This past week as Mr. Man and I lounged around our sprawling estate, I realized that my life is just way too laid back. What with our perfect children, our incredible level of financial independence and perfect hard bodies, I felt inspired to do something to shake things up a bit.
"Hey, Mr. Man," I said to my sweet Baboo, "What do you say we get up real early in the morning and drive two hours to a hospital as big as Disney World so I can get their Monday Thyroid Biopsy Special? I think that would be a hoot."
"Why sure, Honey," said Man. "I think that'd be just a swell idea. Let's do that."
And so we did. We woke up at dawn, picked out the perfect matching his and her outfits and had our driver take us to the big city while we drank champagne in the back of the limo.
"Ms. Crazy On Your Face, how lovely to see you," said my physician. "Before we begin, let me tell you a little about the procedure. I will be taking samples of fluid from the lumps in your swan-like neck, which will require the use of several needles of varying lengths. You're in charge, so if you feel any discomfort, just tell me and I'll stop."
"Say, Doc. What about the use of some sort of numbing agent for this possible discomfort of which you speak?" I asked.
"Oh, I don't like to use those kinds of medicines before this type of procedure. I find it makes my job more difficult and I'm way too important to have to work hard," said Dr. Evil. "Besides, you'll be fine".
Everyone in the room agreed that what is most important in a situation like this one is keeping it simple for the doctor.
Before I knew it, Dr. Demento placed a pillow under my shoulders and tilted my head backwards as far as it could go. It was as close as I had come to doing a back bend since I was fifteen and trying to impress the testosterone carriers of East Rutherford High.
"Just relax, Dear. But no matter what, do not move one tiny, tiny bit or else something terrible and irreversible could happen to you. And of course, I have no intentions of telling you what that is, so it‘ll be a complete surprise." he said. "Ok. Here comes the first little stick."
Hmmm.
"Excuse me, Doctor," I said calmly. I think you have confused me with another patient. I'm not here to have the 'Bic ink pen jammed in your throat' biopsy."
"Are you feeling some discomfort?" he asked.
"Why, yes. Now that you mention it, I am."
"Mr. Man, would you come sit beside your overdramatic woman and allow her to hold your hand for support before we begin again?" I took Mr. Man's hand in mine, and drew in a deep breath just like Dr. Torture advised in order to lessen my discomfort. As everyone knows, breathing in and out is every bit as good as a morphine drip. Sometimes, if I don’t carefully monitor my breathing at home, I get good and stoned.
"Ok. A little stick again."
"Wow. That's odd," I calmly said to Doc Devil. "When you said 'little stick' I didn't realize you were talking about the one you had picked up from your backyard at home. I'm going to need you to remove the oak branch you have thrust into my neck as it is entirely unpleasant."
"Are you feeling discomfort?" the sorry son of a cherry picker asked.
"In fact, I am," I answered. "And judging by the tears streaming down Mr. Man's face, I'm guessing he is feeling a certain level of discomfort as a result of the large number of bones I have shattered in his hand."
"Nurse Torture, would you mind giving me the biggest needle you can possibly find for my third stick?" Dr. Satan instructed. "If you can't find one at least a foot long, call my wife and ask her to bring something from the private collection I keep in my chamber...uh, I mean my basement."
And so with what resembled a sharp railroad spike hovering over my face, he reminded me again to relax. Once more I heard those magic words, "Little stick."
What happened next you will likely hear more about when I am interviewed by Diane Sawyer from my prison cell. Let's just say I may have caused him a slight amount of discomfort when I attached his Sphynomanometer to his family jewels and ever so gently put his Otoscope in some place other than his ear.
Hey, it's not like I didn't warn him. "Take a deep breath, Big Boy," I said. "You're about to feel a little stick."
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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
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Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Sunday, November 07, 2004
The ghost of poultry past.
I am the Queen of Thanksgiving. Let's just get that out there first thing. This is one holiday that is truly suited to me. That's because I like to bake things, boil things, stuff things, and suspend things in gelatin. Thanksgiving allows me to do all that and drink eggnog at the same time. What more could you ask for?
As talented as I am at festive meal preparaton, in the interest of honesty I must tell you that I have not always been the Queen that I am today. I do have a few Thanksgiving uh-oh's in my resume.
Many of those uh-oh's occurred during my very first Thanksgiving with my very first husband. In my defense, I was young and innocent and at just nineteen, not legally old enough to drink myself stupid while preparing the meal. I never had a chance.
