancer, eventually, but I don’t worry about it.
Slightly-irrelevant aside: You know what thought I had this morning? That cancer is a horrible way to die, and maybe there’s not much worse way of dying, but there are definitely scarier ways to die. Scarier to me, anyway. You know what I say every time someone gets pushed out the air-lock on Battlestar Galactica? “I would hate to die that way.” (It’s true, you can ask my husband. I’m sure he’s sick of me saying it, but it’s so true–the thought of floating out into space all alone–destined to suffocate, powerless to stop it–just terrifies me. Which is why, even if we have the technology in our lifetime, I will probably not take advantage of civilian space travel.) End slightly-irrelevant aside.
So if I’m not scared of cancer, and I’m not sad about my mother (particularly), why would the thought of getting a mammogram be bumming me out? I can only think of one thing: it means I’m old. I shouldn’t be bothered by being old, as I have always felt older than I really am, but now that I really am getting old, it’s bothering me. Because how much more old can I feel? Am I going to reach a point where I am so actually old that I will have no choice but to start feeling young? What does that even mean?
I am no closer to unraveling this mystery than I was when I started. But I’ve written more than 1,000 words of nothing, and I have to make dinner now. Ciao, babies.
A while back–I can’t remember how long ago, maybe a few months, maybe a year, maybe multiple years for all I know–my mother-in-law gave me a framed picture of a mother and child with the caption “The greatest work you’ll ever do will be within the walls of your own home.” Actually, no–what it says is “The greatest work you’ll ever do, [sic] will be within the walls of your own home.” I never got around to hanging it up because a) I’m lazy, b) the artwork is not really my taste, and c) that stupid comma does not belong there. If there were a pie chart of Reasons I Didn’t Hang Up This Picture, it would probably break down to 96.5% laziness and 3% that stupid comma. “Not my taste” would barely register at 0.5% because really, I don’t have taste. Not unless I’m confronted with a picture I’m too lazy to hang up that also happens to contain a misplaced comma in its accompanying text. Then I suddenly get all highbrow.
Lately, though, my husband has been on a tidying-and-throwing-crap-away kick, which is a thing to be encouraged, and when he came across this framed picture that was just lying around gathering dust at the bottom of a stack of stuff on top of our piano, he asked me what I wanted to do with it. That was a tricky question because I really didn’t want to do anything with it except make it never appear in the first place. No offense to my mother-in-law or the picture or the sentiment contained thereon, but there’s just really no good place for it around here. However, Sugar Daddy is not to be deterred from his de-cluttering mission these days, and such resolve is also to be encouraged, so I allowed him to randomly select a wall and hang the darn thing already. He chose a wall in the stairwell, where we have a lot of other random pictures–or rather, we did have a lot of random pictures, before the fire happened and we had to pack them all up and most of them still haven’t been unpacked. (I guess that would make this picture post-fire, eh? It’s nice to have an accurate system for dating things.)
So on Sunday I came downstairs to find our newly-hung picture looking like this:
Well, that’s just a shame, isn’t it?
At first I thought, “Bah, we just hung that infernal thing and now we have to take it down and open it up and re-center the matting.” Which isn’t much, of course, or it wouldn’t be, if I hadn’t been counting on never having to think about it again as long as I lived. The more I think about it, though, the more its crookedness is starting to grow on me. It seems a propos to our family, messed-up and ill-maintained as we are. Really, if this is the greatest work I’ll ever do, I should probably take more pride in it, shouldn’t I?
Except that within the walls of my home, people will never use commas so wantonly if I have anything to say about it.
Is there anything quite so pathetic as an inside joke that no one is in on anymore?
When I was in college, some friends and I were playing that game where each card is a category and there are ten things under the category that your teammates have to guess–kind of like Family Feud, actually–but I think it was Outburst. Probably it was Outburst!–you know, with the exclamation mark, just to make it seem more fun. Anyway, we were playing the Family Feud-like game that was probably called Outburst! and the category was “isms.” After running through all the obvious “isms”–communism, fascism, socialism, capitalism–the well was starting to run dry and there were still several isms left to guess, and one desperate player exclaimed–outbursted, you might say–”Sarcasm!”
