Monday, February 29, 2016

I've Done It Again

A few months ago I got fake nails so my hands wouldn't look quite so horrible when I went on a cruise in Europe. They were made of some kind of gel goop, not too long, and not too short...they were just right...kinda like Goldilocks nails.

I liked them so much that I kept them all this time. Every three weeks I visit, Angie, the Goddess of Fake Nails. She spends an hour sanding, filing, and re-gooping my mini talons. My hands still look like an old woman's hands, but my nails look fab.

The only problem with them is it's kinda hard to pick stuff up, like coins from a counter or the film covering two sided tape so I can put it on things to keep the cats from scratching.( A tip I was given by the resident Old Chix Crazy Cat Lady, Scari...and it actually works!)

Having fake nails also prevents me from "picking". All my life I've been a picker. I pick at my face, my feet, my hands. I pick at my cuticles, fingernails, toenails, shoulders peeling from name it, I pick at it. I don't know why I do it and I never much cared unless I created a giant sore on my face from squeezing a tiny little clogged pore smaller than a pin head. I'd go into the bathroom seemingly blemish free and accidentally get a glimpse of something in the mirror...which forced me to go to the magnifying mirror...which was a HUGE mistake...and I'd exit the bathroom with giant red lumps all over my face.

I have to admit it's frustrating not to be able to pick when I see something that needs pickin'. It bothers me...but I didn't realize how much until I felt a teenie weensie bit of a hangnail on my left thumb. I don't even think it was a hangnail, I think it was just a little bit of skin. But I couldn't pick it with my too thick talons.

Next thing I know, I'm gnawing at my thumb. Literally...I'm taking my teeth and raking them on the inside of my thumb next to the nail trying to get the minuscule piece of skin in my teeth to pull it off. I had to try for a really, really long time to trap the tiny piece of offending skin between my front teeth, but my efforts finally paid off. Elation! I snapped my head around with the little piece between my teeth and ripped it off my thumb...along with a HUGE chunk of skin that it was attached to.

Blood seeped into the grove alongside the nail bed of my thumb. Holy fuck me runnin' hurt!!! What the fuck's wrong with me??? Is this some kind of weird psychological disorder?  Like cutting? Only using my teeth and nails to wound myself?

So, after a couple of days, what did I do? I did what everybody else does when they want to find out something. I Googled it. And guess what??? I have a fucking disorder AND it has a name...Dermatillomania.  WTF???? It's some kind of an OCD thing.

Fortunately, I was relieved to find that I don't exhibit ALL the symptoms...yet. And, through Google, I was able to find an informative sheet of facts through the helpful OCD Foundation entitled "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet". No shit, totally true. The fact sheet gave a helpful definition of what "Skin Picking Disorder" is and it requires all three of the components. Thank God I only have one...maybe one and a half. It might have been two if the compulsion had caused social damage to other parts of my life, but thanks to modern makeup, specifically concealer, I narrowly avoided being a two.

Still, I thought, maybe I do need help to keep my little problem from becoming a "full blown" disorder. Again, the OCD foundation came through because down at the bottom of the "Skin Picking Disorder Fact Sheet" was a link to a website.  No joke, this is totally true...

Of course I had to visit the website to see if there were any useful tips they could offer, and guess what?  They want a dollar a day to enroll in their "program". But, in as little as ten minutes a day, I can expect results. They listed the names of three "experts" to help with their program. Two of them specialize in Trichotillomania,  a hair pulling disorder,the other is a dermatologist but it doesn't say that one specializes in Dermatillomania. Shouldn't a website that is supposed to help you stop picking at your skin have at least one "expert" in that field?  So I boycotted their site. They're not gonna get my dollar a day, no sir...

Besides, think of all the concealer I could buy for a dollar a's the Stoopidist Thing.

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Dr. Joe and the Horrible "I Can't Believe I Did That" Moment...

It was a sad state of events for me yesterday. Truly sad. It's now painfully apparent that I'm officially a full fledged member of the "Old Woman" club. Until yesterday I wasn't really bothered by it. Yesterday, "old" was just another word...the opposite of "young". No big wow. Well it's a big fuckin' wow now. (That just made me think of "how now brown cow" that weird?)

