Cold Sores and Dry Shampoo

It began innocently enough.  A minor itch.  A slight twinge.  A little tingle.  I started to fret.  But maybe it wouldn’t happen this time.  After all, I had gotten through other bouts of illness without developing one—maybe this would be one of those times.  

 

Dream on. 

 

It was not to be.  At work, I felt the no-mistaking-it tingle heralding the new arrival, and a look in my compact mirror confirmed what I already knew:  I was witnessing the birth of the world’s worst cold sore.  

 

Fever Blister.  Herpes simplex.  It all sounds different to the ear but in the end, they are all the same—a gigantic cootie cluster on my lower lip, half an inch from dead center.

 

Maybe it wasn’t so much a birth as a coming home, however.  After all, the only place I ever, ever get cold sores is in that very same spot.  Same lip.  Every time.  What skeeves me out even more is the fact that despite my OCD antibacterial hand gel application efforts, despite wiping every touchable hard surface at home and at work with antibacterial wipes, despite bathing in Lysol and gargling with bleach, I got one anyway.  

 

Remembering backward, I realized that I had seen a coworker sporting a fever blister a week or two before.  The "ewww" factor has been racketed up a notch.

 

Typically, the day before the spot actually makes its debut there is also quite a bit of pain, especially on the Chris Cacciatore unique pain scale.  I'm not saying I'm a big baby but even a hangnail will wake me up at night.  Throw a cold sore at me and it’s grounds for calling in sick.

 

The last time I got a massive cold sore was during a…you guessed it…cold.  My defenses were down; I should have seen it coming.  I had felt crappy all day at work, and suddenly, my entire bottom lip looked as if a chorus line of bees had stung it in unison.  That night at home, the pain was so intense that I was forced to start my obituary.  

 

The next morning, surprised to find myself still alive, I realized that due to all the tossing and turning I did the night during the world’s worst night’s sleep, I had overslept.

 

For those who have no time for a quick shower, it’s dry shampoo to the rescue.  Or so I thought.

I had picked it up on a whim, this Tresemme dry shampoo.  I had overheard a conversation while sitting at McDonald's writing one afternoon.  It's normally a great place to write because you can tune everything out except this time, when two young women were talking about their hair, it caught my attention, mostly because they were actually pronouncing it "her".  That word was accompanied by lots of patting of said "her".  The conversation was animated as they discussed hair products but came to a standstill when one told the other she washed her hair daily.

 

The other said back, "You'll dry your "her" out!  Don't do that, girl.  Use some o' that dry shampoo.  You won’t believe how it perks up your hairstyle on days when you are skipping a day, or maybe you're just too lazy to wash your hair.”  

 

What?  A new way to be stylish while still allowing me to be lazy?  Sign me up.  I actually found some at the store on the way home.  Now, normally, I don't take much advice from people sitting in McDonald's but due to the above referenced illness, I’m game...and since I overslept, what better time to try it?

 

Getting ready for work that morning, squinting through the cloud of agony my lip was causing, I read the directions and applied the dry shampoo to my own "her" accordingly, then brushed it out as instructed.

 

This is a product that I will never, ever buy again.  I have a dreadful feeling it had been moved from the Halloween section of Wal-Mart into the hair section, as it obviously was meant to be used to make white stripes in my hair for a Bride of Frankenstein costume.  Despite vigorous brushing, I couldn't brush the white out and ended up with not only white hair but a very pink scalp.

 

not so fast, Romeo.  This chick is taken.

 

Thanks, random strangers at McDonald's.  Moms always said don't eavesdrop and I should have listened.

 

It worked out in the end, however, because coworkers were too busy trying not to stare at my white streaks to even notice I had a cold sore.

Snarky McSnarkster. A/k/a I'm Grateful.

(our last prompt in Prompt Club was to write 1000 words starting with the words, "I'm grateful.")

I’m grateful, truly I am.  Roof over our heads, food on the table, money to pay the bills and from time to time visit a fancy restaurant like Chipotle or Granite City.  I have three healthy kids, a beautiful granddaughter and a husband who still wants to hold my hand all the time.  I have been on the opposite end of the financial and romantic spectrum, so suffice it to say I know whereof I speak.

