MRI-ing It With My Fun Side

So, yesterday, I found myself once again in an MRI machine.
Good times, good times.
I'll start out by saying...they had cloth gowns!!
There they were, spread out on the bed with a bottle of Champagne, a box of chocolates and a dozen roses all for my honour.
Oh wait.
That was my honeymoon.
This was an MRI.
But still, cloth gowns!!! What luxury! So I took two.
Of course, as I slipped off my socks, it became evident that I had neglected to shave my legs. I guess it's officially winter now. ;)

So the procedure begins...

When they were clicking the head/neck brace on me right before I entered the chamber, I thought to myself, okay Susie, here's where you panic. You're being clicked into place in a small cylinder you cannot get out of without help. What if they have a heart attack? What if their wife calls to say their first born was just hatched? What if there's a fire and they decide to save themselves? Sure, they give you a little panic button. But who the heck could hear a little beep or buzz amidst all the other racket!?!

But actually...
Meh.
No biggee.
I've done this before and didn't die.

Okay, that wasn't me talking. That was the special little prescription I spoke of in an earlier post.

Anyway, as I lie there thinking of the stubble poking out underneath my two gowns, (What? One frontwards, one backwards. Genius I say.) it began:
A rusty, unbalanced washing machine. Car alarm on steroids. Machine guns with an unlimited amount of ammo. Fire Hall alarm. African drum beating off time. Dentist tooth polisher. My alarm clock on Cocaine. Airplane engine. Oh, and there it is...the grand finale...the jackhammer to your brain.

Those little foamy earplugs are really helpful. Just sayin'.

I honestly picked out all of those sounds while laying there during my turn to get magnetized.

On the way home I was saying to Don, "It felt like the pressure from the noise was going to push those little jigger earplugs right into my heady inner sanctum and explode my brains."

I didn't realize sound has so much force. (That's your science lesson for the day. Thought I'd share.)


Anyway, obviously my brain is still intact and if I'm honest, my ears are a little cleaner now too.
Thanks Mr. MRI dude. I guess I ran out of Qtips.

Well, now all I can do is wait. And enjoy the holidays with family and friends.

My ears are taken care of, but...
I think I better go shave my legs. ;)



Check out my more serious side on this subject and more in my other blog called, Acutely Mystified at Passionatesusie@blogspot.com

Illicit(?) New Little Pill

So, not to whine or anything, but I have been having some major pain issues lately and my body twists most painkillers into the devil when I partake.
So we are trying a rare one.
I can't tell you what it is because I am not sure it is totally legal. This has to be our little secret, okay?
Okay, so for serious it's legit.
Although the doc did need a "special" prescription pad for this one.
And the Pharmacy had to "order it in".
A couple of the possible side effects are feeling "high" and "euphoria". I was hoping for those ones!So far, no go.
Both dealer...{ahem}...I mean doctor  and the pharmacist said I am starting off at an extremely low dose. I was told I could up that dose though, if it isn't helping.
Sure, sure, get me hooked and then get me to "need" more. That's not suspicious at all.
I did ask about the addictive qualities and was told that won't be a problem.
Unfortunately, the pain is a bit of a mystery. Is it the Diabetes? Is it tumors? Is it Fibromylagia on Roids? So many options.
I'm not gonna lie...if it is the Diabetes (which apparently would make things really complicated), I may just freak out a little.
Why did no one tell me that this disease can affect every part of the body possible?!?
Heart disease, yes - Leading killer of persons with Diabetes. Kidney failure? Leading cause. Blindness? Check.
The top three are as famous as Jennifer Anniston and Anjolina Jolie. (Whoops! Probably shouldn't put those two in the same sentence!)
But Gastroparesis? Neuropathy? Bladder issues?! Who ever talks about bladder issues from Diabetes!?
I am so sick (no pun intended ;) of the phrase, "It's probably caused by the Diabetes." oozing out of every. single. doctor's. mouth. in times of trouble.
Sorry. I totally didn't see that rant coming. I think my blood pressure just rose to 250/160 from my passionate frustration with this disease.
Wait. I know.
I have that new "prescription". I'm pretty sure it will lower my blood pressure.

Gotta go. ;)

Sequins and Fries Pictures

You asked for them, so here goes...
Pics of my 37" jeans, sky-high heels and tiger sequin shirt.
If confused, please see past post called "Sequins and Fries"
Any feedback? Am I crazy or totally rockin' them? You be the judge.

Paper Gowns, Lady Parts and Pop!

