This girl is funny...not skinny.

This girl is funny...not skinny.

Friday, January 28, 2011

On the plus side, maybe Lifetime will make a movie about this whole saga. Starring David James Elliott of course!

Good afternoon everyone!

You know that part in those Lifetime TV movies or Readers Digest stories, or Mystery Diagnosis  (The one show Oprah didn't destroy in her hostile take over of Discovery Health Channel.)  when the sufferer gets a name for their pain?  And they seem relieved, like now that they have a name they can battle whatever it is.

I guess I'm not the kind of person.

I got a name for what ails my hands.  Didn't make me want to fight, unless kicking my doctor in the shins counts.


 If you haven't read the post about my trip to my Dudley Moore impersonating doctor, go ahead and do so right now....we'll wait.


Okay, everyone up to speed?  Great.

So after getting NOWHERE with the doctor last night, except for paying for $30 copay, and a prescription  (I haven't picked that up yet....sorry, I already have a VAT of Aleve.  I'll get to the prescription some time this weekend.  For that matter, I have leftover Vi codeine from when I had a tooth infection.  I don't need any stinking Naproxin!)  I went back to work and waited for the official diagnosis.  After all, remember, my x-rays were far too difficult for the DOCTOR to read, we had to wait for the radiologist to read them.

And now, drum roll please......

I have "MODERATE DEGENERATIVE CHANGES IN BOTH THUMBS."  (My left hand is worse than my right.)

I asked the nurse just what that meant.  Not that I'm a moron, I can break down the words easily enough.  But what did this diagnosis mean, for me?

"It means, sweetie, that you're getting old.  You just have to live with this."

First of all, there are only a handful of people who are allowed to call me Sweetie.  Most of them know me, or are related to me.  The others are the top five on my "Celebrity List." 

Second of all, and this is really important.  I'm 43.  I'm not 93.  I've not had an injury to my hands that I'm aware of, other than the wear and tear of my years of office and shipping work.  It's not like I've been putting in sewer pipes in the cold.  As far as those who work with their hands go, I've had it pretty easy.  My grandmother doesn't have this problem!

"So it's not arthritis, or carpal tunnel?"  asks I.

"Nope, sweetie.  (again)  You're just getting old."

I'm sorry, do I have steam coming out of my head?  Yes, yes, Sarah is full on into a rage now!

I have a litany of things I have wrong with me, all things that I can take care of in due time when funds or the inclination arise.  But very few of my issues involve actual, continuous pain.  I'm never going to be a supermodel or a professional figure skater, so there's really no rush to getting a lot of the work done.  But I am a writer, an office worker, a mom, and a volunteer.  I need my STINKING HANDS TO NOT HURT!

Yet here's this nurse, blithely informing me that I will be, at the age of 43, living with a degeneration in my hands that can only be medicated it can't be stopped.  So why try?

As a side note, she did mention, "Well, I could give you the phone number for Ortho if you'd like.  But I wouldn't do anything until we see if the naproxin can mask the pain."

YES, I would like very much!


Oh and thank you medical professional, for telling me to wait while my stomach and liver are torn apart(Because didn't a study just come out that this stuff messes with you?) by something that's NOT FUN.  Let me wreck my innards with fun food and tequila, please. 
 
My very next phone call was to Doris at Ortho.  Doris is my new BFF.  She listened to me for a full two minutes, (or, longer than my doctor did last night) while I repeated the conversation with the other nurse.  Then she laughed a little bit.  I've never heard a better sound.  This was a laugh of disbelief.  "Okay, let's get you in to see our hand specialist," she says.  "I think you've done a very smart thing making this appointment."
 
So my friends, in a litter more than two weeks' time, I will again be trekking my rear to the doctor's office, only this time, I'm going to see someone might have an inclination to help.
 
Of course, between now and then I have to schedule a mammogram.  Happy Dance of Joy!
 
So on that note, my friends, have a groovy weekend.  It's just Skippy and me.  Hubby and Peaches are across the state eating smelt.  (For those of you who don't live in Wisconsin, it's a fish.  It's yummy.)  I doubt Skippy will emerge from his lair, and I'm going to be writing.  So it's a great weekend for me!

Thursday, January 27, 2011

Hey thanks! You've been almost NO help at all!

Good evening!

Well, I had quite a few ideas for my next posting, but I didn't think I would be posting quite so soon.  And yet, sometimes something happens that's so amazing, so uttering STUPID, you just have to discuss.

Let me frame this by saying, the title of this evening's post is NOT an original thought.  This quotation comes from one of my favorite morning radio personalities, Mr. Bob Madden of The Bob and Brian Show.  Bob, joined by his compatriots, Brian Nelson, Carrie Wendt (The First Lady of Broadcast News, and a thoughtful fellow blogger herself) and and the others on the show, discuss current events, pop culture, politics, music, movies, and anything else that happens to cross their minds.  That includes Bob's perception that most people are of little or no help and should be informed that they are, at best, useless.

So Bob, I thank you for the title.  And for the bright spot of humor I enjoyed this afternoon, thinking of just how you would say that line.

Here's what happened.  After a simply delightful day at my job, I had to run to to the doctor's office for the long awaited APPOINTMENT FOR MY HAND PAIN.  For those of you who aren't aware, I've been wearing a wrist brace for about a month and self medicating with a delicate mixture of over the counter pain killers and alcohol.  My chronic pain in my hands and wrists is not abating in the face of this highly skilled approach so, at the urging of pretty much everyone, I dragged my reluctant fanny to the doc. 

I believe if you go back to the blog where I discuss my very "special" annual checkup, I mention that I didn't have much hope for this appointment.  And I overestimated big time.

First of all, I've had a change of insurance since I last appeared at this particular office.  Shoot, I've had about seven changes in insurance.  Have I mentioned I don't like this doctor?  So filling out the NEW paperwork took the entire 20, yes 20 minutes I had set aside for relaxing in those super comfy chairs in the waiting room.  (See, I love reading Sports Illustrated from three months ago...it's fun to read predictions about the football season...in January.)  Then I get called in to the exam room before I'm even done signing the credit card slip for the copay.  ($30 copay.  Keep that in mind.  I paid cash money to this band of merry men.)

I will say this.  At least the nurse didn't weigh me.  Since I've only been to my OB/GYN in the last seven years...and that office is OBSESSED with weight, I was pleasantly surprised that I didn't have to try and strip off a lot of stuff without notice.  She asked me a couple questions, took my temp  (because when you have hand pain, a general fever is the first place you look?)  and mentioned that I was lucky, I was still young enough to have my period.  (Um, thanks...I think?)

Then the doctor came in.  Now I haven't seen in this guy in 7 years.  I once called for an appointment and couldn't remember his name, so I said  "The good looking doctor," and they knew immediately who I meant.  As he walked in all I could think was, "When did Dudley Moore get a Mike Brady perm and a doctor's degree?"