“That’s an asm, not an ism,” I said, and realizing her mistake, she laughed–or maybe we just laughed at her, I don’t really remember. I only remember that for the rest of our college careers we mocked her momentary lapse of language facility by pronouncing the word sarcasm as “sarc-ism.” You’re being sarkistic, aren’t you? Wait, was that sarkism? Yeah, it was dumb, but it was a dry campus, what can I say? We got our jollies where we could.
My point is that I haven’t seen any of these people since I graduated, but I still feel the need to pronounce it “sarkism.” But I know it’s not funny to anyone but me. See, I just explained it to you all and it wasn’t funny. You really had to be there. Sorry you weren’t. I’d love to have the old gang back together. Sigh.
I’m also thinking of when I was in the 11th grade and we had to read Oedipus Rex for our English class. It was a rather odd translation, and at one point Oedipus says to somebody something along the lines of, “What do you mean? I don’t follow your drift.” For some reason that line just struck me and my friends as incongruous and amusing. I mean, we couldn’t make heads or tails of the play’s thematic elements, so what else were we going to make commentary on? Anyway, I can’t remember for the life of me what the context of that line was. The only reason I remember that Oedipus said it was that for the remainder of the school year we would occasionally punctuate sentences with “if you follow my drift, like Oedipus didn’t.” Which makes no flipping sense, it’s not funny, nor is it clever, but it still amuses me–and no, I can’t think about following any kind of drift without thinking of poor Oedipus. It’s a burden I’ve had to bear for twenty years now. I hope you can appreciate that.
I keep meaning to re-read Oedipus Rex. There are several things I read in high school that I didn’t quite get at the time, and I’m sure I would get them now, if I just took the time to re-experience them. I think my 11th grade English class spent all of two days on Oedipus Rex, and the first day was with a substitute, who relayed our real teacher’s instructions to compose an essay on the major themes of Oedipus Rex, and since none of us had any freaking idea what we were supposed to make of such a story, the substitute decided to help us out by telling us all she knew about Greek tragedies and that Oedipus had tried to escape the will of the gods but he just couldn’t because, brother, you don’t escape the will of the gods. Period. Well, upon her return our real teacher was quite disappointed to learn that we’d all gone with the substitute’s interpretation of the play, and she thought it was all the more amusing that the substitute had in fact supposedly majored in literature and yet she only had this incredibly simplistic take on Oedipus Rex, which was actually about illusion vs. reality, as all sophisticated scholars of the classics know. Wrap your adolescent heads around that, class. I was in college before I realized that sometimes incest is just fate. And an asm can be an ism if you will it so.
Yeah, I just needed a concluding sentence, and I figured that was as good as any. I’m starting a new anti-depressant and you’re just going to have to be patient with me.
My recital last Thursday went very well, though I felt a tad let down when it was over. I had worked so hard, and it was so much fun, I really wanted to do it more than once. I’m sure my husband is glad that I’m not doing it more than once. He was supportive during the six weeks of extra rehearsals, but as he put it, “I’m happy to support you, but I’ll be happier when I don’t have to support you anymore.” So there it is. My moment in the spotlight is over, and my husband doesn’t have to support me again until next spring. Congratulations, honey!
I think all the complaining I did about the long, long, looooonnnnnng drive to my sister’s house in Washington served as some kind of pre-emptive strike, as I encountered absolutely no traffic either to or from my destination. Not in Tacoma, not in Seattle. On Memorial Day weekend! I must have been doing the Lord’s work, because the other side of the freeway was a parking lot, but on my side it was like the parting of the Red Sea. I made each trip in less than four-and-a-half hours, and I wasn’t even speeding (much). Fate loves nothing better than to prove me wrong (or more specifically, to prove me a big fat sissy whiner).
About one thing I was not wrong, though: Girlfriend napped in the car and was subsequently up all night, both Friday and Monday. There was no joy in being right on that count, alas. It was a small price to pay, though, for the three of us had a wonderful weekend–especially Princess Zurg, who had the time of her life playing with all of her cousins.