So. Speaking of fashion statements (we were, weren't we?), I had another one of my "paper gown" experiences yesterday.
I promise I won't go into detail about the actual appointment since it was, as one of my friends says, for my lady parts. But the gown, oh the gown, that is worth speaking about.
Why oh why does our medical system cheap out on the one thing that is to preserve the patient's dignity?!
I mean, I suppose I don't want them to cheap out on the tools they use nor the antiseptic nor the pain-numbing agents nor the symptom curing procedures and meds nor the cleaning staff. No, definitely not the cleaning staff. (Think that one through, will ya? ;)
But seriously.
Half an hour naked in a piece of paper!?!
So there I sat, checking my blackberry and sipping my diet ginger ale (my newest addiction) while doing everything in my power not to let my buttocks touch the chair provided. I mean, it's not like those gowns are ballroom length. Surely they could extend those non-compliant, tear-like-tinfoil against-metal-teeth-garments just a few more inches. The designer of this fashion was either 4-feet tall or has never sat in the "lady parts" exam room for more than a second.
The good news is...now that I have lost some weight, I can actually meet the two sides in the middle. Forget the plastic string they give you to tie it up though. That snaps before I even get the so-called garment unfolded. Preserving the gown without tears is about as easy as doing a Rubik's Cube blindfolded. (Which, by the way, I saw a man do on Ellen just the other day in under a minute, but that just goes against my analogy so forget I said that.)
So, here's hoping I can avoid that appointment for a long time.
I will say this though...
That ginger ale sure tasted good. ;)

Sequins and Fries

Wow! It's been forever since I penned my thoughts in this little blog. For those of you who may actually enjoy it, sorry about that!
So, last weekend I went on my annual girls shopping trip. What a BLAST! No one got sick, between the four of us 14 pairs of footwear were purchased (no I will NOT tell who bought the most), and meaningful conversation was had. All in all a success.
Before I go any further, I'll just put in a little plug for my new favourite store, Vanity. Did you know that they have the option of 37" inseams in their jeans?!?!? That is like finding gold when you are a tall woman. They are even too long for me! So I bought two pairs. They will go fabulously with my new black patent stilettos. Now I just have to convince my husband we can still afford a date night after all my purchasing.
I did buy a rather unconventional item and am pretty excited to wear it with my new skyscraper jeans. The Man was a little skeptical when I pulled it out of the bag during my post-shopping private fashion show. I will admit, it is a little risky but I think I love it.
Think animal and sparkle.
Now, before you doubt me, pick up the latest fashion mag and you will see both those trends EVERYWHERE.
Yes, it is a silver sequined top with a black tiger face on the front. Oh! and the back has horizontal slits.
Seriously, it is a quirky yet pretty little top. And I figure a black blazer will tone it down nicely.
Hey, I figure, if I am gonna go with my animal instinct, better to wear a tiger that eat like one. Not gonna lie, I almost got attacked by a heaping pile of Costco fries today. But I said, "Susie NO!" and kept walking. My blood sugar is erratic enough...I don't need a dump truck full of carbs poured in my veins like poison. I don't know if my pump holds enough insulin to counteract the portions that place hands out.
Anyhow, getting back to my sequins, stilt-worthy jeans and sky-high shoes, I have no regrets. I may look as bright and tall as a lighthouse but I am okay with that.

Thanks Vanity. Thank you very much. :)

My Strange Addiction

I have an addiction.
Okay, so I have a few. I am a recovering carboholic, am currently a caffeine junky, and I have a drinking problem. No, not alcohol. Just beverages in general. Always have liquid of some sort on the go.
And now this.
This...
Website thing.
Perfect bodies, sexy curves, sights that make me moan and groan.
That's right.
I am talking about Polyvore.
The site where I can visually create outfits based on a plethora of choices - tops, pants, skirts, dresses, shoes, bags, the list goes on and on. All in a perfect size 2.
Ooo! It is so much fun! Those white jeans with this turquoise bag and that denim jacket! That pink skirt with this black belt and those peep-toe heels! Yes! YES!
I could create all day. Simply can't get enough.
I only post a few of them so as to not let my time-wasting secret get out.
I suppose this is my admission of guilt. They say that is the first step. (Please don't tell Mr. Man. He already thinks I watch soaps all day. Just for the record...I don't. I DON'T! But this won't be much better in his eyes.)
So, I'm not sure if it is enough to get me on "My Strange Addictions" but it is enough to keep my house from getting its windows and walls washed.
Please don't judge. In fact...join me. P-O-L-Y-V-O-R-E. It will make me feel better if I'm not alone in this.

Oops! I gotta run.
My coffee mug is running dry.
Wouldn't want to get thirsty while I sit in front of my screen...