Take a pound of Aleve and don't call me in the morning.  Dr. Animal will have your x-ray results eventually...that'll be a $30 copay.  Thanks.

Seriously, the years haven't exactly turned me into a pageant winner, (Though I have been known to collect that $10 beauty pageant prize in Monopoly again and again in a single game!)  but when did this guy get old, short, and fat?  (I just got fat, for the record!)

Okay, so Dudley, I mean the doctor, gropes my hands for a bit, makes some noises like he's thinking or something and sends me to x-ray.

Awesome.

Up to x-ray I go.  (for those of you who listen to Bob and Brian, this is the part where Brian says, "and then I go on up the stairs and have to go back down the stairs....."  or something like that.  In my head it's hysterical.)

After getting my very sore hands and thumbs groped by a very nice radiologist  (I asked, since I was there, could I get a two-for and have my mammogram done on the spot?  I almost had her convinced.  Alas, that will be fodder for another post....) I returned to the doctors office.

They called me in right away, angering the old couple sitting in the waiting room.  "WE WERE HERE FIRST" the old man shouted.  The nurse glared at him and said, "She's a return.  Sit still, you're next."

Ah, I love being the center of controversy!

I went back to the exam room.  After a few moments, the doctor returned, made a few more noises and said, "Well, we won't really know until the radiologist comes back with the results."

Wait...what?

What exactly did I just carry up a flight of stairs and across a clinic?  I thought it was x-rays.  Wouldn't that, and your MEDICAL DEGREE pretty much BE THE RESULTS???????????

"So what are you taking for the pain?"

Truthfully, a cocktail of Aleve, Tylenol PM, and tequila.  But I didn't share that with him.  "Aleve."

"Okay, well, I'll give you a prescription for Naxaproxin..."

Are you all thinking what I'm thinking?  He's writing me a scrip....FOR ALEVE!

"This will be stronger."

You mean, stronger than, say, taking MORE ALEVE?

"Here you go."

Oh good.  I'm going to the pharmacy to get a big bottle of ALEVE.  And the pharmacist will patiently tell me how to take it and then LAUGH AT ME as I walk away...walking past a row of HUGE BOTTLES OF ALEVE that are roughly half the price of the bottle I just bought.

Oh but meanwhile, we'll wait for the results of my x-rays.  And, since I spent 20 minutes filling out very long forms that say it's okay to leave a message on my phone, I should be hearing from them anytime.

THANKS, DOC.  YOU'VE BEEN ALMOST NO HELP AT ALL!

I will say this, my day took a big turn for the better after the appointment.  I stopped by Gold's Gym to meet with young....let's call him Reese, he of the "Screw you fee" fame.  See, I wanted to add Skippy to our family membership.  My best guess is Skippy met a girl and now wants to get back into better shape.  To do that he must first leave his lair in the basement.  So I met with Young Reese to get that done. Yesterday, when I set up the appointment with him, he reminded me of my less than tactful term for the processing fee.

And today when I went in and asked for him, "Naturally Balding Mark" as he likes to be called in this blog, said, "Really?  You want Young Reese?"

I swear to you, everyone at the front desk stopped and stared.  "Sarah wants to see Young Reese" They all murmured amongst themselves, with a mixture of awe and fear.

Maybe I'm exaggerating a tiny bit.  Still, the rumor at Gold's is that Young Reese is afraid of me because of my less than tactful term for the processing fee.  I am happy to say that my meeting with him was the high point of my day.  I got Skippy on my membership and it didn't cost an arm or a leg, though I would have willingly cut off a bit of gut fat for the cause.

So now I'm home.  I'm loaded up on Aleve because I haven't been to the pharmacy yet.  (I'll jump right on that.)  Oh, and better news, my rash is back.  So I've got that going for me.

But I made friends with Young Reese and gave money to a completely worthless medical professional.  So the day wasn't a complete loss.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Redefining the term "business casual."

Good afternoon!

It started out simply enough.  At some point last week I ate or came into contact with something that simply did not agree with my very delicate nature.  By Friday I had the start of a really awesome skin rage happening.  By Saturday I was layering topical anti itch creams.  That only seemed to anger the rash.  I call it a rash, but that's really an understatement.  What was going on with the skin on my chest from shoulder to should and all around my neck was really more of a hostile takeover of some really greedy invisible flesh annoying aliens.  After I scratched my neck bloody, I contacted a friend of mine, we'll call her Keri, who has some experience with the pain of random skin itch.

She suggested Witch Hazel.

Yes, they do still sell it, and I'm here to tell you, it's the magical elixir of peace.  I may carry that with me everywhere I go.  It doesn't smell too bad, plus it returned my skin to its normal sort of pale look that most Wisconsin folks have this time of year.

Anyway, I'm telling you all that to tell you this:  Since I was still painfully...rashy...on Monday, I figured I'd only wear soft clothes, something that didn't irritate my skin further.  Now, since I work alone pretty much in an office, we're pretty casual.  I've worn jeans to work every day for the last almost five years.  I love it!  I tend to wear T's, but I also put on casual tops if I know some one's coming in or I'm going someplace after work.  Business casual....very, very casual it is.

However, on Monday I had my usual winter skin on my legs, which is something I deal with every year when it gets as cold as it does up here.  My skin dries out and because I'm sensitive to most lotions, anything I put on my skin generally irritates it further.  Ah, it's awesome being me!  So, with a nice soft T in hand, I decided to just be comfy, since no one else was coming in, and put on the sweat pants.

Okay, they were Dee's sweatpants.  She handed several pairs down to me because I happen to have a thing about sweats...I look lumpy in sweatpants.  BUT, since I've been hitting the gym, and since it's winter, and since I'm NOT showing off my fantastic alligator skin to the general population  (Water aerobics classes of course have no choice!)  I have need to wear sweats.  I am happy to announce that I've lost enough weight to fit into Dee's fat clothes!  YAY ME!

Obviously someone who is wearing deodorant!
So Monday I put on the sweatpants  and head to work.  Wouldn't ya know it...Bossman shows up!  (Don't get me started.)  This is a guy who likes to comment all things me.  My weight, what I ate  (yes, he goes through my garbage) and what I'm wearing.  Every time I see him.   While that could erode some people's self esteem, I'm delighted to say it has no effect on me because I have NO self esteem to begin with.  What was weird about Monday, however, is that for the four hours he sat in my office with me  (My office is roughly the size of a couch.  Now put two people in there at a desk, and make sure one of the ISN'T wearing any deodorant.  I won't say who, but I will say this:  I haven't forgotten to put on deo since an ill fated camping trip about twelve years ago.  Someone told me deo attracts mosquitoes, so I went without for a couple of days.  The mosquitoes didn't leave me alone, but my fellow campers did!)  he never mentioned the fact that I was wearing sweats.

