So that happened

For the first time in my life, I went under the knife.

Not the fun under the knife where you stand in front of a target wearing a sparkly bathing suit and a swarthy man dramatically throws knives at you while the crowd gasps in relief when you don't end up impaled.


It was the bad kind. The kind where I reluctantly went to the emergency room hoping for a quick fix and instead ended up having a man stick a sword in me. OK, the man was a surgeon and - to use some of my newly minted medical jargon - the sword was technically a scalpel. But, I was completely unprepared for the ordeal. And it was not one little bit fun.

I won't bore you with all the myriad details, even though I have total recall of each. What I will say is that my cavalier attitude toward surgery has done a complete 180. I used to think "How bad can it be? They knock you out for the cutting part and then they give you lovely mind-altering drugs. Sign me up." Such blissful ignorance.

What I learned is that hospitals are depressing. And boring. And frustrating. And designed to keep you awake. In fact, I think perhaps we are overlooking a veritable gold mine when it comes to modifying criminal behavior. Send those ne'er-do-wells to the closest infirmary.

Let me whine a bit more.... As far as the mind altering drugs go - big, fat lie. I don't know why people pay for morphine. I was expecting to spend some time in the strawberry fields with the Beatles. I stayed right where I was (see above) with nobody but the night nurse for company. And she only wanted to make sure I wasn't sleeping. Very disappointing.

Shall I go on? Did you know that when they do laparoscopic surgery they inflate your abdomen (with a bellows, I believe) until it is roughly the size of New Zealand and then seal up all the escape routes so you can double as the Hindenburg for the next few days? It's very pretty.

Anyway. I got better. And my doctor and nurses were lovely. I think mostly because they knew they could go home as soon as their shifts ended. And, all in all, I came to appreciate how ridiculously healthy I usually am. I am determined not to take feeling good for granted. Also, as I was walking around the gray, cheerless hallways in the middle of the night, I realized that there are so many people who are really, really sick and who will probably not get better. So I am truly thankful for how blessed I am.

One more thing. I learned that while my family is comprised of very caring individuals, my unlicensed and, in one case, underaged children are not above using my car to joyride around while I lay prone in a hospital bed completely unaware. The girls tried to rationalize their complete disregard for the law by saying that they only wanted to visit me and bolster my spirit. Complete hogwash. The last time I checked, the mall was not on the way to the hospital. Considering the fact that we live about four blocks from the hospital, nothing is on the way.

We all survived.


Who Thinks of This Stuff...

Who is the hands down genius head that thought up Pandora Radio?

I like music in a sort of second hand way. If it happens to be playing somewhere nearby, I'll tap my foot and bob my head with the best of them (with a few, okay, with several exceptions that I will not go into here because I don't want to bash any musical genres in print...but you know who you are). However, I don't usually seek out music and I'll tell you why.

Firstly, music on the radio is repetitive. Really repetitive. Really, really repetitive. Really, really, really repetitive. Same music. Over and over and over.

Secondly, someone else is doing the picking for me. I don't like handing over that kind of control. I (not unlike most people) want what I want, when I want it, thank you very much.

And thirdly, like any mother I've ever met, I mostly just want it to be quiet.

So, you can imagine the happy dance that ensued when a savvy friend turned me on to Pandora. That's www.pandora.com for those of you who are still wandering aimlessly in the dark morass that is FM radio.

I can't explain adequately. You have to experience it for yourself. And yes, I realize that I am probably light years behind the rest of the world, but I don't care. Let me be happy with my Adele/Weepies based station now that I have it. And look out iTunes...I'm coming in for a landing!


These are the days my friends...

Let me begin by saying that it has been so long since I last posted here (how long has it been....), well, its been so long that I forgot my access information to log on.

Now, generally I am the type of person that has no problem recalling these dandelion fluff-seeds of trivia. I have a ridiculous amount of user identities and passwords and binary codes to crack before I can access my top secret quote-of-the-day or terrorist-proof easy recipe sites and they come zooming to the forefront of my brain with the greatest of ease. Usually. Apparently that is all in the past.

Anyway, that is not what I wanted to talk about. However, now it is the only thing that I can think about. Does this mean I'm on the downward slippery slope of forgetfulness? What next? Do I start forgetting the name of my dentist, or that I have a dentist or maybe I just forget to brush my teeth. Dentist, schmentist.

Maybe I have a heretofore unheard of brain condition that only affects my ability to recall passcodes, but if left untreated will mutate into an unsightly skin condition. I smell doom. And Neutrogena.

Maybe I just need to write this stuff down somewhere.


Rocked in Saint Louie

On Thursday night some of my favorite peeps and I went to the Jimmy Buffett concert at Riverport (or whatever its name is this month). The lucky ducks who got there early were endlessly entertained by the thousands of parrotheads who turned out for the show - or became the show if truth be told. My neck is still a little sore from whipping around to goggle at fin-headed, grass skirt bedecked grandmas sipping margaritas larger than most wading pools.