Yesterday I woke up with my back sooooo stiff I could barely walk. I had done absolutely nothing the day before that should have hurt it. I've had a bad back for years and it's not like I don't know what's going to hurt it and what's not. So it was really annoying to find out that I can get all stove up by doing NOTHING. But that's what happened.

So I called my trusty chiropractor, Dr. Joe. Dr Joe is a swell little guy. He kinda reminds me of a real life Hobbit or gnome. Okay maybe not a gnome 'cause gnomes are kinda creepy and he's not the least bit creepy. It's really a good thing that he's not creepy because he's married to one of the Old Chix. Dr. Joe is probably one of the most interesting people I know.  He knows a lot about a lot of stuff and pretty much always has useful tidbits of information to impart...and he has a great sense of humor.

It was a little disappointing when Dr. Joe answered the phone because I was expecting his receptionist, Melissa, to answer. She and I have a little deal going...whoever wins the lottery first is going to buy the other a face lift. I was hoping to hear she'd won because I know I haven't and I could use some nips & tucks. Instead, Dr. Joe answered, and being the peach that he is, said he could see me after lunch...right before the "all important hair appointment" the location of which is conveniently located directly across from his office.

I hobbled around work all morning in a semi-"L" shape until lunch and after a scrumptious buffet of Szechuan Chicken and Fried Rice, I headed out for my date with Dr. Joe. The office was empty and he was standing at the counter when I hobbled in.

Dr. Joe:  "Oh, My."

Dr. Joe says "oh, my" a lot...every time I come in walking weird he says it. I wonder if he says it to everyone or if it's just me. Probably everyone.

Me: "I didn't do anything. I just woke up like this."

I'm really crabby that I can't stand up straight and walk like a normal person. I wonder if it's detectable in my voice. Do I automatically sound like a crabby old woman when something hurts? Does my voice change with the pain level? Maybe next time I should ask him...but do I really want to know? If I know it changes will I automatically try to talk like I usually do and end up sounding even weirder...all in a pathetic attempt to seem normal?

Dr. Joe ushers me back to his table. It's one of those hydraulic lift things that you step on face first and it lays down with you on top. After pushing up and down all over my back...a little press here, a little pop there, I have to turn over onto my back. This is where the trouble began.

One of the back adjustments involves me crossing my arms over my bosom while Dr. Joe grabs me in a bear hug while rolling me into a semi sitting position...then after he gets his hands on either side of my spine, he rolls me back down and voila...snap, crackle, pop. After each little, snap, crackle, pop, I get rolled back up, he re-positions his hands and rolls me back down.

It was during the last snap, crackle, pop, that the unthinkable occurred. I can't remember if it was on the roll up or roll down, it's all a horrible blur, but during either the up or down portion of the maneuver, I farted. Not loudly, but not completely silent either. A million things run through my mind. I wanted to die...I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole...I wanted to wake up in my bed and find out it was all a terrible dream...

Me: "OMG, I just farted" I yelled.

At least it seemed like I yelled. It was probably more of a quiet shout...that slightly horrified raising of the voice that comes out when you can't believe what just happened and can't stop the words from pourin' out of the ol' pie hole like a stream of projectile vomiting. Why can't I just shut the fuck up for once???  He might not have even heard it.  He's kinda old, like The Husband, who can't hear much...maybe Dr. Joe has Old Man Ears too.

Dr. Joe, who can't help chuckling, says "Well, yes, you did." He also can't help going to great lengths to try to make me feel better by explaining that you just can't imagine how much pressure builds up in the abdomen and intestines...and despite his valiant attempt to spare my feelings, I'm still totally mortified.

Am I now going to start farting in grocery stores when I bend over to get something off the bottom shelf? ( 'Cause you know that's where the cheap stuff is. They put the expensive brands right in the middle, at eye level.) Is this how things are going to go for me now? I'll be standing in a line and fart when I turn around suddenly.  Oh, I know, people will try to hide their giggles with a hand over the mouth and pretend like they didn't hear.  They'll avoid eye contact so they don't have to acknowledge the gas that just passed between us.