I figured that he figured I was on my way to Gold's after work.  Which would have been a GREAT idea had I actually done that.  But after spending four hours in a tiny room with his non deodorant wearing self doing tax stuff that really should have been done all year, but now that the deadline is...you know in a couple days, we have to do a year's worth of receipts, credit card bills, EFT transactions...all in one day.  Yes, after four hours of that, I simply could not face the gym.  Besides, I'm so deep into the plot of my newest work in progress, I had to go home and WRITE!

BUT, that gave me an idea for Tuesday.  I would wear gym clothes to work and then go to the gym after work.

Which would have worked, had I not forgotten about a meeting I had at church.  A very important meeting because, well I was running it.

So I had to rush home and CHANGE into something presentable for the meeting.

Undaunted in my new found slovenly wardrobe, I'm now happy to say that I'm still in sweats.  Day three!  My rash is gone, I am going to the gym, but not until after I stop at home, so I really have no reason to be wearing the sweats.  I like to tell myself that if I'm dressed in sporty clothes, I'll feel more like doing sporty stuff at work...like running up the stairs instead of taking the elevator.  (Yeah...I did that one time.  Then I remembered, Homey don't run.)  I do jog in place while riding the elevator, so that's got to count for something, right? 

I haven't lost my entire sense of personal hygiene, however.  I'm still wearing eyeliner  (I haven't gone out in public without eyeliner since the first day I put in on, some thirty years ago.  When I gave birth to Peaches I took two things to the hospital...a toothbrush and eyeliner.  I used the eyeliner.)  and I've got earrings on.  This is, after all, a place of business!

I wanted to pass this on to those who are wondering:  Yes, I do have an appointment set up for my hands.  Tomorrow I see a doctor and hopefully he'll either tell me I need a month off someplace nice like...Nashville...and my boss has to pay for it, OR he'll give me some really exceptional pain killers and call it a day.  I'm blocking the third option right out of my head!  But yes, I am going to see a doctor.  I'd like to not have to wear the brace anymore!

Hey, ya know what doesn't itch or smell funky?  A copy of my romantic comedy:  Dream in Color Digital!  Download it to your reader dealie do and enjoy! 

Saturday, January 22, 2011

If Oprah was our best friend, I bet we could get this show on the air!

Hello everyone!



So last night I was at my friend Marie's house.  This is our monthly girl's night out.  I leave work early, get to her house, we have an amazing dinner out, hit a movie, or watch one at her place, and drink copious amounts of lovely pink wine.  Then, in the morning, we drink copious amounts of lovely coffee and head on over to our Mad City Romance Writers meeting.

When we get together, Marie and I discuss a lot of topics.  I knew the Golden Globes would be on the docket especially since the Hollywood Foreign Press was so kind as to feature many, of our favorite stars.  (Jeremy Irons, Robert Downey Jr., Bruce Willis, Christian Bale, and the list of yum goes on and on.)  But our conversations, while we sit on her couch and drink wine don't just stop at listing the men we love to love.  Last night we talked about assisted suicide, weight loss, health issues, treadmills, and marriage.  All with episodes of the Golden Girls playing in the background.

I'm not sure which glass of wine was, possibly the fourth, when we decided that we were brilliant and that our couch discussions should be MUST be a new TV show.  Hey, we're easily as entertaining as  someone who has four dozen cats in their house or someone who can't throw away their stack of newspapers dating back to 1977.  And those shows do okay.

We poured another round and laid out the plan for our brilliant new talk show.  We figured, now that Oprah has commandeered our favorite TV channel, Discovery Health  (We hate her for that...now we can't watch "Inside Brookhaven Clinic (For the morbidly obese)" or "Dr. G"  That was our FEEL GOOD TELEVISION!)  there's a great gaping hole in daytime network TV.  Thusly, we came up with the idea for this:

Marie, Sarah, and Three Glasses of Franzia

Just like real wine, but in a spill proof box!

We decided on three as a limit because frankly, after three we just get silly.  Anyway, it would be a talk show format, with us as the hostesses.  We'd discuss the events of the day, and drink a glass of wine.  Then we'd have regular segments called "People we hate and why we hate them" or maybe "How Martha Stewart made us feel incompetent and inadequate in every way." 


Is anyone else disturbed by this image?  We've got the very delicious, the truly annoying, and the turkey being mauled.

We'd drink another glass of wine.

As we poured the third glass, we'd introduce our guest.  This guest would be one of our favorite actors/celebrities.  Maybe we'd ask them questions, although if my personal history is any indication of how that would go, if we had Rick Springfield on I would simply sit there and stare and mumble something only understood on Mars.  Marie would have to ask the questions.

  We'd have to have Melissa Leo on, she of the Golden Globes who received her GG from Jeremy Irons, who then kissed her.  (Take a look at the You Tube clip...it's fun!) Hers was a squeal of delight that my friend Marie shared.  (Although now Marie affectionately  calls her "Melissa Leo, Lucky Bitch.")

And the Golden Globe for best talk show in this or any other Univerise goes to....Marie and Sarah!  Of course, I will only be kissing Marie.  Just thought you should know.  However, Sarah, if you're interested, I understand that Rick Springfield is performing some place nearby, perhaps I could send a car for him to come here and kiss you.  That would be, of course, the gentlemanly thing to do.

Anyway the guest segment could be titled, "Why do we love you?"  I don't know where the conversations would go, what topics we could touch on, but the segment would always, ALWAYS end with "Thank you for having me on Ladies.  I love you."  (Just thinking about Russell Crowe saying that gives me the shivers.)


"Would you not be entertained?  WOULD YOU NOT BE ENTERTAINED?"

And we finish the third glass of wine.

My guess is we'd pull in at least as many viewers as "The Doctors."  Seriously, we may not be able to tell you why your neck itches  (mine does, so if anyone out there has the cure, that would be really awesome by the way) but wouldn't just be much for fun to watch two semi soused middle aged women lambaste the planet and then stare in awe at their TV and movie idols?


Well, you KNOW if Oprah was our best friend, we'd at least have a shot!

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

7 minutes of heaven every year...except for elderly old me.

Good morning!

So, let me start with a warning:  Today's post is of a very graphic, FEMALE NATURE.  My younger readers and any MALE READERS  (Todd...)  might want to skip today and reread the very nice pony story.

If you insist on continuing...just remember, you were warned!


So yesterday was my fun annual checkup.  Now, when I say annual checkup, most of you know I'm not referring to a simply physical.  Women don't do simple physicals.  The vast majority of women I know haven't seen an internist in years.  Why?  Because when it comes to women's health, we don't bother with most of the body.  It's all about the lady parts, and we have very special doctors for that! 

