Mystery Diagnosis...I'm convinced

I’m in my mid thirties, and extremely blonde naturally. And I used to tan in tanning beds...a LOT...and I was a kid prior to the days of sunscreen and rashguard UV shirts.

Sooooo…its high time to visit the dermatologist.

Considering I haven’t been to one since college, I guess now is the best time. I have to do my baseline mammogram next month, and I am sure something else needs checked too, but I digress. Its so much fun knocking on middle age and being female.

So I make the appointment back in June, and get a head to toe visit scheduled for the end of August…today actually.

I’m a little nervous. Had some strange moles removed in college…they were benign…just stupid looking moles. I have this dream of strolling in, being told I have great skin and there is nothing to be concerned with, and strolling out. Alas, I know this is a pipe dream.

I am covered in large freckely mela something or another spots. I have the potential to be a dermatologists dream when it comes to inspections.

So I chuck in there during my lunch. I have all of my paperwork in hand as I am supposed to. I don’t know why I find it so exciting to hear the receptionist/billing clerk praise me on my ability to complete everything and have it ready. It’s the anal rententive type A soul that I am.

I get called back. The nurse practioner takes a brief medical history, notes my concerns, and tells me to undress and points to the fashionable blue gown in the plastic bag. Oh goodie.

So I undress and wrap said blue gown around me and plop my chubby tail on the table…and proceed to wait.

And wait.

And stare at the big poster on the wall with pictures of different types of skin cancers.

Then I check out my own skin…

Then I look at the poster on the wall again…

Then I zero in on a little pink dot on my upper arm that has been aggravating the crap out of me for a few months. It looks crazily like the photo of basal cell skin cancer. Photo #2 from the right. Enlarged to show detail. Hmmmm…

So I hop down from the table, with the fashionable blue gown billowing behind me, and check out the picture closely.

Then stare at my arm again…then the poster…then my arm…then the poster…all the while wishing I had had enough gumption to attempt medical school because in the span of thirty seconds, I have convinced myself I have skin cancer. I roll up the sleeve on the gown and raise my arm up near the spot to compare the two.

I am still standing there when the doc comes in…and I whirl around and exclaim ‘You know…you all shouldn’t put these posters up in here for people to scare the holy heck out of themselves while they wait!’ She laughs, so I am not the first patient to tell her this. Dang it. Really...where is the poster of the cat hanging from the tree branch that says 'Hang in there!' or something uplifting like that. Nooooo...she has big huge posters of skin diseases for me to obsess about while I wait.

So she starts the inspection…top of my head, to the bottoms of my feet…literally. And the top of my head has a concern…raised chicken pox scar from when I was eight…according to her, we have to keep an eye on that. And the bottom of my feet have a concern…I have a funny mole there.

And I have a large mela something or another mole on my butt…thought you might want to know that.

And she made a comment on my tattoos. The nurse with her told me afterwards she liked them a lot and had seven of her own. That made me feel better for some stupid reason.

She found my pink spot on my upper arm non alarming, but froze it anyway. It’s a mela something or another that I didn’t catch. Apparently, no big deal. I’m still convinced I have some crazy form of some sort of rare skin disease and she missed it and I am going to be on Mystery Diagnosis.

Of course, yesterday, I had also convinced myself The Husband brought back bedbugs from his conference in Chicago. Nothing else could have bit me in my sleep. We have no mosquitos, spiders or anything like that in the heat of summer in central Virginia. Nah. So I proceeded to tear our bed apart last night, inspect it, vacuum it, wash everything on the super hot setting on my washer, and dried them all on high heat. I still laid very still last night and just WAITED. And WAITED. And warned The Husband 'if I get bit..it is ON' I didn't get bit. We don't have bedbugs...I'm a loon.

But anywhoooo….

But she didn’t’ like a mole on my stomach because it was half pink half brown…so off it came. Yup…in college I had an outpatient hospital procedure to remove three moles from my back. I fainted in recovery. Today she reached into her cabinet, pulled out the lidocaine shot , dosed me, scraped it off, and sent me on my merry way. Um ok. All the while just chatting away and using terminology that I wasn’t quite catching.

Told me to keep using my sunscreen, they’d have my pathology report back in two weeks, and she’d see me next year.

And now my stomach itches and my pink spot is a bright read frozen circle of skin.

I still want to Google pics of basal cell skin cancer to prove to myself that this is NOT what I have…

To Kill a Camera

Background...
My inlaws purchased the Hubby and I a new camera for Christmas. It's nice enough looking, and really fast return after a picture is taken.

However...the prints are crappy...grainy...blurry, and unfocused. I can't, for the life of me, get decent pictures out of this camera.

I'm picky about my cameras. I took photography in high school and college. I've had photos published. I have them mounted and framed in the house. I take pride in my photos.

This camera SUUUUUCCCCKKKKSSS.

This is not the camera I have had my eye set on. No where close.