Sugar Daddy asked me what we all did this weekend, and I’m not sure what he was expecting me to report. When my family gets together, it is sort of an event in and of itself. In fact, this is the first time all of my siblings and I have gotten together since my wedding eleven years ago. (At least, I think my siblings were all at my wedding. That day’s kind of a blur for me.) We all fell into our usual patterns: my older sister cooked a lot, my younger sister helped her, my youngest sister read a book, and I dealt with my needy children. I don’t remember what my dad and brother were doing.
Well, my brother was there to go on dates with a girl, so a lot of the time he was doing that. The girl came over for dinner on Sunday night, so I got to meet her. She seemed nice. I hope he marries her. I really can’t tell you how much I want my brother to get married and married soon. Mostly because I know he would like to get married. But also because there’s this stigma against unmarried Mormon men of a certain age (say, 25). Usually not without good reason, as Mormon men are highly motivated to marry young, and the most common reason for a Mormon man not to marry young is that he’s creepy or has bad personal hygiene. Yes, this is a cruel stereotype, not unlike the stereotype of unmarried Mormon women over 21 being either a) fat or b) CUCKOO! CUCKOO! CUCKOO! (For the record, I was “b.”) Anyway, I’m anxious for the next phase of his life to begin. He’s out of school and he’s got a job. And he’s related to me, so you know he’s good-looking. (Tall, long neck, doleful eyes.) So what’s the hold-up?
I’m being facetious, just so you know. It’s not like I’m pressuring him to get married. I mentioned not a word about it all weekend. I didn’t even so much as ask about his ladyfriend, much to SD’s dismay. SD wanted to know he smooched her. I said I didn’t know. Only I said it like, “I don’t know, you freak, what kind of pervert knows stuff like that about her baby brother?” He couldn’t believe that I hadn’t asked him about it. He said he would ask him himself when he sees him next week. Men and their giggly gossiping. Bah!
My sister just got a Wii Fit, and so we played with that some. I should be opposed to the Wii Fit on principle, and yet I couldn’t help but be impressed with how technology makes even the most mundane exercise more exciting. It was really fun–much better than being out playing in the sunshine. I did some Wii yoga. I learned that my center of balance is slightly to the left. I also learned that I suck at virtual hula-hooping. Also, that my Wii Fit Age was 32. Woo-hoo! I don’t know what they base their calculations on, but who am I to question the Wii Fit?
Anyway, it was a great visit. I think the fact that I had only two of my kids with me contributed heavily to the greatness thereof. When I left, I thought, “We should come back again soon. But not all six of us.”
Princess Zurg was an easy traveling companion this time around. After we listened to the Corpse Bride soundtrack once (only once!), she let me play whatever CD’s I wanted to. I listened to Joan Armatrading, Todd Rundgren, Chaka Khan, and Split Enz. I even listened to some Better Than Ezra. “No, girl, you did not!” Yes, girl, I did. (Well, not the whole CD, just part of it.) I listened to ABC’s Lexicon of Love twice. That album kicks butt. It’s like Chic meets James Bond. One thing I’ve always enjoyed about ABC is that they put together some really clever rhymes. If you gave me a pound for the moments I missed/And I got dancing lessons for all the lips I should have kissed/I’d be a millionaire; I’d be a Fred Astaire. You have to imagine it being sung by some guy all overwrought and yet still British. Or maybe you have to be there. Maybe you have to have bad taste in music. Well, same to you, pal.
On the other hand, I spent the last leg of my trip listening to that other Chic-inspired British band, Duran Duran, and I was struck yet again by how messed-up those cats’ song lyrics are. They’re not clever, but neither are they inane. They’re beyond inane. They’re beyond ridiculous. “I’m dancing on the valentine”? “There’s a dream that strings the road with broken glass for us to hold”? What does any of that mean? It doesn’t mean anything! Really, there’s only one way to make sense of these lyrics: they were obviously some kind of code. Like, spy stuff. “The eagle has landed.” “The fat man walks alone.” “The union of the snake is on the climb.” If I had unlimited free time, I could probably decipher all of it eventually. You should watch in a few years for my book titled Is There Something I Should Know? How Duran Duran Helped Us Win the Cold War. Or alternatively, Notorious: How We Won the Cold War Despite the Best Efforts of Duran Duran. It’s unclear to me as of yet which side they were really on. (Research for this project may have to wait until I’ve finished my self-help tome, Everything I Needed To Know in Life I Learned from Depeche Mode. Chapter One: “People Are People.”)