Egg On My Face

Wow...today was quite the day! I got egg on my face in a huge way.
I know, I know, you are thinking...okay, what did you do now, Susie?
Well, I totally embarrassed myself, that's what.
It all started with a trip to the city with a very good friend. After randomly finding out that we share the same neurologist and that she had an appointment today, I proposed going with her and making a day of it. I know from experience, going to a specialist is nerve-wracking and stressful.
So, we went for lunch, skipped through the mall and talked and laughed the whole time.
Here's where it gets a little sticky.
On our way home, we went through a drive-through to grab a quick coffee and snack due to a dropping blood sugar and energy level on my part. (That's what happens when you have the Betes and shop hard core for hours. It's like the best exercise in the world! ;)
Anyway, I dropped my friend off at her house, went to the post office, ran a couple of errands, said hi to a few people I knew and then went home.
No prob, right?
Sure, unless we get back to that whole "egg on my face" part.
In that beloved drive-through I had ordered and then proceeded to eat an egg-salad snack wrap.
I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in one of the mirrors in my house an hour later as I walked by. Now, I am not one to purposely look at myself every chance I get, but something caught my eye this time. (This may be a good opportunity to remind you that due to diabetic retinopathy, my eyes are not so great. So when I say something like "caught my eye", it takes a lot in a glance.)
Yes.
There it was.
Egg on my face.
A big smear of it.
Of course I did.
Cuz that's my life wrapped up in an egg...nope! nut shell. {groan, I know}
As for the saying...I totally get it now.

Sexual Abuse/Assault: A Community Crime

On a serious note and nothing to do with diabetes, fashion or fun stuff please check out my other blog at this link.

Sexual Abuse/Assault: A Community Crime

In Tune with Jon...Bon Jovi!

So, two things you need to know about me for this post to make sense:
Number one and most importantly...I love to sing Bon Jovi songs when I go Kareoke-ing.
Number two, it was my birthday on Saturday.

For some strange reason, the approachment (not a word but never mind that) of this birthday caused much mental and emotional anguish for me. (Okay, on a scale of 1 - 10, 10 being my best friend dying and 1 being I have a zit, I suppose I was sitting at about the number I would feel if I dropped my blackberry into a used toilet. You decide what that means.)
I think the nearing of numero 40 is freaking my beak. (That's actually funny once you know my maiden name was Bird.)
Anyway, hear me clearly when I say this: I am NOT 40 YET! But with each Easter season it gets exponentially closer. (I am no mathematician so don't hold me to the validity of that statement.)
K. Now for the Bon Jovi portion of this little garbled page...

My husband took me on a getaway fit for a queen this weekend, (or perhaps my title of "princess" factored in ;) and while we were sitting in a restaurant eating our nutritious first meal of the day on my actual birthday, "It's My Life" started playing in the space above our heads. If you are not familiar with the song it goes like this: "It's my life, and it's now or never. I ain't gonna last forever. I just wanna live while I'm alive..."
I am sure that Jon telepathically requested it just for me! (Don says he requested it but I don't believe him for a second.) What else could possibly explain it?!?
You see, on almost any other day, you could call that my wanna-be theme song. I totally want to approach life that way. I am very in tune with the fact that I won't live forever due to past premature family loss coupled with my own health issues. I really do wanna "Live while I'm alive". It's just that my birthday was throwing me off a little. I was focusing on time running out instead of the beauty of the time I have now.
AND...
I am going Karoeke-ing with close friends tomorrow.
So...Guess what the opening song will be?
You guessed it... "Bed of Roses".
Just kidding.
Oh, don't worry. That one's on my list too.
But in honour of getting older we will begin the evening with Jon's words of wisdom sent just for me.
There will be no arguing about it either.
It's my birthday and It's My Life! ;)

Those Are Not My Legs but they Represent

Okay. So I'm back at the gym.
Good for me right?
Yes, good for me.
There's just one problem. I have to pop anti-nausea drugs every time I go.
Why, you ask?
Well, sometimes, when you work out really hard, you feel like throwing up.
That's not it.
Yes, I have that problem too, but, my ongoing issue is my freakishly clingy motion sickness. MOTION SICKNESS...AT THE GYM!!! Argh!
First off, I always warm up on an elliptical machine, which warms up my legs, glutes, core and arms. Excellent...
If it weren't for the TVs mounted EVERYWHERE incessantly displaying a hockey game. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against hockey but seriously? Where's Ellen when you need her?!? A nice, camera-still kinda show. (Plus, who doesn't love Ellen?)
So, if my head and guts survive the rolling motion of the elliptical mixed with a little back and forth swaying hockey camera, then I move on to my actual workout.
 I pick an area of my not-quite-yet svelte body and push it hard.
For example...legs. This means 4 or 5 exercises that target every muscle found in my two functioning stilts. (Although, my legs are much sexier than a pair of two-by-fours if you ask me ;)
By the time I'm done these strengthening exercises I am shaking, sweating (not glistening - sweating as in it looks like I just took a bath in a bucket of olive oil - light, extra virgin of course ;) and yes, again feel like tossing my cookies. (Wait, I don't eat cookies. I have diabetes. Let's go instead with...carrots. Yes, I feel like tossing my carrots.)
If that's not enough, I proceed to the incline ab bench and up down up down I go until I get the burn and am almost positive my muscles are going to rip apart under my skin.
By this time, my inner head is spinning in the opposite direction as my eyes and those carrots, yes those carrots fight to make a comeback for the whole gym to see.
Sounds like fun, yes?
My favourite time of day is halfway between gym visits. Long enough to realign the world's orbit in my brain and forget about what I went through just hours before, and long enough ahead of the next workout to not quite yet feel the fear and trepidation that grows each minute before I have to yet again squeeze into my yoga pants.
I will honestly say though, that I am thrilled to be back at the gym. (I can say that now because I am halfway between workouts ;) As much as my body revolts two days after a tough workout, I feel so alive.
If I can add the adjective of svelte to alive, I'll be laughing.
Feel free to join me at the gym. It's a good time. You won't regret it.
For serious ;)