Seriously, show of hands, how many of you ladies out there have been to a doctor OTHER THAN an OB/GYN or Pediatrician  (because if you're like, you're pretty good at slipping in your own illnesses when you're in with your kids) in the last five years?  See?  We don't bother with the regular doctors because, at least in this country, it's all about specialists anyway.  Internal med docs are sort of like the gatekeepers to the real doctors.  (And if you're an internal med doc, don't yell at me.  When I used to do annual physicals, if something was remotely out of the ordinary, I'd get sent to a different doctor.  Sure, I paid you an office fee, but really, other than saying, "Hmmm, I don't specialize in anything, and you seem to have something...so let's send you to someone else.  That'll be $90 please.)

But I digress.

One thing you have to know before we move on is that I insist on having a male gyno doc.  When I was sixteen, and then again when I was 22, I visited my mother's gyno, a female who had all the empathy of a 17 year old boy.  She jammed the speculum in and when I yelped  (the only two times in my life that I yelped) she looked at me balefully  (it's a word) and said, "Oh, does that hurt?"

No of course not.  I yelp all the time when someone is jamming an ice cold metal rod into my...well, whatever. 

So after those two experiences, I decided that men have far more respect for the equipment, since they don't have it and therefore haven't a clue what's painful and what's not.  Therefore they are far more gentle.

I should also mention that I ADORED the OB/GYN who delivered my two kids, did all my annual checkups for 14 years, got me "fixed" (was I broken?) when we all decided I was a lousy pregnant woman  (Raging puking maniac is an apt description) and diagnosed me for all sorts of general illnesses.  (Again, who needs an internal doc?)    He would still be my doctor now except, due to the darker side of the OB/Gyn practices, and the fact that Wisconsin as a state seems to be hell bent on shooing every doctor out of the state, he is no longer practicing in the state.

So the guy I'm going to now is okay.  He's older, got that "aw shucks" sort of approach to checkups, and doesn't hound me about my weight.  In short, we are brilliant together for the 7 minutes I see him every year.

Yesterday was my annual check under the hood.  (and by under the hood, you know I mean "Under the sheet."  And by sheet I mean, tiny piece of paper designed to cover NOTHING.)

My approach to these appointments has evolved over the years.  Back when I was younger, I would schedule the appointment for very early in the morning. I would shower, shave everything that would be visible  (which means EVERYTHING!) and make sure I was extra, extra clean...down there.  I made sure I had my prettiest underwear on.  Once at the office, I would go to the restroom to do one last cleaning...down there.  I was fresh as a daisy, and almost as hairless.

That was twenty years and two children ago.

Yesterday I was standing in the shower, looking at my legs and thinking, "He's only looking at me for 7 minutes.  there have to be hairier women than I am..."

Oh, and the appointment was at 4.  I flew right from work into the office.  I couldn't even tell you where the restroom is in his office.  Seriously, it's 7 minutes.  Why make a huge effort?  Or any effort, really?  For what I'm paying, he should shave his body hair and maybe read some poetry or something...

Every appointment starts out the same way:  Fill out the forms, hand over a $30 co pay, sit down and read old editions of People Magazine until they call your name.  I do appreciate the fact that his office is in the hospital which means, even if he's called away for a "procedure"  (I guess that's what they're calling baby birthing now) he's back in a jiff and is generally on time.  Even so, I can schedule things for 10 minutes after my appointment because...it's only 7 minutes.

The nurse called me in for the preliminary fun stuff.  You know, weight, height the humiliating stuff they do just to make sure you get the most humiliation bang for your buck.  (For the record...My weight and height are what I told KRAM most recently...can't lie to the Doctor anymore than I can lie to a personal trainer!)  Then we do the reading of the forms I just filled out and the blood pressure.



Maybe we could bypass the weigh in and save everyone the cost of part of that office visit?

Just a thought.

So the nurse rereads the form I filled out and took my blood pressure.  (I have magically low and healthy blood pressure.  In fact, the ONLY internal health problem I have is that I'm FAT.)  She hands me the paper sheet  (which has gotten smaller by the way, since last year.  If we MUST make budget cuts, does it have to be in the size of the paper sheet?)

"Remove everything from the waist down, and unhook your bra.  Wrap this around you. He'll be in in a minute."

Let's dissect what' wrong with this sentence.

1)  I'm wearing a wrist brace.  Any clothing removal is going to involve removing the brace which means I will need more time than a MINUTE to remove 2/3 of my clothing plus a wrist brace, doing so with a very tender wrist.

2)  WRAP THIS AROUND ME?  you've just handed me a piece of paper roughly the width of a piece of notebook paper, only about twice as long as said paper, and just as translucent.  Really, which ankle will I be covering with this?

So, I go through the process of remove brace, remove clothes, put brace back on, pick up piece of paper, hop up on the table, drape paper as delicately as I can so that those walking into the office get a minimal view of my nakedness.  As I sit there, I hear music.  At first I think it's my iPod playing from the depths of my purse, because sometimes it turns itself on in my purse.  (I should mention that I'm convinced I've got an entire miniature world living in my purse.  Some small alien community is constantly hiding my drivers license.)

I'm not about to scooch off the table because then I'll tear the paper towel and lose what little coverage I have.  But, listening more closely, I realize that it's not my iPod.  Yes, they are actually piping Pat Benatar's "Treat me Right" into the exam room.  Seriously?  I thought was hearing things because, honestly, what could be more appropriate for a gynecological exam room, than a song "Treat me Right?"

Sort of made me wonder if I should ask for dinner after.  You know, that much nakedness should at least involve drinks...

The door opened and there was the doc, dressed as he always is in surgical scrubs and penny loafers.  Sometimes I don't even have to think too hard to find funny stuff.  Seriously.  Scrubs and penny loafers?  That's the hot new fashion for docs?

We made some small chit chat, which began with, "What's wrong with your wrist?"  and ended with "I'm not that kind of doctor."



Yes, but you do have a medical diploma right?  One would think you at least touched on wrists at some point.

"Oh, but you should see what they're doing with carpel tunnel surgeries now.  Hardly any scar!"

They?  Who is they?  Doctors?  Aren't you a doctor and therefore part of THEY?  And are you saying that I have carpel tunnel?  Because I don't have time for another doctors appointment, much less a surgery, scar or no scar!

But then we moved on to the rereading of the form I filled out.  Yep, again.  Hey, they have to justify charging for the office visits, so they have to stretch the time I'm in there.  That way it's only $2, way less than, you know, phone sex numbers!  (Nudity however, is real as opposed to assumed.)

Then it's scooching time.  "Go ahead and scooch to the end of the table."

have I mentioned that it this point I'm naked from the waist down, there's a paper sheet beneath me and one draped over me.  Scooching will involve on thing:  tearing of paper. 

"Now my hands are cold, so I'm sorry for that."