So I’m back at home, super-behind on the laundry, house rapidly falling into chaos, but at least I did a blog for you. All for you. None of it was for me. Except maybe that part about Duran Duran. Okay, I promise I’ll write something more interesting tomorrow. Or the next day. We’ll see how I’m feeling.
Sometimes I have to wonder about these folks who get the personalized license plates. On the freeway this morning I noticed a SUV with the license plate EMBLMR, and I thought, “Emblemer. What exactly is an emblemer? Someone who makes emblems? Does this person have his or her own embleming service?” And then I realized that it probably wasn’t “emblemer” at all but EMBALMER! Embalmer, well, I know what an embalmer is. And then I thought, “Why does this person want to advertise the fact of being an embalmer, and why would he advertise it on his SUV? I assume he is a professional embalmer. I don’t think he’d be advertising his amateur embalming, as I’m pretty sure amateur embalming is frowned upon in the legal world. I don’t have proof of this, of course. He could be an amateur embalmer, but let’s say he’s a professional embalmer. Why should the rest of us care? Are we really supposed to be driving down the freeway wondering who we’re going to have embalm Aunt Sally when out of nowhere this SUV-driving embalmer cruises into our lane and all our problems are solved? Where is his 800 number? Or is this supposed to be some kind of threat–’Tailgate me and I’ll embalm you!’ But isn’t that illegal, too? Oh, look, there’s my exit.”
It seems that a lot of people who have vanity plates put their professions on them. There are many dentists with vanity plates in this area. Registered nurses, too. I don’t have any specific data to back this up, but I suspect people with professional degrees are more susceptible to the temptation to put those degrees on their license plates. That’s because it’s hard for your fellow drivers to read the fine print on your diploma if you post it in your rear windshield. When I was a young teen I saw a psychologist whose license plate read INTJ PHD, which alluded to both her advanced degree and her Myers-Briggs personality type. Perhaps it was her way of asserting herself in the world. (The “I” is for introvert, you know.) Anyway, with all due respect to my former psychologist, who was a wonderful human being for whom I retain much affection, I think it’s a little obnoxious to put your PHD on your license plate. If my husband is ever of a mind to get a vanity plate, I will have to put the kibosh on any design that contains the letters PHD (at least in that order). Unless he wanted one that said ELMRPHD because that might be kind of funny. But that’s not really his style. And plus, it’s probably taken.
It must be very disappointing to come up with what you think is a brilliant and unique combination of letters for your vanity plate only to find out that some other jerk had your idea first. That’s why I feel sorry for people with vanity plates containing misspelled words when there was obviously space enough to spell the words correctly. Because you just know they had their hearts set on saying whatever they were saying only to have their dreams crushed by the DMV official who informed them they needed to be a bit more original next time. It’s especially sad when the license plate says something like 2KOOL4U. Because what are they, twelve? And if so, do their parents know they’re spending their money on vanity license plates?
My mother went back to work when I was in high school, and she told us that her new boss had just written a book, which he was very excited to have published. When it finally came out, she brought home a copy of it. Her boss was a scientist, so I’d expected it to be a science book, but actually it was a book about vanity license plates. I believe it was called VN8TPL8. It didn’t sell very well. My mom’s boss blamed the booksellers, who tended to stock it in the Automotive section, when it really should have been in Humor/Novelty. (Or better yet, by the cash register, as an impulse item. You have to admit he had a point. Would you buy such a book on anything but an impulse?) Anyway, I read it. As far as books about license plates go, it was pretty good.
My mom’s boss was a very talented scientist, but he did not have a Ph.D. He had a Master’s degree. Which was not why he was reduced to writing books about vanity plates. That was just a special interest of his. No, what I was going to say was that I’ve not noticed many people with Master’s degrees putting their educational credentials on their license plates. This is probably because they would be too easily misunderstood. People might assume you had multiple sclerosis, or alternatively, if you’d studied the humanities, that you had children. Of course, if you had a Master’s degree and multiple sclerosis, you could put MS SQRD on your license plate and there would be no confusion. Theoretically.