It wasn't that I didn't know how to cook. Having grown up in the south meant that I knew my way around the stove. I had been baking with my Grandma since I was old enough to hold a wooden spoon. Therefore, I had some degree of confidence that I could easily whip up a wonderful holiday bounty for myself, husband Number One and any and all of his drunken Army friends he might drag home.
There was just one hitch. For whatever reason, my family NEVER had turkey on Thanksgiving. Never. We'd have a ham, fried chicken, and casseroles that included every food ingredient known to man, but turkey was not on the menu. That lack of turkey cooking experience left me somewhat ill-prepared to provide Number One with the traditional roast gobbler on our Thanksgiving table.
Not to worry though. I figured a turkey was nothing more than a regular chicken on steroids, so how hard could it be?
The day before the big holiday I straightened my shoulder pads, put one final coating of spray on my giant hair wings, grabbed the keys to my Chevette and headed out to the Piggly Wiggly to pick up a bird. I felt like such a grown up as I pushed my squeaking cart to the frozen carcass aisle.
Hmmm. There certainly were a lot of turkeys in that big old holding cell. How in the world was I supposed to determine which one to purchase? Guessing that maybe you should check the freshness of a dead bird the same way you check a watermelon, I began systematically thumping each one. I soon realized from the odd looks the other seasoned Thanksgiving meal professionals were giving me that this was perhaps not the correct way to choose a turkey.
"I'm from Bangladesh," I said to the snotty, small-haired woman looking at me from across the freezer. "The thumping of the Thanksgiving turkeys is an ancient ritual we perform to cast out any lingering evil turkey spirits. Personally, I'd never dream of feeding evil spirit infested white meat to my family, but to each his own."
So, because my thumping was drawing stares and smirks and because my fingers hurt from thumping frozen turkey icebergs, I surmised I should probably come up with another method of poultry selection. Looking around at the other ladies checking the little white tags attached to the bird nets, I quickly determined the deciding factor.
When turkey picking, the biggest one wins.
I searched and searched until at long last, I found the biggest frozen bird in the entire free world. Turkey-zilla. I was the envy of the entire lot of Piggly-Wiggly turkey hunters.
While holding tightly to the white gift tag attached to Turkey-zilla, so as to prevent poachers from snagging him for themselves, with my free hand I summoned a stockman. He took one look at my big guy and ran to get one of those wheelie things often used to carry big screen televisions. He and a couple of his stockman buddies hoisted Turkey-zilla into the trunk of my car and I left the parking lot for home with sparks flying behind me as my Chevette's rear end drug the pavement.
Back in my cracker-box apartment, after having lugged Turkey-zilla into my kitchen with the help of some burly construction workers, it dawned on me for the first time that my future main course was in need of a good defrost. With Thanksgiving now only hours away, I knew time was of the essence.
I tried absolutely everything to thaw that bird. I grabbed my high-powered hair dryer and stood blowing over the enormous turkey-cicle for no less than three hours. Nothing happened.
I held a lighter to it until my thumb was nearly destroyed from the repeated flicking of the Bic. Nothing happened.
Having recently read a book about some survivors of a crashed airplane in a desolate frozen land who had huddled together naked to produce maximum body heat, I finally resorted to taking off all my clothes and cuddling up with it under a blanket. Nothing happened.
Well, that's not entirely true. I did develop frost bite in an area that was going to be tough to explain to my gynecologist.
At about midnight on Turkey Eating Eve, I realized that the only way this bird was ever going to thaw was in my oven. I would just cook this booger over night. No dead bird was going to outsmart me.
"You just make sure you stuff the bird before you cook it," said the man for whom I was going to all this trouble. "It wouldn't be Thanksgiving if you didn't stuff the turkey."
Oh I'll stuff the turkey, all right. You just bend over, grab your ankles and....
Well, that's what I was thinking. But because I was a young wife and did not yet possess a fully formed adult female backbone, I grabbed four containers of Box Full O' Stuffing and mixed it all up with my hands. I was met with some difficulty when the time came to insert the mixture into Turkey-zilla. If you've ever tried to stuff an ice cube, you'll appreciate my dilemma.
But, I was tougher than this giant bird cadaver and by sheer force of will, I managed to get some of the mixture into crevices I found in the bird. I turned the oven to a comfortable 275 degrees, shoved the monster in and went to bed fully confident that I would wake up to a lovely roasted turkey.