What if it happens, and I shout "OMG I farted!" I did in Dr. Joe's office? Will I be able to stop the stream of shit from escaping out of my mouth when I can't stop the flow of flatulence from my ass? Maybe if it's a silent but deadly one I can look around and pretend it's the person standing in front of me...and act appropriately offended.

Hopefully when it happens, if it's an audible play, I won't have just feasted on a giant bowl of kidney beans or chowed down on a bunch of hard boiled's the Stoopidist Thing...

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Who Started All This?????

Sometimes I take Xanax.  Usually just a half.  (I found out the hard way that taking a whole one makes me sleepy when I didn't have my glasses on and thought I was taking an acid reducer tablet.) Whenever I have to go to some kind of group function where there's going to be strangers..and sometimes even when it's people I know, if it's a large gathering to celebrate some real or imagined occasion I get a little twisted inside.  I usually try to avoid these type of situations but sometimes they're unavoidable. The only reason I bring this up is the name...Xanax...pronounced Zan-ax.

Why did they put an "X" at the beginning of this name?  Why not a "Z"? And if they had to use an "X", why not pronounce it Exa-nax? Wouldn't that have made more sense?

I read somewhere that Benjamin Franklin proposed getting rid of the letter "X" and I'm with him. Is it really necessary? The only time it's pronounced as an "X" is at the end of a word.  When it's at the beginning, it's pronounced as a "Z". Who would make up a word, decide to start it with an"X", and pronounce it like a "Z"? Was it just some schmo trying to be clever? Like parents who think they have to change the spelling of their kids name to something "unique"? So something simple like Sue becomes Sou?  And while I'm bitchin' about names, why is Zoe pronounced Zoey? And why isn't there a "y" at the end of Chloe? Parents just cause problems for their children growing up because for the rest of his or her life, the kid always ends up having to correct people for misspelling his or her name.

Why does the English language have to be so complicated?  Who decided how things should be spelled?  Or what letter should have what sound? How come some combinations of letters sound the same as a single letter? Is there really a reason for having two options when one would work fine? Other than confusing first graders in spelling class?

Why is bologna pronounced baloney? Shouldn't it be bo-log-na? You know how I know how to spell bologna?  I sing the Oscar Mayer song in my head from the 60's or 70's...I can't really be decade specific here because I'm old and I don't really remember which one it was.  But I know it was a long time ago..."My bologna has a first's O S C A bologna has a second name" remember? And I can still see the little boy with the curly dark brown hair singing it.  I see the Oscar Mayer Weinermobile in my head too but I don't think it was from the same commercial. (I grew up watching lots of TV. Probably explains my tendency toward Couch Potato-ness...or maybe I'm just lazy.)

Do we really have to use "ck" instead of just "k"? Why isn't rock just rok? When did they decide to put an "h" after a "w" to spell "when"?  Wouldn't "wen" have been easier? And if the "h" is so fucking important, how come "win" isn't "whin"?

Years ago I was in a Sunday School class and the teacher was having us all read verses from the Bible.  It was a girl named Elizabeth's turn to read. She was reading about some Old Testament One Per Cent'er who had lots of livestock that were being described, oxen, goats, sheep...etc.

The exact verse escapes me but this is the gist of it...

Elizabeth:  "and he had 200 she goats and 300 eee-wees"...of course, I laughed out loud immediately. Then, because she was embarrassed, I felt bad for laughing and I got nervous which made me laugh even more.  But it really was funny, even if it was embarrassing for her.  To this day, I still think it's funny...and I still laugh about it.  But if you're a kid and you see the word "ewe" why in the world would you think it would be pronounced "you"?  And I did get my comeuppance years later when having to read aloud, I pronounced stenographer...sten-oh-graffer.

It's probably not normal to get bugged by stuff as trivial as this. I can't change it so why do I let it annoy me?  It's the Stoopidist Thing...

P.S.  In protest from this day forward I'm going to pronounce Xanax..Exa-nax.  Pretty fuckin' rebellious, don't ya think?