I’m also grateful for things other people might not think of as worthy of appreciation—for instance, my gift of sarcasm.  So when we drew the prompt where you had to start a story with the words “I’m grateful”, I immediately snarked it up.

I’m grateful that years ago before a doctor’s appointment, I was able to help my middle daughter learn to pronounce “vaginal” correctly without laughing. 

I like to think I spared her the embarrassment I endured when my 7^th grade science teacher asked our class what the hangy thing in the back of the throat is called. 

Turns out “vulva” was not the answer he was searching for.  That day, I comforted my 12 year old self with the thought that I didn’t need social acceptance and popularity anyway. 

Fast forward 35 years, and guess what…that social acceptance and popularity thing is on its way because my youngest daughter just told me that in another week or so her six new puppies will be winged.  If that’s the case we’ll all be so popular we’ll have to move.  I’m grateful I have days off coming because puppies are a lot of work to begin with, but flying puppies and a nine month old—that’s a recipe for disaster. 

I’m grateful for the fact that I got shingles right before my daughter’s 21^st birthday, so that I was forced to cancel plans to take my granddaughter for the weekend like I had promised months prior so she could celebrate.  I’m also grateful that I didn’t have to worry about sleeping while I was suffering with that wretched condition, because that gave me plenty of time to worry about a worrisome secondary rash and the mushroom of a cold sore on my lip.  It also gave me extra time to drunk-google late at night terms like “duration of shingles” or “shingles rash” or “should you drink when you have shingles” or my personal favorite, “how many people die per year from shingles”. 

Actual shingles that were on my back.
ps. Good news.  I didn't die.  But it sure did burn. 

 

I’m also really, truly grateful that when I finally was able to give my husband the seductive come-hither green light after the whole shingles/cold sore fiasco, Aunt Flo decided to come for an extended visit.  She didn’t just bring an overnight bag like she normally did but in fact the biggest, bulkiest suitcases she owned and jammed them in my uterus but good.  I’m plotting her demise and she will be grateful when her death finally arrives.

I’m grateful for the snowfall that prevented our family from a 2 hour drive into Plainfield on New Year’s Day for a delayed Christmas celebration to see family I don’t see often.  I hadn’t gone grocery shopping because I knew we’d be in Plainfield, so there was hardly anything edible in the house.  However, it’s good to experience true hunger once in a while.  Thankfully we were able to gag down all of those old, questionable leftovers and dry Christmas cookies whilst face-timing with the Plainfield crowd, watching everyone eat spinach dip and cheese potatoes.

I’m also really grateful they didn’t let me know ahead of time they were going to call, because it’s good for my family to see what I look like with no makeup, glasses on, and hair scraped into a brutally oily ponytail.  In case they weren’t buying all those gorgeous selfies I post online.   

I’m grateful for the guy who maintained a 4 inch distance between the front of his vehicle and the rear of mine the other night as we drove through blinding snow during rush hour.  Your thoughtlessness kept my mind off of how slick the roads were that night.  Especially helpful was the rage that kept me warm all the way home.

And speaking of slick, I’m grateful for the Kenyan sprinter masquerading as our black lab.  It’s good to test my own speed slalom skills in the back yard from time to time while being dragged behind a speedboat of a dog.  It keeps me limber.  He also helps me keep the ligaments in my shoulders stretched as he sprints off the icy back porch, yanking me with him.

And with all the things I have to be grateful for, I need to stay in the best shape possible.

Fun female field trip (not really) Part 2

Part deux 

After my last medical visit a la the ultrasound from hell, I wanted to know when I’d find out what was going on in my “downstairs area”. 

Me:  How long will it take to get the results?

Them:  at least a couple of days.  Rest assured, you’ll have plenty of time for worrying.

Me:  (heart hammering in chest) Ok.

It didn’t take a couple of days to get the results.  The phone rang the very next day, less than 24 hours after the ultrasound, while I was lost in Naperville trying desperately to find Edwards Hospital, so that I could make it on time for my mother’s gall bladder surgery. 

It’s never good when they don’t waste any time calling you with the results. 

I listened to the results with half an ear while On Starring and Bluetoothing, watching desperately for street signs, looking for my turn, catching various words here and there out of the speakers.  Abnormal.  Hyperplasia.  Polyp.  Cyst.  And my absolute favorite, Biopsy.