I should mention I have the only doctor on the planet with hot hands.  Really.  I don't know if he microwaves them or what, but it almost feels like a cattle brand...or like the time a different doctor accidentally knocked his lamp into my inner thigh and gave me a burn I haven't yet forgotten.

One thing that's great about male doctors in this department is they tell you exactly what they're doing...like the worst porn movie ever, maybe.  "I'm inserting the speculum now.  You'll feel some pressure.  Now I'm feeling your uterus..."

At some point I zoned out, still singing the song "Treat me Right" in my head.

For those of you not aware of what goes on in the special 7 minute appointment, I mean beyond the breast groping and the pointing hot lamps at your lady parts while you lie on a paper sheet with your legs dangling to the sides is they insert a long Q-tip type thing into your Love Canal and scrape your personal internal goo.  That goo is then treated pretty much like the Ark of the Covenant  (DON"T LET IT DROP ON THE GROUND!  DON'T TOUCH IT!  IT IS SACRED!)  because, as we all know, women only make a very limited amount of internal goo, and that goo is put in a special container and whisked off to the lab where people I've never met do scientific experiments and ritual dances around my jar of goo.

After my doctor extracted the goo from my secret cave and deposited it in the Ark...I mean container, he allowed me to put my legs back together (Isn't he the gentleman?) and scooch back up.  Now, scooching down is way easier that scooching up, because well, stuff slides down more easily.  But, he watched with great amusement as I, half naked and without the proper use of one hand, scooched up on the paper sheet.

Then we discussed how often I should come in for Paps.  He says, and I quote, "Old women do not have to have a PAP done more than once every couple years, according to new studies.  And once you're over 65, you never have to have one again."

I digested this happy nugget for a moment and realized something, "Did you just call me old?"

"Well no, " said the kindly doctor who had just gone where virtually no one else has gone before.  "Although if you were pregnant, we'd call you elderly---"  and then he used some medical term I don't recall because I was very busy absorbing the fact that he'd just called me elderly.

"Any other questions?"

"Yes," says I," what can you do about my wrist?"

"I'm not that kind of doctor.  You should probably see an internist."

Yeah, I'm jumping right on that.

"Oh, and don't forget, you have to schedule your mammogram for the next month," he says as he departs. 

Ah yes, the only thing more humiliating and annoying...the act of pressing my girls into a vice as a tiny tech dances around me, telling me not to breath...or howl in pain.  Can't wait to schedule that.

On my way out, I did what I always do.  I walked into someone else's exam room. 

I should have been embarrassed, but frankly, it's not my fault.  The EXIT sign is exactly between the exam room and the actual exit.  How many of you would make the same mistake? 

At least this time, there wasn't anyone in the exam room...

Hey you know what DOESN'T leave you feeling gooey and violated?  A copy of my romantic comedy, Dream in Color!

Saturday, January 15, 2011

A story from my childhood: In the battle of wits...the pony wins!

Good Saturday morning!

I know, I don't generally post on the weekends, but the Green Bay Packers play a HUGE playoff game at 7 pm my time tonight and I'm doing everything I can to take my mind off of the game.  If I don't we all know I'll spend the entire day in front of the TV, eating cheese puffs and drinking Vernor's.  While that sounds like a BLAST, I'm moderately certain KRAM would not be pleased.

So today I'm going to share with you a little tale from my younger years.  Before I go any further, I should share these two things with you:

1)  I love, love love horses.  Love them.  There are days I would trade my children for a horse.  There are days I would trade my husband for a horse. 

2)  I am not now, nor have I EVER been "cool."  That has not, however, stopped me from attempting to appear "cool."

That said, please read on.

I believe I was eight or nine the summer we went to visit my mother's cousins, the Boehlkes  (pronounced Bill Key) in eastern Wisconsin.  A city girl from the industrial eastern Michigan, I was very eager to meet my farm raised second cousins who, my mother reported, own enough property that a herd of wild horses roamed free on their land.  In my head I was the one person who could capture and tame the wildest of all the wild horses on the Boehlke place, a rogue stallion that was more beautiful than the sun and ran like the wind.  He would only come to me and I was the only human who...
See?  See how good I am with horses?

Oh, sorry.  See, even at 8 or 9 I had a creative mind.  That and I read every horse themed book available to me.

Anyway, the day before we were to visit, we spent some time at my friend Kelly's house.  Now Kelly was the luckiest of all girls:  She lived on a farm in the middle of a sort of city type area.  And, KELLY HAD HORSES! 

She had three horses, a big bay named Jane, whose job was to pull the surrey Kelly's dad built.  Jane wasn't a riding horse.  I remember Jane's name all these years because, well, Jane stepped on me once when I was standing a bit too close behind her.  Kelly, or rather, Kelly's parents, had two riding horses, palominos, but I don't recall their names.

The day before we went to my cousin's farm in Wisconsin, we spent time actually riding Kelly's horses.  I know I'd been on a horse before this, but not often, and certainly not on a horse this size.  (I seem to recall riding those sad ponies at fairs, you know the ones chain to a post and their go around in circles.  I was also a master of riding the mechanical horses in front of the Kmart in town.  I could stay on that one for the entire nickel's worth of time.)

After mastering the art of riding a full sized horse around Kelly's back yard, I was ready, I thought, to meet the rogue stallion of my dreams.

For a city girl, the Boehlke farm was a magical place.  It smelled wonderful, the animals were beautiful, and I was giddy out of my stupid little head to show off my cool riding skills.  The adults went riding on life size horses first.  I remember this because one of my mom's cousins, Ellen, rode a horse who decided it was roll time as they crossed a creek.  Ellen returned to the barn soaking wet and covered in mud.  I thought she was the coolest person EVER!

Then it was the kids' turn.  There were probably seven of us, Boehlke kids, Buch kids, and, well, two Schultz kids.  My brother, the younger Schultz, had zero interest in riding anything, he wanted to chase the chickens.  But I....I had to be FIRST!

See, one of the Buch cousins was my very best friend cousin, let's call her Leah.  Leah is nine months older than I am, and has an older brother which means she learned about life and stuff way before I did.  She got to wear two piece swim suits while I had to where a one piece with a stupid little skirt.  (OF course, now I wear one with a skirt anyway, to cover the fat, but back then I was SKINNY, and I could have pulled off a two piece!)  My life's goal when I was little was to be as cool as Leah.

And that day, in the driveway of my cousins' farm, waiting to ride their pony Daisy, I knew, I KNEW I would be as cool as Leah.  Why?  Because Leah had never ridden a horse of any size all on her own!  YES!  This was my shining moment to be cool.  BE cool in front of Leah, be cool in front of the Boehlke kids who were, in my estimation, at a level of cool I had never experienced before.