The Creepy Eyeball

I want to be small.
Well,
Smaller at least. I don't think at 6 feet tall I will ever be described as "tiny". I'd settle for "tiny wasted."
At least my ankles qualify.
Here's the dilemma: When eating low-carb for the diabetes, coupled with the vegetarianism, it seems the trade off often equals calories - delicious, fat growing calories. Not that I've been growing, but with the risk of repeating myself...I want to be smaller.
And I'd like to know why the second I sit down on my couch with a snack in hand,  The Biggest Loser is on the tube. Every time. It is an unnatural phenomenon. It's like it knows. It makes me uncomfortable - Both the show, guilting me to death, and the phenomenon itself. As if some spooky eyeball is staring down from the sky, zapping my television every time I eat that salty, buttery popcorn.
I suppose I should thank that eyeball, since I told myself I couldn't go shopping until I lost a few pounds. I suppose the weight of the guilt crushing (squishing?) my flabby belly is actually doing me a favour.
I suppose.
I've never found guilt to be a positive motivator.
But I do want to be smaller. {sigh}
Well, I'm feeling kinda hungry. Should probably have a snack.
I think I'll go turn on the TV before I choose a tasty delight this time. ;)

Cubicle Number 3...Again

Yes. I was at the lab...again. Three times in 2 weeks isn't a bad average is it? And there isn't even anything seriously wrong. Nonetheless...
I took my number just in time. People started arriving in droves within moments.
After pushing a woman with a walker out of the way, I dig for my medical card and settle in. (No, of course I didn't push a woman with a walker out of the way! What kind of monster do you think I am?! She was already behind me for legit. And I was in a hurry...)
So as I was sitting their knitting (No, of course I wasn't knitting! I was taking notes for this very discussion we are having here. Although I am the one doing all the talking...) and I looked around as any curious blogger would do.
Right across from me was an elderly dark-haired woman brushing her hair. No biggee right? Only she brushed it the whole time I was waiting, which was long enough to finish an adult-sized afghan. (Brown and yellow to be exact. Wait! No! I don't knit.) It was so weird. Was she suffering from OCD? Was her short dark hair that unruly? (Looked pretty flat and shiny to me.)
Then I looked to my left as the 90-something year old man beside me got called for his procedure. I noticed him slip his I-phone into his back pocket. First of all buddy...never a good idea to sit on your cell phone no matter how much you paid. And second...HE WAS A 90-YEAR OLD WITH AN I-PHONE!!!! I'm not gonna lie. I was Impressed. And what kind of marketing geniuses do they have over there at Apple that both 10 year-olds and 90 year-olds and everyone in between believes they need one? I personally have a Blackberry but after seeing Old Man Mr. Jones there in that waiting room, I am seriously wondering what I am missing.
So then it was my turn. It went something like this:
"Your name please."
"Susanne Schwartz."
"Arm please."
"Okay so this one (pointing to my right) is retired due to scar tissue and this one (pointing to my left) is nearly impossible according to your people and still has a bruise from last week's surprising success."
{Silence}
She starts poking around my difficult arm (left) and instantly finds another good vein no problem.
SERIOUSLY!?! So let me get this straight. The arm that most techs refuse to use because it's impossible to find a vein has TWO good ones?!?
So much for my "aim here" tattoo. I'm gonna need to get another arrow added now. And the words "OR HERE" as well.
Good grief.
Well, good ol' cubicle number 3 didn't let me down once again.
Until we meet again Mr. Cubicle. Until we meet again.
Now, I need to go brush my hair. ;)

Take A Number!