I’m sure you’re all wondering how serious this really was.  And the answer is:  It was very serious because I was really, really lost.  When I finally found the hospital, I told all this to the valet parker boy, who actually yawned when I told him what an adventure finding the hospital was.  Your tip is going to suck, buddy.

Three hours I waited with my sister and stepdad for Mom’s surgery/recovery time.  Three hours is quite a bit of time to freak out reflect on the doctor’s choice of words.   

The hospital aide came out to tell us that Mom wanted coffee, and she wanted my stepdad to make it because he knew how she liked it prepared.  We all knew then that mom was recovering just fine. **

My biopsy was schedule for two weeks from that day.  Two weeks have never gone slower. 

Biopsy day

Two weeks have never gone faster, and before I knew it, the nurse called me to take two ibuprofen before the procedure, because I’d get a little crampy.  That day, I learned something vitally important.  What you think is crampy and what I think is crampy are two vastly different things.  The nurse on the phone advised me to take two ibuprofen before the procedure.  The nurse I actually saw that day in the room of horrors procedure room felt bad that I didn’t have the afternoon off, even though I sit down at my job. 

Of course, I took my cue from her facial expression, (pity mixed with compassion and a side order of sympathy) stiffened up, and unfortunately stayed tense the entire time, making it even far more difficult for the doctor and far more painful for me.

Doctor:  Relax! 

Me:  I’m trying!  (I am not trying.  I'm not relaxed at all, and I don't know how anyone could be.)

I had the biopsy.  Here’s what I think they used... 



There were many more sharp things sticking out of the tool they used on me.



…but it felt much larger. 

Me and my new friend Cramps went back to work that day for a couple of painful hours, then went home and curled up on the couch where I would spend the rest of the night milking this for every single second I could. 

It worked.  I got pizza that night.  And a nap.

They told me I’d get my results back within a couple of days.  I selfishly hoped that I wouldn’t get them back on my birthday, so I could sail through my 46^th birthday blissfully ignorant of anything biopsy-related.  They granted that wish and called me the day after.

This time it was with a good word:  benign.  It even sounds nice in your mouth.  Say it with me:  Beeeenine.

Despite the pleasant tastiness of that word, I have to go back and be poked, prodded and ultra sounded one more time, and then my doctor will make a decision on what to do with my whiny self at that point.  Obviously, the female issues are being caused by something and they’d like to find my tolerance for pain figure out what it is. 

I’d like for them to figure out what it is too.  There are some *cough activities cough* that we’d I’d like to resume.  While I’m still young.

***My mom:  recovering nicely.  Her surgery that day was at 10:45 a.m.  She was home drinking coffee at her kitchen table by 3:30 p.m. looking for all the world like we just popped in for a visit.  It was amazing and we're all glad she's ok.

Seven Rules for Renting at Redbox



Get it?  Get it?  Red box???



Ok, first, it would behoove you to go online at home and reserve the movies you want first, before ever going to the Redbox kiosk.  One and done.  The only thing you have to do when you actually get to the Redbox dispenser is swipe and wait.  Swipe and wait, people, swipe and wait.  Much easier.

If you are still in the dark ages and don’t own a computer, or you just happen to be out and about and decide to pick up a movie on the way home, let’s be a little more considerate.  See below.

a)      Are your hands clean?  The Redboxes are a public use item, which means who knows what cultures might be growing on the kiosk screen.  I don’t want to use the screen after you’ve been eating Cheetos, or some big greasy hamburger, or mining for green gold, or trying to pick the apple you had for lunch out of your teeth. 

b)      The places of business putting out these kiosks also should make antibacterial wipes available just like they do next to the grocery carts.  Why?  See above.

c)      Place your phone calls before you lean on the box, head under the screen, and start cruising for a movie.  Do not call home three different times trying to get a popular consensus on what you should get, you flipping moron.  More importantly, do not call someone and leave a message, then linger in front of the screen waiting for a callback.  You’re a big boy and it’s only a dollar.  Live dangerously.