By now, it was about 5:30 in the morning. Dinner was to be served at 1:00 that afternoon.
I woke up at ten or so, took a shower, put a couple coats of shellac on my hair and slipped into my best Leave It To Beaver mom dress and heels before toddling to the kitchen in my lacey apron to prepare everything else that was needed to make Thanksgiving a culinary success.
I chopped, I diced and I mixed, all the while humming The Old Rugged Cross and stopping only periodically to deliver celery stuffed with goo to Number One and our guests. At nineteen, I was more of a grown-up than I had ever been and in just a few short hours my husband was going to see what a deal he got when he married me.
12:30. Time to whip out Turkey-zilla and dazzle all that were present. When I opened the oven door, I noticed that my Thanksgiving centerpiece wasn't nearly as golden brown as the ones I'd seen in magazines and on television. Must be the bad lighting in my kitchen, I reasoned. Besides, I was sure they probably doctored those famous turkeys up just like they do super models with Max Factor and blush.
"Oh Huuuunnneeeeey!," I called proudly to my husband. "Would you like to do the honors and carve the bird? He's too big to carry to the table, so I thought we'd slice him up in the kitchen first."
Number one proudly took hold of his man-sized cutting utensils and commenced to doing the only productive thing a man does on Thanksgiving.
"That's odd," he said. "I seem to have found something in the turkey."
"Of course you did, silly. I stuffed the bird just the way you asked me." Just to be certain though, I checked to make sure I still had on my wedding rings and my watch.
"No. This is not stuffing. You did remove the little bags inside the turkey before you cooked it, didn't you?"
My mind was racing. Bags? What bags? I didn't know nothing about no bags! Thinking quickly I answered, "I'm from Bangladesh and it is our ancient custom to leave bags inside our Thanksgiving turkeys. In fact if you are the lucky one to find a bag, you will prosper greatly all year long."
"You're from North Carolina." said One.
Damn his brilliance.
It seems that for some bizarre reason, manufacturers of dead turkeys remove their inner most parts and shove them into paper bags which should evidently be removed before baking. Who knew?
Later that afternoon, sitting with my husband and all his friends around our tiny dining room table on this my first holiday away from home, I felt a sense of real grown-up pride. I had prepared my first Thanksgiving dinner all by myself and everyone seemed to be truly enjoying it. Once I picked all the paper out of it, that is.
"This is wonderful, Sherri. I appreciate your having me over," said one of my guests. "But, I have to admit I've never had rare turkey before. It's very different."
"Well, I'm from Bangladesh and undercooked Thanksgiving poultry is a delicacy there."
And as we would soon discover, so is a trip to the emergency room for food poisoning after a holiday meal.
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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
As talented as I am at festive meal preparaton, in the interest of honesty I must tell you that I have not always been the Queen that I am today. I do have a few Thanksgiving uh-oh's in my resume.
Many of those uh-oh's occurred during my very first Thanksgiving with my very first husband. In my defense, I was young and innocent and at just nineteen, not legally old enough to drink myself stupid while preparing the meal. I never had a chance.
It wasn't that I didn't know how to cook. Having grown up in the south meant that I knew my way around the stove. I had been baking with my Grandma since I was old enough to hold a wooden spoon. Therefore, I had some degree of confidence that I could easily whip up a wonderful holiday bounty for myself, husband Number One and any and all of his drunken Army friends he might drag home.
There was just one hitch. For whatever reason, my family NEVER had turkey on Thanksgiving. Never. We'd have a ham, fried chicken, and casseroles that included every food ingredient known to man, but turkey was not on the menu. That lack of turkey cooking experience left me somewhat ill-prepared to provide Number One with the traditional roast gobbler on our Thanksgiving table.
Not to worry though. I figured a turkey was nothing more than a regular chicken on steroids, so how hard could it be?
The day before the big holiday I straightened my shoulder pads, put one final coating of spray on my giant hair wings, grabbed the keys to my Chevette and headed out to the Piggly Wiggly to pick up a bird. I felt like such a grown up as I pushed my squeaking cart to the frozen carcass aisle.
Hmmm. There certainly were a lot of turkeys in that big old holding cell. How in the world was I supposed to determine which one to purchase? Guessing that maybe you should check the freshness of a dead bird the same way you check a watermelon, I began systematically thumping each one. I soon realized from the odd looks the other seasoned Thanksgiving meal professionals were giving me that this was perhaps not the correct way to choose a turkey.