So they brought out the pony, Daisy.  Daisy was roughly the size of a large dog.  I was so ready to dominate Daisy, this was going to be fantastic!

My mother has video of this moment.  I just thought I should share that.  There's no sound, of course, but you can read my lips pretty much the whole time.

I mounted the stead, on my own, might I add, and away I went.  I knew how to stop the pony, how to turn the pony, how to make the pony trot a little.

What I didn't know was how to make the pony like me enough to tolerate me for the entire time I was on her back.  She tolerated me  for exactly three minutes.  Then it was time to get the city kid off her back.

After the first three minutes Daisy decided to head for home,  but instead of turning around and coming back up the driveway, she trotted up the hill a little to the yard at the side of the house...the yard, where clotheslines stretched all the way across.

No amount of pulling on the reigns or yelling WHOA was going to stop Daisy from what she wanted to do and the whole concept of me controlling this mini version of a real horse went right out the window.  This ride had become a battle of wits for survival.

Daisy was headed for the clotheslines, and I knew she wanted to kill me.  As we approached, I ducked low over her neck.  And guess what?  I wasn't beheaded!  From the yard below, the cousins cheered.  I thought they were cheering for me...so...I sat up and waved.

And promptly got a clothesline right across the neck.

Se, you have to duck under ALL the clotheslines if you want to remain cool.

I am happy to say I didn't fall off the pony.  She ambled down the hill back to the driveway, where I dismounted.  My mother's video shows little me, stomping away from the pony, then turning, and shaking my fist at the pony.

Oh, and I found out later, the cousins were actually sort of cheering for the pony.

In the end, I learned two things that day.

1)  I am not, nor will I ever be cool, and it's pointless to try.

2)  Ponies are not horses.  They are evil death monsters put on this earth by some evil planet's overlord to murder us all.

Years later, at a wedding, because all Boehlke weddings are held at the farm, (It's THE BEST PLACE for a wedding, because everything you could ever want for a reception is all right there.)  I saw Daisy.  I was a teenager, hopelessly uncool, but totally okay with it.  Daisy was old.  She was grazing behind the house, and she looked old, and very small.  We stared at each other for a moment.  "I still hate ponies,"  I whispered.

I think she smiled.



Now friends, you know I give most of the real people in my blog fake names.  This time I'm giving you a real name, because I'm so excited!  One of those Boehlke cousins, Andrea, is going to be on the next installment of the TV Show Survivor!  Andrea is 21, the daughter of one of my mom's favorite cousins, Royal Boehlke, and I just know she is going to do us proud!  So check out Survivor when airs again, and cheer for Andrea Boehlke!

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

The worst thing a child can do is lie...the worst thing a fat person can do is lie to a personal trainer.

Good morning!

I've always told my kids that the worst thing a child can do is lie, because it hurts the relationship they have with the person they lie to.  Of course, that dedication to honesty doesn't always spill over into adults' relationships.  Face it, we lie to each other every day.  And on that happy note, I give you this:

Yesterday I enjoyed my personal training session that was included in my fee for joining Gold's 12 Week Body Challenge.  I got to meet with KRAM, the same personal trainer who got me restarted on my membership.  I discovered two things about personal trainers.

1)  They believe you're telling them the truth when you tell them what you weigh.

2)  The worst thing in the world is to lie about your weight to your personal trainer.

And I learned something about myself:

1)  I lie about my weight, even when I think I'm telling the truth.

Here's how this got started.  Back in August I met with KRAM and we did the whole, "Where do you want to be, what are your goals" bit that personal trainers are supposed to do.  He asked me my weight.  I gave him a number.  It wasn't completely a lie because at some point in my life I weighed that, obviously, because I had to pass that number to reach the number I was currently at.

And it never occurred to me that he would ever ask me the question again, since I haven't sold enough copies of Dream in Color to pay for actual personal training sessions.

So yesterday we sat down and I was very proud of the fact that I'd lost 16 pounds.  (Of course, I'd gained a couple back over last week, so I was actually at a -14 from my starting weight since, um, October.)  Then he showed me my stats from August...and I deflated.  According to HIS stats I'd only lost two pounds. 

So instead of just letting it go, I informed him that I'd lied about my real weight, that I'd lost as much as 16 pounds, and that I had done it pretty much on my own, thank you, and I'd done it since I got serious back in October.

Kram was not impressed.  Apparently lying to a personal trainer is pretty bad.  He gave me a stern look.  (I think it was a stern look. He's such a good guy, it's hard to believe he'd ever get really angry.  Of course, he isn't a parent...yet.  His wife is expecting, and I'm sure once that blessing enters his life, he'll learn the joys of explosive, uncontrollable shouting brought on by sleep deprivation and never having the answer to every why question that little bundle will ask.  But I digress.)  Anyway, he whipped open my chart.  (He KEPT A CHART ON ME?)  And said, "are you still 5'5"?

Well, sure.  I'm mean, I'm not going to lie about my HEIGHT!  How would that benefit me?

Oh wait, the whole height, weight ratio.  Yeah, I've probably lied about my height before.  But seriously, I'm not that tall.  It's not like I can tell him I'm 5'10" and get away with it.  (Of course, the Wii is different...)

I'm OUT OF CONTROL with this lying!

Once we had all my stats back in line, which involved a weigh in, awesome.  He got me going on some cardio.

Now, we all know that I like to sit down on the recumbent elliptical in Cardio Cinema and pedal for about half an hour. 

Kram had other ideas.

First of all, it was the bright lights of the big room for me.  Second, there's NO SITTING in personal training!  Third,

YOU WILL GET ON THE STAIR MACHINE!

I've walked past that stair machine a bunch of times...and I've always thought it would look far better in a closet someplace because that puppy is scary looking, given my childhood experience with escalators.  (Another story for another day my friends.)

But KRAM was having none of my whining and on the stairs I went.  I'm proud to say I didn't fall off.  And I didn't beg for mercy.  At least not out loud.

After a solid work out, he sat me down and informed me how many calories I get to have each day, how much fat, how many carbs.  To quote one of my favorite movies, "Gladiator"

This is a pleasant fiction, is it not?



(On a side note, I'm starting to think "Gladiator" quotes are going to pop up more as I go through this body challenge.  Who knew there were so many training focused quotes from that movie?)


I told you that stair machine would kill!  No one is strong enough to beat the stair machine!
But seriously,  I got a lot out of that session, including a snack!  KRAM shared a mini rice cake with me.  Now how can I be angry at someone who shares snack food with me?  Okay, so I was on the elliptical in Cardio cinema  (mostly because he guilted me into it, I really wanted to go home and just sit in a hot shower while eating a bucket of chicken.)  killing a few minutes before I had to pick up Peaches.  And okay, so I didn't have a water bottle handy.  And yes, I did get a bit of rice cake caught in my throat.  But still, if someone shares food with me, I'm sort of like a hound dog.  Share food, and I'll follow you for life.  Even a mini rice cake!