I went for blood work again today.
Yup.
And they didn't let me down.
So...
I get there, and not a soul was in the waiting room.
There was however, FIVE lab techs leaning against the wall chatting.
I asked if I should bother taking a number. They say yes.
I have no words.
So I get called in, and I say, "The good one is on my right arm but it is retired so I hope you can find one on my left."
Before I go any further, I should mention that after posting on my FB status that I was getting blood work again this morning, one of my friends suggested I draw a map for them this time. Since I was out of the house all day, I didn't see that comment until after I came home. Back to this momentarily.
So the lab tech promptly gloves up, ties on the tourniquet, gives 'er and gets one on the first try! (In case you missed it...last week I had a similar experience only the lab tech insisted on using my retired vein since according to her it was impossible to find one on my left.)
Mentioning my frustration from last week, the tech from today explained to me how I could describe where this good left-armed vein sits for future reference.
Genius.
Put that together with my friend's map suggestion...Double genius!!
 I have made a decision.
I will get a tattoo.
On each arm.
On my right it will say "retired" with an arrow to my good old faithful and on my left it will say "aim here" with an arrow pointing to the perfectly usable "non-existent" vein.
I have always wanted a tattoo, but I couldn't decide what I wanted permanently on my body.
Now I know
I just hope the tattoo artist doesn't hit a vein. ;)

Headaches and Smelly Feet

I'll keep this short and sweet.
Life is exciting. Except when it is mundane.
Diabetes is mundane. Except when blood sugars sky-rocket and then crash leaving you in a pile of desperation. Oh, and a headache. Either way - too high or too low.
Headaches are a normal part of life. Except when you find out they are caused by a tumor crowding its way onto a gland behind your eyeballs.
Eyesight is just there. Except when you start to lose it and then you really miss it. Not gonna lie.
Lying is wrong. Except when it is done to protect the innocent or flatter someone who can't take the honest answer that yes, they look fat in those jeans. - That's me by the way. So lie to me please.
Saying please is courteous. Except when you frame it in words like "Please...pop my zit." or "Please...rub my smelly feet." No. Not so courteous then.
Being courteous is...
Probably quitting while I am ahead. Sometimes these ramblings fall out of my head but I will assume at this point you are all bored or disgusted by my acne reference.
So, have a great day.
Life is a string of great days. Except when they are bad days...
;)

Blogger's Block? ;)

This is seriously sad. I have nothing to blog about since my life is a pile of, well, boring. I sit trapped at home with no ride and nowhere to go and so I convince myself to go through the motions of a boring day alone. Now...I have blogger’s block.

I suppose I could write about how I scrubbed my toilet with a toilet brush and Cleaner With Bleach! It was kind of exciting using a new toilet brush, which has been laying beside the toilet for, oh, about a month now. (Yes, I’ve cleaned it since then, I just didn’t use the new brush. Believe in me a little would ya?!) (Okay, I might have only cleaned it once in that time but get over it.) But you don’t want to read about cleaning toilets.

I suppose I could write about the laundry I did earlier.  I don’t think Mr. Man is going to be impressed. Oh, he’d be impressed if I folded some laundry, but he doesn’t allow me to wash anything but towels. Just towels. Not new red towels and men’s white underwear. Just towels. And I’m not allowed to touch the bleach either. Apparently it leaches color or something like that. I’m not sure. I don’t know what “leaches” means. Unless of course we are at a swampy beach. Then I know for darn sure what a blood-sucking squirmy wormy red gob of slime is. My life may have been altered forever in the most traumatically traumatizing way involving one of these disgusting creatures as a child. I since have carried around a salt shaker in my bathing suit without fail. Don’t ask me where I keep it.

But you don’t want to read about laundry.

Um...I suppose I could write about the book I am reading. Actually, I am reading it on my Kobo E-reader which is very helpful for someone with partially impaired eyeballs. Especially helpful when the glitch in its hard-wired-drive-system-thingamajiggy (get jiggy with it! Oops. That was just a side-note in my small head.) bookmarks it at the same page (Page 63) and I have to electronically flip to where I last left off. Today, no word of a lie, I had to flip 652 pages to find my spot. You are probably thinking...wow! that is one heck of a big book! You must be super smart Susie!

No. The font is just really big because of those defective eyeballs I mentioned.

But you probably don’t want to get into a big cumbersome dialogue over my mammoth book.

I suppose I could write about preparing leftovers for supper. All the microwave reheating tends to make the meat a little dry and the rice a little clumpy but the vegetables should be fine. Besides, I don’t eat meat. So who cares if it’s dry right? That’s what you get for being a carnivorous carnivore. I am really curious as to what brand of wine our company will be bringing to go with it all.

But you definitely don’t want to read about cooking leftovers! That’s lame!

Well, I have to go take a shower now. Clean up for our company and all. Oh! and I think today is my weekly shave day. That’ll be exciting.