In Oregon there are many vanity plates referencing the Ducks. I bet the first person to grab GO DUCKS as a license plate feels pretty pleased with himself. By the same token, the poor sap who’s stuck with GO DUKS probably feels like a chump every time he gets in his car. He certainly looks like one. No offense to him.
My mom’s boss dedicated a whole chapter in his book on people who try to get naughty license plates, but the DMV has censors to prevent state-sanctioned obscenity on the roadways. Quote from a lady who was in charge of weeding out the pervy plates: “You’d be surprised at what people try to get away with.” No, dear lady, I bet you’d be surprised at what people do get away with. Which makes me wonder how often in Oregon do OSU fans have their license plates rejected out of hand?
Full disclosure: When I was a senior in high school, my parents bought a used Datsun 260Z, and they got a vanity plate for it. Because if you’re going to get a nifty sports car, you should get a nifty license plate to go with it, eh? They considered several options, including one that said NOIZMYN. I thought that was too esoteric. Eventually they decided to go with a play on words involving our last name and the letter Z. It was only moderately clever. People who didn’t know what our last name was thought that it was trying to say “sleazy” (or rather, “zleazy”), but that wasn’t it at all. Eventually my parents gave this car to me. I loved that little car. I named it Fred. If I’d been in charge of buying it a vanity license plate, that’s what I would have put on it, FRED. No one would have misunderstood that.
As newlyweds, my older sister and her husband got a vanity plate for their pickup that said LDS CPL. I didn’t really understand why they would want to do that. I don’t believe in advertising your religion or your political affiliation on your car. Because we all make mistakes sometimes, and do you really want to be responsible for giving your whole group a reputation for bad driving? Let’s face it, no one remembers the license plate of the courteous and competent driver. But I can easily envision our poor (bike-riding) missionaries showing up on someone’s doorstep and that person saying, “One of your people cut me off this morning, so you can go to hell!” Because we all know what keeps most people from becoming Mormons is that handful of crackpots driving too slow in the fast lane and forgetting to shut off their turn signal whilst spreading the glorious gospel through their license plates. Oh, wait.
The thing is, I’m pretty sure I don’t want anything on my car drawing attention to me. I certainly don’t want anything on my car distracting other drivers from the important business of safely transporting themselves from point A to point B. Which is why I think it’s foolish and in some cases dangerous to own a vanity license plate that says something totally indecipherable on it. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sat in traffice looking at something like SFJDKEO or WERCIRU and wondering what the heck I’m supposed to make of that. I know it’s probably not for me to understand at all, which is why it’s called a vanity plate and not an amuse-the-world-at-large plate. I just don’t like being confused. I’m a word person. I must make order out of alphabetic chaos. I just know that one of these days I’m going to miss my exit. Stupid vanity license plates.
I just found my mom’s boss’s book on Amazon.com–nine used and new from $.95. I’ll have to ask my dad if he knows where our copy went, but I’m sure he doesn’t. I hope they didn’t throw it out–it was autographed!
You are now at liberty to contribute to the discussion with personal anecdotes, rumor and innuendo. Proceed.
So I gave blood yesterday. I like to give blood because it is one of the few services I can do for others while putting my feet up and reading a book. I’m O-positive, which is the most common blood type, so my blood is in high demand. (Not quite as high as O-negative, which is the universal donor, but still high.) I would think that all blood types would be in high demand, but they always talk about needing type O. I’m type O. Interestingly enough, I lived for about 28 years thinking my blood type was B-positive. My mother told me I was B-positive, and that’s what was on all my emergency forms. Fortunately, I never needed a blood transfusion.
After getting partially ex-sanguinated, I went to the “canteen area” to get my free snacks. I had some Cheese Nips thin crisps. I don’t really care for Cheese Nips, but I didn’t want to have the off-brand cookies or the iffy trail mix or the raisins. In addition to Cheese Nips and juice, I also got a pin that says “Holiday Hero”–because it’s Labor Day weekend and they always need more blood on holiday weekends because people get drunk and hurt themselves, I guess, so giving blood on Labor Day weekend is extra special. It deserves a pin.