d)     Please, for the love of all that’s holy, read the trailer information for movies some other time, like at home while you’re choosing your movies beforehand.  I was once behind a man who read the synopsis of at least 16 different movies to his phone friend.  I was just trying to return one movie before the 9 o’clock deadline.  He ended up not renting anything.  And I had to pay extra because of his obnoxiousness.  My printout receipt showed 9:01 pm.      

e)      Speaking of deadlines, try to avoid the 8:55 pm rush.  It’s not pretty.  Whoever lost the fight has to return the movie, and obviously the clothing choices reflect that.  People, please remember that you will be seen returning the movie, oh Unshowered One.  Wearing orange piggy flannel pajama bottoms and a red Wisconsin sweatshirt while rocking striped spa socks…I am judging you, and I am not alone.  That schnit doesn’t fly.  You’re making Walmartians look like fashion icons. 

f)       If for some unusual reason I have to stand at the kiosk and choose instead of having reserved my movies at home like I normally would, don’t you dare stand too closely behind me.  It does not make me go faster.  It skeeves me out and gives me butterfingers, causing my fingers to slip because it makes me nervous...

g)      …and threatened.  If I feel threatened, it could also force me to break out my professional ninja moves and karate chop your solar plexus.  It’s very possible that I could miss and deliver a massive blow to your junk, making you miss YOUR 9:00 pm deadline.  Oops.  Just stay the hell back.  You’ll get your turn.

Easy enough, right?  You would think.  So many people, however, observe no Redbox etiquette whatsoever.   I’m merely here to gently guide them.

Enjoy your movie.

*thanks, Jenny-Wren, for your input...

My career as a belly dancer is over

Sometimes, toning up the ol’ bod might find you in some weird situations.  Like getting caught by the pizza guy out in the garage jumping rope.  (true story.) Falling down five or six times in the Peace Lutheran Church parking lot while rollerblading (true story, possible concussion, kids had to help me up.)  Forgetting the steps at Zumba class.  (big fat lie.  I’ve never done that.)

One thing I have done in the past (until quite recently, actually) to work on toning and fitness was to take belly dancing lessons.  I took lessons for a while when I was about 15; quite enjoyable.  Plus, I got a coin belt and zils (finger cymbals).  Not too many other 15 year old girls had those. 

Now that I think of it, they were probably busy with actual friends and fun plans because they weren’t complete teenage disasters who took belly dancing lessons.

Socially backward = me at 15.

We needed music to listen to and practice with at home, and a friendly (read:  creepy) sales guy at Recordland rang up my purchase of a belly dancing album, winking at me lasciviously the entire time.  (uh, I'm 15, dude.)

uh...this is SO not me.*

We took lessons until the teacher said that our class (consisting of me and my mom) had gone as far as she could take us, and that the next step would be to perform in front of judges and we’d get a certificate. 

Belly dance?  In front of people?  Are you frigging kidding me?    

A few years passed, but I still remembered how to do the “camel walk” and after the birth of three children ten years later, it sort of turned into an actual “camel walk.”  I needed a little more walk and a lot less camel.    

The next attempt at belly dancing for fitness was a class my sisters and I took at Joliet Junior College.  We drove to the campus, full of dreams of how we’d soon be snake-arming and shimmying with the best of them.  

Arriving at class, there was a woman sitting on the floor with her back to us, long dark hair, tanned, fit and toned.  Ah, we told ourselves, this must be our teacher.  Well, what an inspiration to take lessons from her, with herself being all skinny and cute and stuff.

But wait…then the real teacher walked in.  She was approximately 75 years old and had brutally dyed dark hair.  Nice enough lady, to be sure, but our dreams of following around our skinny, tanned hip-shaking inspiration were dashed and replaced by a pale, frail brunette of advanced years who confided somewhat naughtily that sometimes she danced for her husband. 

Someone had the audacity to ask her for an example, and she shot back that it was private. To her credit, despite the unbelievably audacious question, she never broke stride while leading us in a large, jerky sashaying circle while working her blue-lined, spaghetti-like limbs high in the air demonstrating.  Like this, she'd say.  Like picking cherries. 

It’s an arm movement, supposedly sinuous and sexy.  I just looked like I was actually picking cherries or replacing a light bulb.  Or being chased by real snakes.