"I'm from Bangladesh," I said to the snotty, small-haired woman looking at me from across the freezer. "The thumping of the Thanksgiving turkeys is an ancient ritual we perform to cast out any lingering evil turkey spirits. Personally, I'd never dream of feeding evil spirit infested white meat to my family, but to each his own."
So, because my thumping was drawing stares and smirks and because my fingers hurt from thumping frozen turkey icebergs, I surmised I should probably come up with another method of poultry selection. Looking around at the other ladies checking the little white tags attached to the bird nets, I quickly determined the deciding factor.
When turkey picking, the biggest one wins.
I searched and searched until at long last, I found the biggest frozen bird in the entire free world. Turkey-zilla. I was the envy of the entire lot of Piggly-Wiggly turkey hunters.
While holding tightly to the white gift tag attached to Turkey-zilla, so as to prevent poachers from snagging him for themselves, with my free hand I summoned a stockman. He took one look at my big guy and ran to get one of those wheelie things often used to carry big screen televisions. He and a couple of his stockman buddies hoisted Turkey-zilla into the trunk of my car and I left the parking lot for home with sparks flying behind me as my Chevette's rear end drug the pavement.
Back in my cracker-box apartment, after having lugged Turkey-zilla into my kitchen with the help of some burly construction workers, it dawned on me for the first time that my future main course was in need of a good defrost. With Thanksgiving now only hours away, I knew time was of the essence.
I tried absolutely everything to thaw that bird. I grabbed my high-powered hair dryer and stood blowing over the enormous turkey-cicle for no less than three hours. Nothing happened.
I held a lighter to it until my thumb was nearly destroyed from the repeated flicking of the Bic. Nothing happened.
Having recently read a book about some survivors of a crashed airplane in a desolate frozen land who had huddled together naked to produce maximum body heat, I finally resorted to taking off all my clothes and cuddling up with it under a blanket. Nothing happened.
Well, that's not entirely true. I did develop frost bite in an area that was going to be tough to explain to my gynecologist.
At about midnight on Turkey Eating Eve, I realized that the only way this bird was ever going to thaw was in my oven. I would just cook this booger over night. No dead bird was going to outsmart me.
"You just make sure you stuff the bird before you cook it," said the man for whom I was going to all this trouble. "It wouldn't be Thanksgiving if you didn't stuff the turkey."
Oh I'll stuff the turkey, all right. You just bend over, grab your ankles and....
Well, that's what I was thinking. But because I was a young wife and did not yet possess a fully formed adult female backbone, I grabbed four containers of Box Full O' Stuffing and mixed it all up with my hands. I was met with some difficulty when the time came to insert the mixture into Turkey-zilla. If you've ever tried to stuff an ice cube, you'll appreciate my dilemma.
But, I was tougher than this giant bird cadaver and by sheer force of will, I managed to get some of the mixture into crevices I found in the bird. I turned the oven to a comfortable 275 degrees, shoved the monster in and went to bed fully confident that I would wake up to a lovely roasted turkey.
By now, it was about 5:30 in the morning. Dinner was to be served at 1:00 that afternoon.
I woke up at ten or so, took a shower, put a couple coats of shellac on my hair and slipped into my best Leave It To Beaver mom dress and heels before toddling to the kitchen in my lacey apron to prepare everything else that was needed to make Thanksgiving a culinary success.
I chopped, I diced and I mixed, all the while humming The Old Rugged Cross and stopping only periodically to deliver celery stuffed with goo to Number One and our guests. At nineteen, I was more of a grown-up than I had ever been and in just a few short hours my husband was going to see what a deal he got when he married me.
12:30. Time to whip out Turkey-zilla and dazzle all that were present. When I opened the oven door, I noticed that my Thanksgiving centerpiece wasn't nearly as golden brown as the ones I'd seen in magazines and on television. Must be the bad lighting in my kitchen, I reasoned. Besides, I was sure they probably doctored those famous turkeys up just like they do super models with Max Factor and blush.
"Oh Huuuunnneeeeey!," I called proudly to my husband. "Would you like to do the honors and carve the bird? He's too big to carry to the table, so I thought we'd slice him up in the kitchen first."
Number one proudly took hold of his man-sized cutting utensils and commenced to doing the only productive thing a man does on Thanksgiving.