BUT, Gold's giveth and Gold's taketh away.  I had such a positive experience last night and a good work out.  I got to work this morning, feeling all good about myself.  And there was an email from Gold's.  I opened it, and what do you know?  Apparently Gold's thinks I'm six months younger than I am!  They must, because it had my stats from my measurements on Saturday and everything else, including a waist measurement that still makes me laugh, was right.  So I'm six months younger!  And, in spite of what the email claimed, there was no picture!  SCORE!

And while I was still feeling good about myself...a second email from Gold's.  Oh I'm still 6 months younger according to them...but the before picture is ALL ME.

The thing about having a picture taken is, you can think you know what you look like, but face it, you don't know what you look like until you actually see yourself.  I'm thinking I'll just send the picture in to "Biggest Loser" and throw myself on the mercy of Bob and Jillian.

On a serious note, my friends, if you have the means, I truly suggest you try personal training.  I look at Dee all the time and her results are undeniable!  (She's horrified by her before picture as well, but at least she doesn't look like someone who needs to be cut out of their house and taken to Brookhaven clinic for the super obese!)  If you have access to a gym, join it. If you can meet with a trainer, do it.  And if you live in the Waukesha area, head over to Gold's and ask for Mark V.  When I win the $75K from this body challenge, I'm putting a big chunk of it in his back pocket for more training sessions.  And if I'm willing to share winnings I have no reasonable shot at getting  with him, you should be spending ACTUAL cash on him...you won't regret it.  Well, okay, you may not love the pain he puts you through, but you will see results!


If you do, tell him Sarah sent ya.  (Yes, I'm hoping I get a couple free sessions for referring people to him!  PITY SESSIONS!)

Sunday, January 9, 2011

I'm my own "before" Picture

Good morning all!

I'm taking this time between church and the next basketball game for which Peaches must cheer and the Packer game  (During which time I will be completely incommunicado....) to regale you with the tale of my "FAT PICTURE."  yesterday.

To recap for those of you who haven't been following:  My friend Dee convinced me to drop $35 and join Gold's "12 week body challenge."  Other than seeing the big posters around the gym, and having the guy at the desk  (whose name I did not catch and I do not want him to get into any trouble, so no, I'm not going to try and remember who it was) tell me a bunch of stuff about this challenge that are turning out to not be the case, I didn't have much of an idea what was going to happen.  But, hey, I like Dee, and if she tells me to pay $35 to someone, well, I'm going to do it.

The one thing, no matter whom I spoke to regarding this challenge, the ONE THING everyone was abundantly clear on was that I needed to have a "BEFORE" picture taken. And, oh you're going to like this, it had to be taken IN A TWO PIECE BATHING SUIT.

Failure to do so will disqualify me from winning first prize  (they weren't sure what that was when I signed up, but they knew it was going to be good...turns out, it's a truckload of CASH) so I had to go get myself a two piece outfit that was tight and revealed my belly.

Failure to own such an outfit did NOT disqualify me from paying the $35 to get into the challenge, however.  I'm just sayin'...

So I went to Kohl's, home of the world's most lenient return policy, and bought myself a pair of spandex shorts and a jog bra.  It should be noted that I have looked everywhere in stores and have yet to find a plus sized jog bra or exercise shorts.  Apparently exercise apparel designers have decided that fat women don't work out.  And should not be encouraged to work out by providing them with work out clothes that are comfortable.  No, they shout with their refusal to make a plus sized jog bra, YOU MUST WORK OUT IN YOUR UNDER WIRE BRAS.  Until you are thin, you must work out in a dark hole, where no one can see you, and you must wear clothes that are too tight, too small, or are men's clothes because we will NOT make any exercise clothing larger than XL.

I'll get off my sturdy soapbox now.

So I bought a two piece outfit at Kohl's thinking I'd wear it for the before picture, where it would look horrible, because it was and XL and I haven't bit properly into clothing on the normal ladies' side of the aisle in about five years. Five minutes for the before pic, five minutes for the after pic, 12 weeks hence, and I'd return it.

Walking out of Kohl's, Peaches said, "Did you try it on?"

"NO."

"Why not?"

"Because it's my before picture.  I'm supposed to look as fat as possible and these clothes will be way too small on me."

See, I had a plan.  Look horrifying in the before picture.  I practiced for DAYS on how to blow out my stomach and slouch so that I looked fatter than I already am.  I then spent a week eating like I haven't in ages, in an attempt to gain back some of the weight I already lost outside of the challenge.  Then I ate a lot of salty stuff and DIDN'T drink my water, so I'd bloat.  (For the record, Dee had the same plan, too.)

In short, I wanted my before picture to be the worst picture I've ever taken.

My plan was fool proof.  I thought.  Saturday dawned bright and cold and I yanked on my new exercise clothes, a two piece nightmare I purchased to make me look like whale blubber spilling out of a net.

But then I had it on...did I miss a memo?  Does XL in exercise apparel mean "Comfortable and almost flattering for the fluffier girl?"  the job bra not only wasn't too small...it fit...and it was comfortable and supportive.  And the shorts...THEY WERE DOWN RIGHT PRETTY!

WHAT THE WHAT?

Undaunted, I donned the heaviest jewelry I own, plus a watch, plus my wrist brace all in an attempt to add a bit of weight here and there.  I put on heavy socks and my heaviest sport shoes.  I was ready.

Measurements were in the Aqua Massage room at Gold's.  Funny, I don't even remember there being an aqua massage room.  Oh yeah, it's off the weight lifting room...no wonder...I'll give the trainers credit, they had a small space heater in there, which was nice.  Cookies would have been nicer, but I'll take what I can get when I'm standing half naked and being weighed and measured like a prize dairy cow.

Moo......

Because the trainers, I'll call them Jane and Doe and I'll let the two of them fight it out as to which is which, know Dee and me fairly well, they let us weight in together.  Dee went first.  Dee had a really spiffy two piece swimsuit...looked really nice on her.  Of course, everything looks nice on her, she's lost 35 pounds in the last few months and looks amazing!  They weighed her, measured her waist, hips and thighs.  Then they made her pose with a newspaper.

The challenge, Jane and Doe tell me, is based on weight loss, inches lost, and the overall change in your before and after picture. Hence, we have to keep the same clothes for both shots. (I'm a little concerned....my before clothes may fall off if I have any success!) While I can't fake a thigh measurement, I know I have a solid head start everywhere else if I just go back to the good habits I adopted that kept me from gaining weight over the holidays!





Yes, we were photographed with a news paper in hand, like some sort of hostages  showing a proof of life.  The only thing that would have made this unexpected delight more fun is if Russell Crowe had actually dropped down from the ceiling and rescued us.

