Friday, June 23, 2017

I Yam What I Yam

If I could say something to my 20-year-old self, it would be this: enjoy not being gross.

(I'd probably also tell her to buy stock in Apple, Uber, and anything else Warren Buffett and Ashton Kutcher deem good investments. Then I'd probably have to assure her that yes, that Ashton Kutcher...seriously..."Kelso"...)

But I digress.

I'm actually in better shape than I was when I was younger, but only because I've had to stop ingesting anything that gives me pleasure. The growing list of things I've had to eliminate for the sake of my health include gluten...and alcohol...and being Facebook friends with people who voted incorrectly in the last election.

But even though I'm in better condition overall, I'm finding that with age, gross things like this happen with increasing frequency:


What is this you ask? Well, other than sexy, it's what is known as a ganglion cyst. These show up around joints - usually wrists and elbows - and can be dealt with by getting them lopped off, getting them aspirated, or whacking them with a bible. I AM NOT MAKING THIS UP.

Of course this emerged just as we moved into summer and sleeveless shirts, so I'm completely embarrassed and self-conscious about this recent development.

And the ever-supportive Brutalism family has been so sweet - they alternate between referring to this as my "bulbous elbow" or "Popeye arm."

I was sharing this with one of my best friends (as one does), and sent her the above pic so she could see for herself that I was morphing into the Elephant Man. She was very kind and told me that she would not even notice anything if I hadn't told her...and that it definitely did not look like a Popeye arm.

So I followed up with a second photo and asked her, "Do you see it now?"


Those are water droplets...not other weird growths. Although,
I'm sure that will happen soon enough.

If only I'd had a can of spinach on hand,
Brutalism

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

Frowny Face Emoji

A few weeks ago, I toured a local fire station with my daughter's girl scout troop. The girls were working toward their first aid badge, so the firefighters and paramedics talked to them, gave them some hands-on demonstrations and were generally fantastic. They are all obviously passionate about what they do, they all had great senses of humor, and they handled inquiries from our group such as, "What was the grossest call you ever went on?" delicately and expertly enough so that the girls would not have nightmares for weeks. (NOTE: they also fielded the question of "what does that mean?" asked by one of the girl scouts who was pointing at a sign above a firefighter's bunk that read, "Fartaholic sleeps here.")

The girls learned a lot - and so did I. For instance, did you know that you can now text 9-1-1 instead of calling? 

When I mentioned I had read this bit of information on a fire engine, one of the other women in our group asked, "Why would someone text rather than call?" And the Lieutenant explained, "Well, they may be in a situation where they don't want someone to hear them calling 9-1-1, or they may not speak English..."

And then I helpfully chimed in, "Also, they may prefer to illustrate their emergency using only emojis."

Which is why I spent a considerable part of the next couple of hours figuring out different emergencies I could illustrate using emojis and then texting them to my buddy (and one of the firefighters who gave us the first aid instruction), Jeff.

While I think it can occasionally be fun to be my friend, I also believe it can be fairly exhausting...and require a lot of data usage.

Some emergencies I feel are rather self-explanatory:






































And some that may require a bit more explanation:


= I'm being fatal attractioned

= I have become a cartoon character

= I am possessed by the devil

= I have been single white femaled

= the market and I are having bad days

= I am being forced to watch "Fifty Shades of Gray"

= I ate some bad sushi

= again, self-explanatory


= I've "Richard Gere'd" myself


= It's a "Seven" situation...

= you're too late


= my head is stuck in a vice grip







First responders love me,
Brutalism

Thursday, February 09, 2017

Something Doesn't Feel Right

In the past few weeks, I've mistakenly worn my underwear inside out two times. I feel like I should be embarrassed about this, yet I've simply accepted it as the next phase of my life.

Both times, I realized this at the end of the day while getting ready for bed. And both times I shared this fact with my daughter...who mocked me, both relentlessly and justifiably.

Yesterday was a first, however, when I realized at the end of the day that my underwear was not inside out (yay, me!) Rather, I had put it on backwards and worn it that way for the entire day.

A simple mistake, right?

Except that it was a thong.


I Need A Stiff One

In my daughter's 11 years, she has (unfortunately) learned to cope with death.

We've lost beloved family members, friends, neighbors, and pets.

And it breaks my heart.

For the loss of life, of course, and also because she loses a little more of her innocence as she realizes that nothing is guaranteed and that life is not always fair.

I was discussing this with a friend, who relayed a story about her pet cat, Alice, who died when her son was young. She learned about the pet's passing when her son came upstairs from the basement with the cat in his arms and said, "Mommy, I think there's something  wrong with Alice."

And in fact, there was -- the cat was in full rigor mortis.

Perhaps they stay innocent a little longer than we realize,
Brutalism

I Also Hear Tito Has A Nice Vodka

Recently, I was editing a document at work.

The writer had described something as "being germaine [sic]" to some of the findings on our program.

I'm still trying to determine how a founding member of the Jackson 5 is relevant to our government contract.

A B C is not as easy as 1, 2, 3,
Brutalism

Tuesday, February 07, 2017

Qu'est-ce que c'est?

A while back, I was in my home office watching a TED talk by Sally Kohn where she described herself as a "talking head."

My daughter, who was on the other side of the desk and could not see the screen, ran over to my side of the desk and asked incredulously, "She's a head?"

Knowing my daughter's thought process (and having a sad flashback to the mini/Minnie hot dogs debacle at Disney World when she was younger), I patiently explained that a talking head is someone who expresses their opinion on television, not someone who is actually a disembodied head.

Crestfallen, she shrugged and said, "well, that's a letdown" and returned to her side of the desk.

Although frankly, that's a TED talk I would like to see.