"That's odd," he said. "I seem to have found something in the turkey."
"Of course you did, silly. I stuffed the bird just the way you asked me." Just to be certain though, I checked to make sure I still had on my wedding rings and my watch.
"No. This is not stuffing. You did remove the little bags inside the turkey before you cooked it, didn't you?"
My mind was racing. Bags? What bags? I didn't know nothing about no bags! Thinking quickly I answered, "I'm from Bangladesh and it is our ancient custom to leave bags inside our Thanksgiving turkeys. In fact if you are the lucky one to find a bag, you will prosper greatly all year long."
"You're from North Carolina." said One.
Damn his brilliance.
It seems that for some bizarre reason, manufacturers of dead turkeys remove their inner most parts and shove them into paper bags which should evidently be removed before baking. Who knew?
Later that afternoon, sitting with my husband and all his friends around our tiny dining room table on this my first holiday away from home, I felt a sense of real grown-up pride. I had prepared my first Thanksgiving dinner all by myself and everyone seemed to be truly enjoying it. Once I picked all the paper out of it, that is.
"This is wonderful, Sherri. I appreciate your having me over," said one of my guests. "But, I have to admit I've never had rare turkey before. It's very different."
"Well, I'm from Bangladesh and undercooked Thanksgiving poultry is a delicacy there."
And as we would soon discover, so is a trip to the emergency room for food poisoning after a holiday meal.
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
Friday, November 05, 2004
Somebody call Jerry. I'm gonna need a telethon.
As we've established in earlier articles, I've been recently diagnosed with a disease called Hashimoto's. I have to admit that at first I was a little down about the whole thing. Having any illness is a bummer, even one as silly sounding as mine.
But then it occurred to me. I have an illness about which no one in my life has ever heard. They don't understand what it is and even more importantly, what it is not. My family doesn't understand it. My friends don't understand it. Not even my tiny Yorkie, Tanner has a clue.
I could work with this.
So, I called a family meeting. "Family, I have a dread disease that I contracted while eating bad Chinese food called Hashimoto's. It's a devastating blow to be sure, but I know with your help and support I will somehow manage to live my life with at least some degree of meaning and value."
Thus my evil plan was launched.
Of course, Mr. Man was with me when I was diagnosed by Dr. I'm Not From Around Here, so I had some concern that fooling him might offer a challenge. But thankfully with my mister, as is the case with most misters, I simply have to pepper our conversations with words like ovaries and Fallopian tubes and he is perfectly willing to believe anything I tell him. So long as he does not have to go to Wal-Mart and shop for my ultra-absorbent feminine things with wings, he asks no questions.
I'm not gon'na kid you. It's been pretty sweet around here since I started being diseased and all. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.
"Hey Mom," called my wonderful ten-year-old son from his bedroom at 9:30 p.m. the other night. "I need no less than one-hundred-forty-two cupcakes by tomorrow morning for the school carnival. Sorry, I forgot to tell you."
"Oh son. I'm so sorry. I have Hashimoto's Disease, remember? I'm not allowed to touch anything with Pillsbury or Duncan Hines in it. I just feel terrible."
"Tee-hee-hee," I cackled. This idea of mine is a thing of beauty.
"Honey," said Mr. Man as he was getting ready for work, "I can't find any socks. Have you done laundry lately?"
Putting on my most pathetic face I softly whispered, "I can no longer do the laundry, my poor, wonderful husband for alas I am afflicted with the Hashimoto's. If I so much as touch the knob of the washing machine, my Fallopian tubes will begin to....."
"That's ok. Never mind. I'll just wear your panty hose instead."
Mr. Man has issues of his own.
This mysterious illness of mine has also proven to be a stroke of luck with people outside my family as well.
"Mrs. Crazy On Your Face, this is Chatty Cathy from the church. I'm calling to ask if you wouldn't mind volunteering a few decades of your time to our community outreach program to sew shawls for the criminally insane?"
"Well Cathy, here's the thing," I said. "The last time I actually picked up a needle and thread was my freshman year of high school when I attempted to sew a stuffed mushroom in Home Ec. for which I was rewarded with the grade of F minus. That's why all Mr. Man's buttons are stapled on and why my son wears duct tape patches on the knees of his jeans.