Now, I have to confess up front that Jim isn't on my top ten list, but I do love an excuse to drink a margarita on a school night and its always fun to get together with friends. Especially friends who are true Buffett fans and are just waiting for an opportunity to stow away on whatever tie-dyed mode of transportation he has chosen for the evening.

So it was with an air of merriment and anticipation that we made our way to the entrance gate...where we were met by grim faced, professional buzz kills who searched through our blankets and backpacks and took our water bottles, our peanuts, and our happy faces.

OK. I understand that we no longer live in a country where you can bring a picnic lunch to a professional sporting event or paid venue of any type for the most part. And I guess I understand the reasons behind that sad fact. However, when you tell me that my water bottle isn't welcome I have to stop and ask WHY?! So I did. And I was told that even though water bottles are usually acceptable, Mr. Jimmy himself decided that no nourishment or hydration of any kind could be brought in while he was in the house. Hmmmmm.

I haven't checked this information. I'm simply going by what the steely eyed Frau at the gate said. Apparently, getting a piece of the action from the cheeseburgers in paradise is no longer enough. Mr. Buffett would like a portion from all the cheeseburgers (and everything else) in every geographical location he frequents. Again I say, hmmmmm.

I tend to oversimplify things. But here's what I think.

I pay (a lot) to see a game, or a concert, or a play. If you would like to offer me some refreshment while I'm there, I'll take it into consideration. If its good and reasonably priced, it is very likely that I will purchase your wares. I like options. I may decide you're a better cook than I am. And you save me the hassle of schlepping my ham sandwich across county lines. However, if you hold me hostage without food or water and in hypoglycemic desperation I am forced to purchase an overpriced, underflavored item, I will have no choice but to put a hex on you.

Can someone please back me up - does $4 for a water seem a tad steep to you? How about $9.50 for a draft beer? How about when you've purchased said beer, wandered aimlessly for 20 minutes looking for the rest of your party amidst 20,000 Hawaiian shirted revelers, finally reached your 3'x5' blanketed piece of lawn where you are promptly beaned by one of many flying beach balls which causes you to spill all that liquid gold on your flip flops.



He's a Magic Man...

You know how when women get together to drink coffee, or iced tea, or vodka gimlets they tend to talk a little? And how almost inevitably the talk tends to meander its way around to the subject of husbands/significant others and their laundry list of shortcomings (among which is the lack of laundry skills...)?

Well, I just want to state for the record that my husband is not only very adept at tackling stubborn stains on whites, he is also very willing - dare I say glad - to do it. And thats not all. Not by a long shot. I have come to the conclusion that I have married someone who is magic. In our 18 years of marriage I have never once had to call a handyman for any reason whatsoever. He can fix anything.

In the space of one weekend I have personally witnessed this skilled Adonis install a wood floor, change the oil on the Mini, hook up a garbage disposal, make a fish casserole, and sew on a loose button - with time left over to take the kids to the library.

This is all just to say that I am very thankful that I am such a lucky duck. Is he perfect? Well, that depends on the day you ask. But I will tell you, should we ever be together sipping a perfectly made martini and the subject of husbandly shortcomings comes up, I'm afraid I won't be joining in the conversation. And if it crosses your mind to ask him what exactly it is that he needs me for, I will find you where you live and boil your Steiff teddybear in the biggest pot you've got...


So that was fun

When uber-talented Annie Smith Piffel agreed to instruct a workshop here at Rock Paper Scissors, I immediately signed myself up. I have always harbored a bit of jealousy for people who can paint.

Not the house painting people mind you. I can think of no fewer than 8 million things I would rather do than tape off baseboard with that hideously colored painter's tape (too smurf-y to my way of thinking) and start dripping paint on the improperly covered hardwood floors.

No - I'm talking about the paint on canvas people. I would love to be able to do that. And so, I signed myself up and made arrangements to have the retail portion of the shop duly covered.

Things went slightly askew with my carefully made plans. Let's just say that I planned to attend the workshop. Then I couldn't take the workshop. Then I could. Then I couldn't. I finally settled for being bodily in the workshop about 2/3 of the time, running up and down the stairs 1/6 of the time, on the phone 1/8 of the time, and mentally checked-out for about 3/4 of the time. However, during the parts where I was both mentally and bodily available it was nothing short of fabulous. Annie is just that good!

I told myself that no matter how my painting turned out, I was by golly going to frame it and hang it. And so I did. And I have to say - everybody who took the workshop created a truly frame-worthy piece of art. Annie was informative, and encouraging. And I heard several comments about how relaxing it all was. Hmmm.