I want a fast speedy mac daddy camera.

Alas, those fast speedy mac daddy cameras cost an arm and a leg...so I have been getting by with a little digital that takes awesome photos for something so small.

But back to the piece of crap we own that I can't take back without hurting someone's feelings.

I've been plotting it's death for a long time. Ever since I couldn't get it to take a close up picture of ANYTHING. I can't zoom in and get a good photo. I get unfocused BLUR. NO matter what I do.

I change the settings.

I change this, I change that.

I cuss.

No change...just blurred crappy picture.

I wanted to drop it off the cruise ship back in April...take the memory card first of course. I didn't.

I wanted to leave it on a bench in Florida, take the memory card first of course. But I didn't.

I've wanted to drop it.

I've wanted to run over it.

I've wanted to just make it diiiieeee.

Well...I managed to kill it.

And I didn't plot it in anyway.

We gave the Toddler his birthday present from the Hubby and I before the flock of grandparents and all that mess descend upon our house tomorrow.

I found a steal of a deal on a Hot Wheels Lightning McQueen that he can drive on Craigslist. Super sweet and he loves it. So we played in the driveway with it this evening.

I left the camera on the front steps.

We had a thunder storm.

You fill in the blank.

It is DEAD. DROWNED. DEAD. FINALLY. I stripped it of the memory card and the batteries, and let it lay open on my counter top.

I'm a little disappointed that it wasn't more dramatic than that...but glad I can move on and get a new one with the inlaws being all upset and all that mess. They won't even notice. I plan on the 'oh, I left the big camera at home, hope I have one in my glove compartment, oh I do!' scenerio this weekend.

Should I play Taps or something...or just let the moisture well up in its screen and toss it at the next electronic recycling place I find?

Farewell you gigantic piece of fancy looking you could have been so cool junk.

How bad does it have to be?

There are days that The Hubby and I do not get along. Today is one of them. He's two hours away at drill and sick. So he's not nice right now.

I took The Toddler to get some new shoes (i.e. spent about half a paycheck on new shoes for wide foot funny toed boy). Apparently my cell did not pick up his calls. So when I do get his call, I get reamed from the first second about where I have been and why I haven't been answering the phone.

I'm sorry.
Excuse me?
What the hell?

Yup, it was my full plan for today to not answer your calls. But to answer three from my mother complaining about my father. One from a neighbor and one from another annoying relative.

But I just decided not to answer the calls from the father of my child, the husband I have claimed for over 13 years, and he's two hours away. Nope, I purposely wrote you off my phone list. Plus, I have just dealt with a crabby toddler for the entire day who decided two steps outside the Stride Rite store that he did not want those $40 shoes...he wanted his old ones...NOW. RIGHT NOW. RIGHT FREAKING I AM GOING TO THROW A MELTDOWN FIT ON THIS SIDEWALK NOW.

And I don't like being talked to like I am two.

So I hung up...let's try this shit again.

Second attempt at a conversation was much better....thank you very much. I'm not two, I don't purposely not answer the phone (not from him anyway), and we can act like adults here.

Which brings me around to...

But how bad does it have to be to call it quits?

The Toddler and I attended a birthday party yesterday for one of his old classmates. The family situation is odd to say the least. Mom and dad divorced when he was still an infant...they are amicable, but he's just crazy. I mean it...you can tell by looking at him. C reeee py.

The IL's...oh dear lord. She wins hands down in the passive aggressive crazy inlaws department. That old crazy woman made more snide comments disguised as 'helpful' in a one hour period that I have ever heard in a weekend from my mom or MIL. I mean really, I was about to call her down and I didn't even have a dog in this hunt. You at least hide your crazy when strangers are around. She didn't...I think she was just a little nuttier.

It would definitely have to be that bad. I could see where she was coming from when she packed her crap and left that situation. I really could see it plainly. I didn't need flashing arrows or blinking lights. She had all rights to get the heck out of that one.

Then the family across from The Toddler and I at lunch today. Clearly not amused with one another, trying to work out their visitation/after school/activities/crapload of stuff with the Blackberrys and date planners. Really, the first twenty minutes they were there, they didn't even acknowledge the kids...just argued right there. And I wasn't eavesdropping...believe me...tried to drown them out by listening to the overly loud swing music the restaurant was playing. They were that loud.

When the food came, they complained about everything. The coffee...the chicken...the dip...the this...the that. No wonder they weren't happy together...they weren't happy with anything.

Do people have too high of expectations? What happened the day after the wedding, when most of us are just beaming with new joy and this whole new life ahead (I said MOST...not ALL)...did you wake up and say 'oh shit, this is gonna suck...he snores'?

What happened? What happened to that person that made your heart go pitter patter and all that mess? What happened to 'I do' to that whole list of crap you agreed to at the altar?