Wait...was that too much information? ;)

Cubicle Number 3

Good grief.
I went to get routine blood work done yesterday and didn't know whether to laugh spasmodically or cry sobbingly.
I may be exaggerating just a little.
But seriously...
I sit down in the waiting room with  my pulled number 26 and sneak a peek at my closest neighbour's number...22. Darn. It's gonna be a while.
It is then that I notice the numerical counter bracketed to the wall which displays a nasty red number 18. Bigger Darn. It is gonna be longer than I originally thought.
But where were all the people?
Must be out for a smoke.
As I begin settling in, pulling out my travel mug full of coffee (which comes in handy when you have to give a urine sample ;) and my notebook, (which comes in handy when observing people acting idiotically) I notice a disturbing detail on one of the lab tech's face.
No, not a zit.
A medical mask.
Now,
I am already acutely aware that I am surrounded by "sick" people, (that's usually the precursor to bloodwork) and now the woman about to push metal into my vein is wearing a protective mask? Protective for her? or for us?
At least they weren't handing them out at the door.
So after waiting...umm...long enough for me to be annoyed but short enough that my $6 parking ticket hadn't yet expired, I was called to cubicle number 3.
To wait some more.
When the reception lady brought back my medical card and requisition form, she said "Just keep your card out for a bit."
The person, whom I can only assume was of the female gender by the shrill sound of her voice (sometimes you can't tell you know.) started freaking out that she was there first and they better serve her before me. (Serve sounds so pleasant, as if awaiting a cup of tea at a historical Tea House. THEY ARE TAKING OUR BLOOD!!!)
Anyway, after being assured she was next, I pictured her tucking her feathers as she settled down.
As I sat, sipping my coffee in cubicle number 3 (might as well make a one-person date of it, no?) I heard a man enter the waiting room, asking how long of a wait it would be since his parking ticket was about to run out.
"Oh about five or ten minutes. Just have a seat."
LIES!
I waited longer than that in the cubicle alone, never mind TOTAL wait time.
The poor sucker sat down.
With my coffee downed and my cup cold, the lab tech sauntered in to my cozy little square box.
It was finally my turn. Yay!
Only she couldn't find a vein.
I had purposely given her my left arm, knowing it was tricky, but wanting to protect my retired right arm. The obvious right-armed vein, glowing blue through  my skin, has so much scar tissue from being so helpfully generous over my 28 years of diabetes and other random health issues that it screams, "I'm done!"
Which leads me to my next thought.
Since cholesterol clogs the arteries, can one have a heart attack or stroke from too much scar tissue in a vein?
I really wish not to risk it.
But, she assured me since it was the only vein she could find, (weird since lab techs who are skilled at their job have done just fine since my right arm's retirement) she would go higher up and avoid the scar tissue.
I have the mark of the giant pin prick to prove otherwise.
Well, thanks again, my good old faithful friend. (The vein I mean, not the lab tech.)
At least I got a compliment on my stylin' brown boots while I was there.
That made it all worth it.
Except of course, the heart attack part.
That could be a bit troublesome. ;)

Lotion. Blech.

My skin is flaking off and I feel red and raw. I think there is a word for this sort of thing.
Oh yes.
Chafing.
Here's the dilemma.
It is FREAKIN' COLD and DRY in Manitoba right now
And
I LOATHE Lotion.

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy the benefits of lotion. When your skin feels soft and smooth, like butter.
But I HATE the way it goes on. It feels icky and oily and I have it in my little pea-brained head that every granular piece of dust or hair lying around jumps from its restful location onto my greasy, lotioned hands and sticks. Blech.
So here, in this juxtaposition of health and beauty, squarely sits frustration.
The lotion bottle stares with its scrawny little neck taunting me, daring me to just pump and squirt. My dry legs scream "Yes! Yes! Do it!" 
But my hands just can't bring themselves to reach for the dirt clinging bottle of yuck.
Mr. Man thinks my lotion phobia is just one more quirk of my many, begging for normalcy.
Normalcy is boring though, right?
Well, anyway, back to my dilemma...I sure would appreciate it if someone could concoct a Susie-friendly moisturizing option. You could name it Sus-a-licious and we could profit share (since you are usuing my brand and all).
Well, that's my bundle of profound thought for today. I'm sure it rocked your world.
Ouch.
Did I mention I am wearing jeans? ;)

WHO SAYS THAT!?!

Hanging with my good friend Zoey the other day, we landed at our favourite bookstore. Wandering somewhat aimlessly, both with a passion for many genres, Zoey and I merged into the coffee lane after being teased and taunted by oh-so-many fabulous titles.
Luck have it, two leather chairs by the fire sat empty, waiting for our two weary carcasses to settle and chat.
It was lovely.
That is, until, we got up to leave.
I noticed a 60-ish year old woman slither herself down onto the leather of Zoey's chair practically right under my friend's butt, before her knees even had the chance to straighten as she stood up. I also heard the woman say something to Zoey, but couldn't make out the words themselves.
As we headed down the escalator, Zoey leaned in and said,
"Did you hear what that woman said to me?"
"No. Why? What did she say?"
"She asked if we were leaving and when I replied 'yes' she said, 'Good.'"
Really?
Cuz that is a lot of rude packed into a one-word sentence.
Fighting the urge to go SIT ON HER, I shook my head dumbfounded by this stranger's strange behaviour.
WHO SAYS THAT?!?
"Good. Go away. Get outta my way. It's about time. You're inferior. You've overstayed your welcome. In fact, you were never welcome. I want that chair."
THAT is what she communicated with one friendly word turned ugly.
 And,
NOBODY messes with my Zoey!! Back off lady, back off.
And,
How are we to expect teens to respect their elders when the elders behave like spoiled children?!?
Not cool, not cool.
Zoey, on behalf of all women older yet less mature than you, I apologize.
And just so ya know...
Next time, I sit on her! ;)

Colon Counselling. Really?

