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!!