Worse, the classes took place in the cafeteria of the JJC campus.  The doors were closed, so other students couldn’t get in while the classes were going on.  However, this did not deter them from pressing nosy-noses against the glass to snort gleefully at the thirty or so women parading in a big circle, somewhat like a sad cattle drive, practicing arm movements that we would only use later in life for grabbing a bag from the drive through at McDonalds.

To add insult to injury, we found out that our entire dance class was on security camera, which was playing on a TV outside the cafeteria for the growing crowd’s viewing pleasure.  Our mortification was complete.

We didn’t go back.

Moving to Rockford several years later, I figured that I could start over with a new class and a new teacher.  I did.  I attended faithfully and omi’d the best I could, but what she considered “constructive criticism” I perceived as “picking on.”  (maybe, maybe not.  Also, I found out that she had danced for my husband many years ago at his birthday party when he turned 30 and I was all like, “oh-no-you-di’int, he’s mine, beeyotch” and stopped attending.)

I'm cool and confident like that.

I found a wonderful new teacher.  Her class times worked well with work schedules, her gentle but effective instruction was pleasing and confidence-building, and she truly encouraged students.  Plus, she was about 40 years younger, all fit and toned.  She knew what the hell she was doing and did it well.

However, sadly, I am a hell of a lot older than 15 now.  Joints that once moved fluidly now feel like they’re filled with broken glass, especially after a long day at work.  Shimmying, hip drops, snake arms…the day after a class, I would have to painfully crawl down the hall toward the copier.  All the cool coin belts and zils in the world can’t make up for actually being able to lift my thigh and operate the clutch on my stick shift without excruciating pain.  I have reluctantly put classes on hiatus.

For now, I’m making do with plodding on the treadmill.  However, belly dancing is always there, lurking and swaying seductively in the background.  Perhaps I’ll practice and bide my time until I have my sweet moves down pat.  Then I’ll show you.

Look out, YouTube.

(Beautiful Belly Dancer In Rich Costume by photostock, freedigitalphoto.net)

Haircuts and Fat Chins

Someone at my work (identity will remain a mystery) bought up an interesting point recently.  He came back to the office after a trip to Cost Cutters and said the entire time, all he could think about was how fat his chin looked.

How sad.  When you go get a haircut, you should be able to enjoy the feel of the hairdresser washing your hair, massaging your scalp, combing your hair out and the gentle tickle of her running your hair through her fingers as she lines up her next length of hair to trim. 

But is my coworker the only one who feels that way?  Unfortunately, no.   When most people get their hair cut, they’re forced to stare at the mirror for approximately 15 minutes, during which time you’ve got your hair plastered to your scalp.  Instead of enjoying the feeling, though, and relaxing, you’re sitting there self consciously watching yourself talk and laugh. (Does my mouth really move like that?  All the time?   Cripes, when I smile, I look like I don't have eyes!  Oh My God, how many chins do I have?  That's it, I’m never smiling again.)  Also, you’re watching the underarm jiggle of the Cost Cutter hairstylist.  But the whole time you’re staring into the mirror, you’re a little uncomfortable.  And mentally cutting down your calories for the next month to approximately 1000 a day.  Mmmm….yes, that IS relaxing. 

It wasn't always that way, though.  It's a learned behavior.  Think of it this way.  When a baby looks into the mirror, the baby doesn’t sit there and think, man, kid, you gotta lay off the strained bananas, YOU are getting CHUNKY.  How many bottles are you up to a day, anyway?

No.  The baby points at the mirror and says, look at the PRETTY BABY.   Complete acceptance there, not name calling.

My oldest just got his hair cut.  He also is growing what we normal people would call sideburns but what his homies would call “chin straps.”  Those “chin straps” were trimmed as well, and now he looks like a pretty clean cut dude.

My husband gets haircuts on a regular basis.  I don’t think his hair has ever been over ½” since I’ve known him.  I asked him jokingly once if he would like to grow his hair out like a hippie, and he told me that his hair doesn’t grow DOWN, it grows two ways...CURLY and UP.  Always.  Just higher, and higher, and higher.  So he would NEVER look like a hippie but more like the Bride of Frankenstein.  Or Marge Simpson.

Oh, Homie.