"But, because it's for the criminally insane and all, I'd be willing to try were it not for this horrible disease I have contracted called Hashimoto's. If I should accidentally prick my finger in the course of shawl making, I'd fall into a deep sleep which would last for many years and I could only be awoken by the kiss of a handsome prince, which as you know are completely extinct."
For a second there, I thought I may have gone too far. Thankfully, Cathy is barren and as such has never read a fairy tale in her life. Thus her interest in the shawls for the crazy criminals campaign.
"Sher," said my friend Trixie over lunch at Big Bob's House of Beef & Pie, "I wonder if I could ask a little favor? It's my birthday next week and my hubby wants to take me out for a night on the town. Would you mind sitting with little Timmy for the evening?"
"Darn it all, I can't. As much as I love being kept awake all night by a screaming, pooping, smelly bundle of joy, I've got the Hashimoto's now and I have to be careful. It is contagious after all, but oddly enough only to babies and telemarketers."
"Oh my gosh!" said Trixie. "My sister has Hashimoto's Disease, too!"
Oh crap. I'm busted for sure. My ride on the Hashimoto's gravy train has come to the end of the line.
"She has an especially severe case of it," Trixie explained. "She's so sick that I have to go over and clean her house and cook her food every day and once a month, my family and I pay for her trip to see her specialist in Vegas."
"Would you have her give me a call?" I asked. "I'm going to need the name of that specialist."
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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
But then it occurred to me. I have an illness about which no one in my life has ever heard. They don't understand what it is and even more importantly, what it is not. My family doesn't understand it. My friends don't understand it. Not even my tiny Yorkie, Tanner has a clue.
I could work with this.
So, I called a family meeting. "Family, I have a dread disease that I contracted while eating bad Chinese food called Hashimoto's. It's a devastating blow to be sure, but I know with your help and support I will somehow manage to live my life with at least some degree of meaning and value."
Thus my evil plan was launched.
Of course, Mr. Man was with me when I was diagnosed by Dr. I'm Not From Around Here, so I had some concern that fooling him might offer a challenge. But thankfully with my mister, as is the case with most misters, I simply have to pepper our conversations with words like ovaries and Fallopian tubes and he is perfectly willing to believe anything I tell him. So long as he does not have to go to Wal-Mart and shop for my ultra-absorbent feminine things with wings, he asks no questions.
I'm not gon'na kid you. It's been pretty sweet around here since I started being diseased and all. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner.
"Hey Mom," called my wonderful ten-year-old son from his bedroom at 9:30 p.m. the other night. "I need no less than one-hundred-forty-two cupcakes by tomorrow morning for the school carnival. Sorry, I forgot to tell you."
"Oh son. I'm so sorry. I have Hashimoto's Disease, remember? I'm not allowed to touch anything with Pillsbury or Duncan Hines in it. I just feel terrible."
"Tee-hee-hee," I cackled. This idea of mine is a thing of beauty.
"Honey," said Mr. Man as he was getting ready for work, "I can't find any socks. Have you done laundry lately?"
Putting on my most pathetic face I softly whispered, "I can no longer do the laundry, my poor, wonderful husband for alas I am afflicted with the Hashimoto's. If I so much as touch the knob of the washing machine, my Fallopian tubes will begin to....."
"That's ok. Never mind. I'll just wear your panty hose instead."
Mr. Man has issues of his own.
This mysterious illness of mine has also proven to be a stroke of luck with people outside my family as well.
"Mrs. Crazy On Your Face, this is Chatty Cathy from the church. I'm calling to ask if you wouldn't mind volunteering a few decades of your time to our community outreach program to sew shawls for the criminally insane?"
"Well Cathy, here's the thing," I said. "The last time I actually picked up a needle and thread was my freshman year of high school when I attempted to sew a stuffed mushroom in Home Ec. for which I was rewarded with the grade of F minus. That's why all Mr. Man's buttons are stapled on and why my son wears duct tape patches on the knees of his jeans.
"But, because it's for the criminally insane and all, I'd be willing to try were it not for this horrible disease I have contracted called Hashimoto's. If I should accidentally prick my finger in the course of shawl making, I'd fall into a deep sleep which would last for many years and I could only be awoken by the kiss of a handsome prince, which as you know are completely extinct."
For a second there, I thought I may have gone too far. Thankfully, Cathy is barren and as such has never read a fairy tale in her life. Thus her interest in the shawls for the crazy criminals campaign.