I received a most fascinating email this morning. At least I thought it was fascinating. Maybe you will think of it as standard fare. (If so, I don’t want to know about it.)

This email I speak of owned the title, “63% Off Colon Hydrothera​py Session and More”.

Can you read my thoughts yet? No? Well, let me continue.

It went on to read, “A squeaky-clean digestive tract is needed for your body to function properly. It is also integral to your ability for landing double-back flips and random wall-jumps. Keep your body fine tuned and kung-fu ready with today's Dealfind: $39 for a 60 Minute Colon Hydrotherapy Session, Including a 30 Minute Pre-relaxation Session...”

How about now? Can you figure out what I am thinking now?

Let’s break it down, shall we?

“63% off”. Okay. They’ve got my attention. I’m always a sucker for a good deal.

“Colon Hydrotherapy Session”. Hmmm. I’m pretty sure the word “colon” is used either as a punctuation mark or as a label for, in my mind, my most undesirable body part. When colon, therapy, and session are put together in a phrase, I can’t for the life of me figure out how they could be referring to punctuation, yet the other option is quite confusing to me as well. Does my colon need counselling? But what does that have to do with hydro? (I.e. power-filled water, and that can’t be good in this case, right?)

Didn’t this “therapy” they speak of used to be spelled E-N-E-M-A!?!

How about this part: “A squeaky-clean digestive tract is needed for your body to function properly”.

Really?

Cuz unless they are putting a Teflon coating along the lining of that bad boy and spraying it with ultra light, extra virgin olive oil cooking spray (that’s my idea of a diet ;) every 10 minutes, I have a hard time figuring out how I am going to keep it squeaky clean.

And I am pretty sure people have been living for thousands of years without “squeaky clean” colons.

Also,

I don’t think “squeaky” is exactly the noise I hope comes out of my butt while I walk down the street in my oh-so-fabulous high-heeled boots and purple Pashmina scarf, but whatever. (No, not only the boots and scarf. Seriously.)

Plus, the Teflon might make it a bit hard to bend over.

Next, “... it is also integral to your ability for landing double-back flips and random wall-jumps. Keep your body fine tuned and kung-fu ready...”

I am not making this stuff up.

“...60 Minute Colon Hydrotherapy Session, Including a 30 Minute Pre-relaxation Session...”

WHAT THE HECK ARE THEY GOING TO DO TO ME FOR 60 MINUTES!!!!!? Oh, right. A 30 minute PRE-RELAXATION session. I don’t think I want to know...

What I do want to know is...do you have to be qualified to give this therapy? Is this something they teach in beauty school?

Aesthetics at its best.

I have a confession to make. I have heard of this before. They spoke of it in a shouting match during a climactic moment in the movie Bridesmaids. Only, I think there was bleach involved in that scenario.

Cuz that makes so much sense.

I am so thankful they have now made this treatment more affordable for me. Yes, a discount is exactly what I am looking for in a service involving water, a hose and MY COLON. I am not the least bit uncomfortable with the idea of “you get what you pay for” in circumstances such as this.

Oh, the things we do in the name of health.

Whatever happened to simply eating fibre? ;)

Such a Compromising Position!

Okay. So this will be my most self-serving piece of "work" I have ever written. Although I am almost sure by the end of this post you will have pity on me. If so, please help me out.
 I find myself in an, umm, "delicate position". (You'll find this funny in a moment.)
Of course, since I am putting my thoughts out there for the whole world to see, my hopes would be that, well, the whole world will see. Okay, maybe not the whole world, but as many who, after given the chance to read one post, wish to read more.
Now.
Word is getting out. I have fans in exotic places such as Latvia, Germany, India and the likes.
But.
There's just one problem.
I looked at a recurring referring URL in one such exotic country and it turns out...well...it is a porn site.
Good grief.
So could you help a poor girl out?
If you like a post, please press the Facebook "Like" button on the blog post page itself, and that will spread the word in a more, umm, respectable fashion.
I hate being in this (pardon the pun) compromising position of asking for your help, but thought I'd risk you seeing me as an egomaniac and hope you see me rather as a humble, perhaps sometimes pathetic but hilarious writer who's just trying to catch a break.
Seriously, thanks for following and I hope to return the favour some day.
Just call me the next time porn starts chasing you down.