"I must rescue Sarah from Gold's Aqua Massage room!"

Dee, it should be noted, was VERY unhappy with her weight.  Like all women, we fluctuate a bit now and then, and her weight had changed.  She gained a pound.  She wasn't unhappy because she gained a pound.  She was unhappy because she gained ONLY a pound.  (Did you not read the part where we've been working on bloating for a week?)

Now it was my turn.  I'm happy to say I gained TWO POUNDS for the weigh in.  So I've got that going for me.  I'm also a bit cheesed to admit that Jane and Doe made me remove my watch, my heavy socks, my shoes, and my wrist band.  grrrr.......

They could not beat me, however, at the stomach measurement.  I'd been practicing for this one!  I puffed out my belly so far, that I'm pretty sure I could just be measured right now and win the challenge based on loss of gut inches alone.

In posing for my hostage picture...I mean my before picture, I did everything they tell you to not do when you're trying to look thinner.  And, given the number of years I've been trying to look thin in pictures, I'm sort of a pro at doing the opposite of that.

I didn't see the shots, I'm sure I would be horrified if I did.  But let me tell you this, my friends, in 12 weeks I'll be taking the winning measurements and the winning picture and I'll take that bucket of cash and Dee is going to win the trip to Vegas.  And then she and I are going to go to Vegas and hit ALL THE BUFFETS!

Hmmmmm....maybe I don't have the right mind set just yet.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Two workouts in one!

Hello and Happy New Year everyone!

Wow!  It's great to be back!  I had to take a break, but in the time I spent away from you all...boy do I have some stories!  I was all set to share my Christmas story with you...but then something so much more hilarious happened last night that I had to share with you!

WARNING:  THIS BLOG ENTRY IS NOT SUITABLE FOR CONSUMPTION BY MALES AND YOUNG CHILDREN.  Reader discretion is advised!  GUYS...and you know who you are...IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH, DON'T READ TODAY'S ENTRY!


Now then, we can continue!

So last night I went back to my water aerobics class.  I don't know how long it's been since I did water aerobics, but it's been long enough that I forgot the hilarious humiliation of it all.  But, Dee was taking an hour off of work to do the class, the least I could do was join her.

To fully understand what went on last night (And, no I haven't shared this with Dee...mostly because this isn't exactly something you shout out loud in a pool full of women.) you have to understand that I'm from the generation of women who didn't go swimming while having their period.  Granted, I'm at the tail end of that generation...I'm NOT that old...but I was raised to be wary of the effectiveness of tampons in a pool setting.

So yesterday, I got the old monthly visitor a week early  (seriously, I'm 43 and haven't been on the baby train in 14 years.  Can we just have a predictable time of the month so I can avoid special moments like these?)  but I knew full well that I couldn't bail on Dee AGAIN when it came to water aerobics.  Besides, she and I are starting a new body challenge over at Gold's next week, and I had to get my blubber rolling...literally.  Anyway, I got Ms. Monthly yesterday morning and was very tempted to bail.  But I just bought a new box of "corks" as my mother called them.  Yes, I made my monthly pilgrimage to the the Feminine protection aisle, and spent 20 minutes looking for products that would work.  You'd think by now I'd just be able to walk up to the shelf and get what I always get, but since there seems to be new developments in protection every single MONTH  (who knew there were so many developments available to a product that is basically a glorified cotton ball?) it takes me a good long time to find just what I'm looking for.  I am happy to announce that I'm currently enjoying a TEMPERATURE CONTROLLED pad.  Of course, it doesn't stop leakage when I get up from a prone position, what protective pad actually does THAT, but it does stay the same temperature down there, which, I guess is vital since this product now costs an extra $2 for 2 fewer pads.  (You have to love progress!)

Anyway, I picked up what I needed, plus a variety pack of "corks."  Okay, let's talk about variety packs. Ladies, we know we are all different sizes internally speaking, so the need for sizes of these scientifically enhanced cotton balls is very real.  But someone explain to me the "Variety pack."  I mean, it's not like I have "skinny days" when it comes to that particular part of my body.  Flows may come and flows may go, but the size of the aqua duct is staying the same.  Right?


As long as I don't get the one with walnuts...

Well, anyway, I managed to load myself with the Variety pack.  I had Supers, Regulars, and Lights.

In readying myself for the pool, I studied my day one issue and decided I really didn't need a super.  I wasn't quite at that fun "chum spewing" level.  I held up a light and a regular and wondered, aloud of course because it's not funny if it isn't said aloud, what 6 year old was wearing the lights.  Seriously, those were smaller than my little finger.  When we run out of Q-tips, those will come in very handy!

Not that the Regular was much bigger, but, well, I figured it would be okay.

Then I got into the pool.

I'd forgotten a couple of things about water aerobics. 

1)  It's really a physical work out.

2) You spend a lot of time with your legs spread out in a wide stance.

I'm not sure exactly when I started thinking about it, but not long into the workout I became very conscious of the fact that there was a very real possibility that the cork I'd selected to close the issue from my aqua duct was not only not going to be sufficient, but might, with all the stretching and stepping and kicking, actually...FALL OUT.

Oh, and did I mention I was wearing my very girlie swim suit and NOT the heavy duty super elastic suit?  Yeah, anything falling out was doing to definitely make and appearance!

Can I get an "EW GROSS" from the male readers I KNOW are still hanging around?

The good news is that it was a good time for me to do my Kegel exercises.  After two kids, I rarely even think about Kegel exercises, except when I hear it as a punchline for a joke about workouts.  (And if you don't know what I'm talking about you either haven't had kids or your a man.)  So, while trying to keep up (and failing) with the 60 + ladies in my water aerobics class (those women are PROS!) I was also clenching really hard to keep that tiny sliver of cotton and sting right where it was supposed to stay.

I was super focused until we started using the noodles  (you know my history with the noodles...I fail!) and the girls behind me, the girls who were there for the first time and were younger than I am....WOW!...started falling off the noodles!  The joy I felt at realizing I'm not the only who cannot "surf" on a noodle caused me to relax my muscles....all of them.

NO  DON'T RELAX THOSE MUSCLES!

I felt a slippage, but was able to avert certain disaster and for the rest of the hour I remained clenched.

Today I'm a bit sore.  My legs ache a bit...and of course my Kegels are tired from the workout!  But that's to be expected, I suppose.  It has been some time since I did water aerobics...or wore anything marked "regular."

Guess which one I won't be doing again?

Happy New Year my friends!  (And Todd?  You can uncover your eyes now, my friend!)

Ya know what doesn't involve Kegel exercises?  Reading my book, Dream in Color

The difference between a Meijer employee and a heart attack? Not much.

Good afternoon everyone and Happy Holidays! When I was little I lived in Michigan, home to a wonderful store called Meijer's Thrif...