Maybe if more people gave blood throughout the year, we’d have plenty of blood for Labor Day weekend and they wouldn’t feel the need to give out these pins. No offense to the Red Cross, but I don’t want the pin. I’m okay with the “Be Nice To Me” sticker. That’s fine, because it comes with a little reminder of when I can give blood again, and I can stick it on my calendar. I won’t, but I could, if I wanted to. It serves a purpose. Plus, I like others to be nice to me. They aren’t, but I appreciate having someone remind them anyway. I could theoretically do without the stickers–I wouldn’t get upset if they just stopped giving them out, and I wouldn’t forget to give blood because there’s a quarterly blood drive at the church, and aside from that, the Red Cross calls me when they want more blood. But whatever.
I don’t mind the stickers because a) they’re cheap, and b) they’re biodegradable, if not recyclable. By contrast the pins are a) cheap, but not as cheap as stickers and b) not biodegradable. I suppose they’re recyclable, if you wanted to…melt down some cheap metal and…I dunno. Never mind. If you were to recycle it, it would consume energy, not to mention the energy that’s already been expended in manufacturing the things in the first place. It seems a waste of time, energy and money to create and distribute these things–I didn’t even mention the tiny plastic bag they’re wrapped in–when very, very few blood donors will end up using them. You know, they have special pins for first-time donors and those who have given three gallons or five gallons or ten gallons (cumulatively–heh), and okay, that’s fine. I suppose someone who’s given ten gallons deserves a medal of some kind, even if it’s a tacky one. But just because the blood drive happened to coincide with a long weekend? Seriously, none of us is expecting such a thing.
Also, this pin is ugly. I mean, it’s not hideous–if a small child were to happen on it, he probably wouldn’t scream or anything–but…how shall I put this? It’s a tie tack. Yes, I know it’s a “pin.” But it’s a tie tack. A woman is not going to stick this in any fabric that she wears. And it’s not going to go with anything. It’s just going to be a distraction. It’s a white square with a beach umbrella and some coconut drinks. And the Red Cross logo. It’s not subtle. It’s not elegant. I totally appreciate the thought–they’re glad I gave blood. I’m glad that they’re glad. But really, I am doing it out of the goodness of my heart and so I can get an hour away from my kids. I don’t do it for the pin. I don’t even do it for the free cookies. Because, frankly, the cookies suck. But that’s okay. I give with no expectation of reward. But if you’re going to reward me, stick with the free cookies. They are also biodegradable.
Reader Poll! [Insert theme music here]
Do you give blood?
a) Yes, six times a year.
b) Yes, at least once a year.
c) I’ve given in the past and probably will again.
d) I’ve given in the past, but don’t plan on doing so again any time soon.
e) No, I can’t for medical reasons.
f) No, I can’t for religious reasons.
g) No way, needles are the worst!
h) I gave once to impress a chick, but now I’m married to her, so that’s over.
Have a great weekend, everyone. Remember, I bled on a table for you, so if you’re going to get in an accident, make sure it’s not your fault
When it’s December in Oregon and it’s raining, you sometimes think that the sun will never rise again.
That reminds me–I was reading in the newspaper that the FDA is calling for more detailed warning on antidepressants. This is old news, but as I understand it, anti-depressants can lead to increased suicidal thoughts during the first few weeks of use, among people aged 18-24.
This is just my armchair scientist talking, but it seems to me that if you’re really depressed and you start taking antidepressants and you don’t start feeling better, you will probably start feeling even worse and maybe want to kill yourself now, even if you didn’t particularly want to before. I mean, seeking treatment is a hopeful act; not responding to treatment is depressing–tends to pop hope’s balloon, in my experience, but maybe that’s just me. I’m not one to discount the side effects of powerful psychotropic meds, but I’m just curious how you’d study this supposed phenomenon. Who’d be your control group? And how many of these suicidal 18-24-year-olds were living in Oregon in December at the time?
Speaking of the newspaper and the useless tidbits I learn from reading it, I saw a blurb on this website that offers to deliver post-rapture postcards to your non-Christian friends and neighbors who will be “left behind.” The standard postcards cost $4.99 each; a fancier version goes for $9.99, or you can opt for the super-deluxe option, which costs $799.99. This is just my Mormonish side coming out, but I think this operation might be a scam. I think I’m just going to leave a note on my fridge: “Gone to chase after the Rapture folks–back in a few–??”