I guess I don't know...I'm happy with my Husband. We get on each other's nerves...but he's my best friend. I can't imagine not having him to complain too about little petty crap. He knows me for the real bitchy me on the inside, and the helpful smiling twerp on the outside. He knows I am sarcastic, and try to find some humor in situations. He knows that I am not serious when I exclaim out loud that I understand why some animals eat their young.

We love each other...and in the old phrase "you take the good and you take the bad...you have them both and there you have the facts of life...the facts of life"

Now that I have planted that theme song in your head...have a good one!

181...whew!

181 this morning...FINALLY some movement.

Found out we have to go to a big whoo dooo dinner in November. And it is fancy dress. Since the Hubby is higher rank we have to do it fancy fancy.

So I have to get this weight off and find a pretty cool hot prom dress...so I don't look like the frumpy chubby that I am right now that is wearing a sack.

URGH.

Soooo I am sucking down the water...and wanting that Snickers bar in the vending machine...badly.

Tide takes the poop out

I swear...

Housebreaking the two year old emaciated sick and coughing Boxer that we rescued four years ago from the SPCA, was a HECK of a lot easier than potty training a strong willed very busy toddler.

One day he does just fine...then for three days straight he comes home wearing different clothes than I sent him to daycare in, with the originals in a bread bag...
I'm tired of the poop end of the stick!

I really am.

I just want the potty training to END.

Finish.

Be done with.

Wrapped up...or crapped up as I typed originally...

Either way...I want it OVER.

I want him to go poop in the potty...please.

I want to stop having the 'please poopy in the potty for Ms Ashley' on the way to daycare every morning. And then the follow up conversation that afternoon 'well, we'll try again tomorrow'.

His teacher thinks that if we put him back in pull ups that we will be confusing him, so we are underwear only in this house.

I don't want to clean up any more puddles in the floor (thankfully, we had divine insight last fall and installed laminate flooring in place of our shaggy living room carpet or I'd really be in a mess). I'm tired of flipping the poop out of the underwear and then convincing him to finish pooping in the potty.

I know it will end eventually...and like all men, will spend countless hours in the bathroom doing God knows what. Really? Who wants to just SIT there? I don't know of a single woman I know, or work with, or am related to, that has a stack of magazines near the toilet and spends more than a few minutes doing their business and getting the heck out. There are other things to do rather than just sit there and stew over your own juices.

But I digress.

The dog...who by the way does NOT know his ABC's, nor can he count to 35...knows when he needs to poop...and will frantically signal at the back door while giving us the 'I really gotta go!' look. He will run out, do his business and dash back.

I don't even get a warning look. My son just emits a grunt, that is so ingrained in my reactional being, that I can faintly hear it and KNOW he is pooping while standing in an entire other room, with a pot of spaghetti boiling and the dishwasher running. I hear that 'uuuuh' and I take off running asking if he needs to go potty. Of course, we get about half in the potty.

This is the kid that used to stand up to poop from a very early age. He stood on my lap leaning on me at first, then when the Exersaucer was able to be used, he was guaranteed to fill his britches within a minute or two of being placed in it. GUARANTEED. To the point that one of his old daycare teachers physically groaned when I would put him in it when we got to daycare every morning because she knew what he was about to do.

We've tried it all...stickers, rewards, the Poopy Bag of crappy gift stuff from the Dollar Tree, trips, bribery, chocolate, bribery and some more bribery. I'm done with bribery. You'll either go in the potty, or you will go in your britches...one or the other.

Or I'll clean it out of the floor again like I did Sunday morning when I thought he had simply peed in the living room and took his pajama pants off without knowing there was a pile of poop in there too. Yup...right in the floor. Nice. Hey...they don't make Lysol wipes and Target plastic baggies for nothing.

Still holding....

Geez...

183 again this morning.

No movement...other than my movement to the refrigerator to open it, look in, get mad, and close it back up.

Then there was the trip to WaWa to get a toasted chiabatta (or however it is spelled) sandwich...

Or the cookies from WaWa. Hey! They offer WARM chocolate chip cookies...HELLO! Someone has to eat them or they will go to waste. You know!

So I have picked up Master Your Metabolism by Jillian Michaels. The book makes sense, but I am still downing my Diet Mtn Dews as fast as I can. I am currently drinking my last one (third) of the day (it's barely noon) and am going to have to resort to water for the rest of the day. I am not amused with myself or my inability to stop myself from drinking these things.

I drank ONE this weekend. ONE.

I've drank THREE this morning. ONE...TWO...THREE.

Hubby has lost like 12 pounds. Blah. Good for him though...I'm proud he is sticking with it and doing so well! He's addicted to The Daily Plate. I however have not updated my plate for over a week.

Urgh.

I'm just gonna keep this muffin top and be a better person for it...right? RIGHT?!

No...I'm going to get back on the bandwagon. *sigh*

I'm not going to WaWa for those evil cookies.

I'm not going to snarf down anything and everything...

I promise...for now. :)