You scratch my back, I'll scra-
Never mind.
That somehow just sounds wrong. ;)

Who's Deluded...Me or Her!?!

I just saw a white fluffy American Eskimo puppy fly by my window. I slid it open and tried calling him in but he wouldn't come. Then he just disappeared.
I'm so sad about that.
He was cute.
But maybe I can convince the purple snapping turtle that went racing by in the snow to come in and play.
That would be nice.
I don't feel well.
I have snot. A headache. And that little temperature gauge thingy that goes under your tongue flashes numbers that Mr. Google says aren't quite right.
Is it bad that I sweat and shake with cold all at the same time?
I wasn't gonna write today feeling the way I feel (and since even my brain tells me those delusions can't quite be right. There is no way that turtle was purple), but then I remembered hearing about a crazy lady in town who inspired me or something.
A friend of mine was telling me of how her neighbour made the (Stupid? Crazy? Unthinkable?) decision at the end of 2010 to run, outside, a  minimum of six miles a day, everyday for a year.
Now.
I have already given you a couple of clues of how I feel about this resolution.
First of all, we live in Manitoba, Canada and our winters plunge down to -50 degrees Celsius with windchill, while our summers get up past 30 degrees Celsius.
Second, WHO RUNS A MINIMUM OF SIX MILES every freakin' day?!?!
The friend of mine telling the true story had asked her, "Didn't you ever feel too sick to run?" The crazy lady's answer was, "Well, not deathly sick."  (She obviously didn't get the fever I've got going on. No, I've got a legit reason for not running today.)
Oh, and did I mention that one of those days (well two actually, since it takes 24 hours) this looney-tunes woman ran a 100 mile race!!! And still got up and ran her six miles the next day!?!
The next time I run my 100 mile race, I am just gonna divide them by 10 and take 10 days off. Yeah. That's what I am gonna do.
Whatever happened to New years resolutions like, "I'm gonna lose five pounds in the next three years" or "I vow to buy an expensive gym membership that I have only slight intentions of using because I have the brainiac idea that I will lose 20 pounds just by carrying the gym pass in my wallet" or "I will not buy another pair of shoes for a year". (WHAT!!! WHO SAYS THAT?!?! There's probably more chance of me running a 100 mile marathon this month than that!) But you know, doable resolutions.
Oh wait. She did it. She ran her freakin' minimum six miles a day.
That just makes me angry.
I hate her. (I am sure she is really nice and all, but until I learn her name, I will continue to hate her. I think this kind of hate is justified, no? I know you do too. Don't lie to me.)
So, that is why I wrote today. Because if she can run her freakishly fanatical minimum six miles, rain or shine, snow or sleet, health or snapping turtles, I figured I could make the sacrifice and sit on my a** and enrich every one's life with my wit.
Well, I gotta run. (No, not literally. I am deathly sick remember?)
I've gotta go catch me a new pet.
Oooo...there goes a platypus...

Belts for Boobies!

My family is going in business together. We came up with a genius new product idea that was inspired by a childhood memory.
We're calling the new best-seller, "Belts for Boobies".
Huh? you are asking right now.
Well.
Sometimes as women get older, the "girls" get a little lazy. They decide they no longer have the energy to fight Mr. Gravity.
This can be dangerous.
Imagine going for your daily 1/8 mile run and getting slapped in the face by your own flesh and blood as these tubular tornadoes come flying high. It's not pretty. And you can only go the 1/8 of a mile due to the force in which your soft squishy stalactites fly up and spank your cheeks.
No.
Seat belts for Safety needed!
It's okay. We have found the answer.
We will take your average leather belt (less chaffing than canvas), and we will add two extra buckles a few inches from the middle to give room for modesty. (The old lady in S.R. didn't wear a shirt with her boobie belt, so why should you have to?) Or better yet! I could put roses on the front of it! You just strap those babies down (some of you maybe only need a larger sized multi-functioning waist belt to do the trick - three birds, one stone) and run, run, run.
Or, perhaps you would be more comfortable tossing them over your shoulders and then strapping them down. Like little twin backpacks. If you decide to go with this option, you may need to adjust the buckles into an alternate position. Don't worry. We will build this into the design.
Bras are a thing of the past. The Belt is where it's at
It's the ultimate tube top. Nice and cool. Never needs to be washed. Aren't see-through.
Those are important features when it comes to running on a hot day. Or even just sitting on your porch, rocking in your hammock. You never know when those puppies are going take a flying leap and hit the deck.
I'll get to the point. Investors needed. Please contact me at this address if interested. Spread the word.
These things are gonna be big! (Especially if you were originally a DD ;)

P.S. If you are reading this and are the old lady who unknowingly inspired this business decision by stylin' this fashion on your front deck in those long-ago summers, I hope you are dead. No. I could never wish anyone dead. But know this: The patent is MINE!!