I also read that the average cost of a wedding in the U.S. is about $27,000. The article went on to note that the average U.S. income is something like $47,000, so this might explain why more people are choosing to co-habit than marry these days (according to the latest Census, or something). It was a humorous article, not meant to be taken seriously, but it got me thinking. Specifically, it got me thinking, “Wow–do people really spend $27,000 to get married?” Again, this is my Mormonish side talking, but you have to understand that I got married for free (not counting the fee for the marriage license, whatever that was). I can easily understand others spending more, but $27,000–that’s like a down payment on a house. But, you know, I’m cheap.
Well, technically, only my wedding was free. The reception cost money, but I don’t know exactly how much, since it was my mother-in-law that threw the party for us. It was at her friend’s house, and as I recall, there were some decorations and a cake and some cookies and some crudités, I think. And punch. I can’t imagine it cost $27,000. Oh, and then there’s the cost of film for the pictures my Dad took. No offense to my Dad, who is a pretty good photographer, but I do regret not having formal pictures taken on our wedding day. Not regret as in I’ll be lying on my deathbed crying over it, but you know, it would be nice to have some fancy pictures to show the kids and whoever. Well, whatever. What’s done is done! (Or, what’s undone is…undoable.)
Maybe when Sugar Daddy and I celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary–assuming the Rapture hasn’t taken place–our kids will throw us a big $27,000 party. And we’ll be old and cranky and criticize the younger generation for being so wasteful and extravagant. Okay, we won’t. They just better not be hitting us up for a loan afterward!
I finished Alias Season 5 last night. It distressed me. I need a new distraction. Currently I’m reading The Brothers Karamazov, which is surprisingly engaging for a 900-page Russian novel, but, you know, sometimes you just need something a little lighter. It is December in Oregon. And it’s raining.
The following was stolen from CapnK8. I steal a lot from her. She doesn’t seem to mind. Probably because she’s almost perfect.
The Brutally Honest Personality Test
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Freak- INFJ |
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Well, well, well. How did someone like you end up with the least common personality type of them all? In a group of 100 Americans, only 0.5 others would be just like you. You really are one of a kind… In fact, I do believe that that’s one of the definitions for the word “FREAK.” Freak’s not such a bad word to describe you actually. You are deep, complex, secretive and extremely difficult to understand. If that doesn’t scream “Freak!” I don’t know what does. No-one actually knows the REAL you, do they? You probably have deep interests in creative expression as well as issues of spirituality and human development. You’ve probably even been called a “psychic” before, because of your uncanny knack to understand and “read” people without quite knowing how you do it. Don’t fret. You’re not actually psychic. That would make you special and you’ll never accomplish that. You’re also quite possible the most emotional of them all, so don’t take this all too hard. Nevertheless you most definitely have the strangest personality type and that’s not necessarily a good thing. ***************** If you want to learn more about your personality type in a slightly less negative way, check out this. ***************** The other personality types are as follows… Loner – Introverted Sensing Feeling Perceiving |
The other day Dennis Prager said that if America were suddenly wiped off the map–say, by a McDonald’s-seeking meteor or something–the world would become a much crueler place overnight. I’ve never considered this scenario because to me America is like the big strong invincible Daddy who can beat up all the other Daddies, but I thought about it and wondered if it was true. Actually, what I wondered was what the world would be like if America were suddenly absent, not whether it would be good or bad. Here’s what I came up with:
1. The air would get cleaner.
2. Muslims would live alongside Jews and Christians in peace.
3. The earth would stop groaning under the weight of all these fat people dressed in bad clothes.
4. Humanity’s overall IQ would raise 10-12 points.
5. Mormons would eat less Jell-o.
I got the first four points from listening to expatriate celebrities rattle on about how much better the rest of the world is than us. Number 5 is just speculation on my part.
Actually, I’m just being silly. It’s hard to imagine a world without our sorry rear ends in it. At least it is for me.
What do you think would happen to the world if America were suddenly no more?
Dr. Luan Brizendine’s research shows that the average woman says 20,000 words per day, which is about 13,000 more than the average man. In other words, women talk about three times more than men do. I know, this is a shocking revelation for all of you. I will give you a few minutes to get your bearings before I continue.
(You should read the whole article, though. My favorite part is where it says women “get a buzz out of hearing their own voices.” Heh heh.)
First let me say that I believe that women do, on average, talk more than men. I’m not sure who would dispute this, but apparently some would, as a simple google of the subject turns up tons of results denying what is so obviously true. But never mind. The key word is “average,” of course. I think I am actually below average, for a woman, when it comes to talking. I don’t have many people to talk to on an average day, so on an average day I don’t do so much talking.
Also, I think I talk less than my husband does. He probably doesn’t talk as much as the average woman, but I think he might talk more than the average man. At any rate, he certainly talks more than the average me. It’s not so much that he’s chattier than I am, but he’s more adept with the spoken word. I write much more coherently than I think. If you met me in real life and I tried to talk to you, you would be thinking the whole time about how little sense I was making. You might not even believe that I was me.
I doubt very much that science would show I get a buzz out of hearing my own voice. I really don’t like my voice, which is another reason for me not talking so much. But mostly I don’t like talking because it’s so hard for me to say what I want to say. I can have it all perfectly thought out in my mind, but the minute I open my mouth, my brain thinks, “Augh! Shut up! I can’t think anymore!” And then it stops thinking. The power is on, but the VCR is blinking 12 o’clock. I’m painfully aware of this, which is why it’s difficult for me to start talking because I don’t enjoy the cessation of thinking. But once I am talking, it’s hard for me to stop, because I can tell I’m not saying anything, and somehow my mouth thinks that if it says enough nonsense, it can shame my brain into thinking again. But I think I usually shut up before I hit the 20,000 word mark. Then I think, “I really have to talk less from now on.”
On the non-average day, though, I can be very chatty and make perfect sense, insofar as chit-chat makes sense to begin with. I can talk more easily with my friends, mostly because I trust that they can fill in the blanks. Of course, these are women friends who are eager to fill in the blanks with the sound of their own voices, but I’m grateful for that. I feel so much less pressure to perform.
Men, I find, do not like to talk on the phone. My husband can have lengthy phone conversations with close friends and his brothers, but these are all long distance calls that don’t take place very often. He speaks to his mother about once a week, but she does most of the talking in that case. (I have to listen in on the other line if I want to know what she said, though, because men don’t really register most of what women tell them. So he can be on the phone with his mom for two hours, and I ask what they talked about, he says, “Eh, not much.”) But in general SD does not like to talk on the phone. A girlfriend of mine once asked me if SD was uncomfortable with her because when she talked to him on the phone, he was very curt and abrupt. “Yes.” “No.” “Okay.” “Bye.” I assured her that it was nothing personal. At least I hoped it wasn’t because he talks the same way to me on the phone. In real life he is much chattier.
I don’t really understand what men dislike about the phone. I like the phone because I only have to worry what I sound like, which is bad enough. In real life I have to worry about how I look and where I’m looking and what I do with my hands and is my posture okay–it’s no wonder I can’t think about what I’m saying. I’m still pretty inarticulate on the phone with strangers, though, because if it’s business, they are not being paid to jump in and finish my sentences and listen to the sound of their own voices. Which is a shame, because the calls would go much better that way.
I see that I have written more than 800 words on this. Perhaps I do talk more than my husband.
Speaking of male-female stereotypes, though, an interesting thing about my husband that I learned recently is that he has trouble telling his left from his right. This was surprising to me because I thought men had those superior spatial reasoning skills, and it would seem to me that discerning right from left would be fairly intuitive for those spatial reasoning types and that’s why men are so much better at parallel parking. Apparently one has nothing to do with the other. I still find it odd that SD has to think about which hand is his left. I mean, I never have to think about that. I just know. Neither of us is any good at square dancing, though, which has a lot of dosey-doing to the right and left and whatnot–but I think that has more to do with me being a little slow on the uptake and him thinking that square dancing is for dorks. Fortunately, we have not been forced to square-dance for a couple years now.
I see that I am starting to write the way I talk, so a thousand words later, I will quit. Your essay question for today is “Do you talk more or less than the average person of your gender? Do you talk more or less than your spouse or partner? Explain.”
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