"Sher," said my friend Trixie over lunch at Big Bob's House of Beef & Pie, "I wonder if I could ask a little favor? It's my birthday next week and my hubby wants to take me out for a night on the town. Would you mind sitting with little Timmy for the evening?"
"Darn it all, I can't. As much as I love being kept awake all night by a screaming, pooping, smelly bundle of joy, I've got the Hashimoto's now and I have to be careful. It is contagious after all, but oddly enough only to babies and telemarketers."
"Oh my gosh!" said Trixie. "My sister has Hashimoto's Disease, too!"
Oh crap. I'm busted for sure. My ride on the Hashimoto's gravy train has come to the end of the line.
"She has an especially severe case of it," Trixie explained. "She's so sick that I have to go over and clean her house and cook her food every day and once a month, my family and I pay for her trip to see her specialist in Vegas."
"Would you have her give me a call?" I asked. "I'm going to need the name of that specialist."
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
Visit HumorLinks on the web!
Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
The dickens you say.
Bless my heart, I am not a well woman. I've seen just about as many doctors lately as I have ex-husbands in search of a diagnosis for what's been ailing me.
A diagnosis and high-quality prescription medications, of course.
It all started some time ago. I began to notice how unbelievably tired I was no matter how little I actually did. My face looked puffy, my skin was dry, and my sharp as a tack mind could be better described as a dull butter knife that couldn't cut warm butter.
And then one day back in May, while applying the third coat of my Kilz-like make-up, I happened to notice a lump on my throat. I was somewhat distressed.
"I'm dying! I'm dying!" I screamed at the top of my lungs to my Yorkie while clutching my throat and weeping uncontrollably. "Sweet Jesus, I'm dying!"
In my terror, I immediately called Mr. Man, all my relatives and the nearby funeral home. "It's probably just a swollen gland," said Mr. Man, all my relatives and the lady that answered the phone at the funeral home. That's all I needed to hear. Swollen glands were normal. Everyone gets those from time to time. It would simply go away on it's own, I reasoned.
Not so much.
Months passed and during the routine spackling ritual of the crevices in my face one morning, I noticed the lump was still right where I left it... only bigger. It was now the Lump That Ate Manhattan.
"I'm dying! I'm dying!" I screamed at the top of my lungs to my Yorkie, who by this time was used to my high drama in the mornings and didn't even bother to look up from his chew toy. I called Mr. Man, all my relatives and the funeral home.
"Make an appointment with the doctor," Mr. Man said.
"Let us know what you find out," all my relatives said.
"I'll be over later with a measuring tape and some fabric samples," the lady that answered the phone at the funeral home said.
So began my medical saga. During the months since, I have been sufficiently poked, inappropriately touched, comprehensively studied and staggeringly billed. And for all my pain and suffering, only this past week did I finally receive a diagnosis.
"You have Hashimoto's Disease," said the man in the white coat that I assume was an actual doctor.
"Oh no!" I screeched. "That's even worse than I expected. That explains my fascination with bells, and why I have to wear so much make-up to wander free among the pretty people, but I thought the lump was supposed to be on my back."
"He said Hashimoto's Disease, Honey. Not Quasimodo's Disease," Mr. Man explained.
In my defense, my doctor is not from around here. I can only understand about every third word he says. He asked me once if I had "cistus" and I told him I thought I'd had it once when I was a kid, but I'd have to call my Mother to make sure.
"No, no. Not dat," he said smiling. "Do jew hab da cistus? Dit jew mutter hab moe dan one ghoul?"
"Oh. Yes she did," I answered. "My Mutter had two ghouls.
"So, I have something called Hashimoto's, huh?" I asked suspiciously. "Frankly, Doc, I think you're just making up words at this point. At least have the decency to make up an illness that sounds legitimate."
After I made him swear on the stack of 1985 Lady Golfer magazines in his exam room, I finally accepted that he wasn't pulling my leg. Well, actually he did pull my leg but I assume that was part of the exam. Or a fertility ritual of some sort. I couldn't understand him when he explained.
Apparently my pituitary has turned on my innocent thyroid and is attacking it as if it were an enemy. As a result, my thyroid is not doing it's work which results in all the wonderful symptoms I've been having and the unsightly lump on my neck.
When I think about it, I imagine George C. Scott as General Patton running around in my head leading the charge on my thyroid while yelling to his troops, "Lead me, follow me or get out of my way!" I can almost feel the tiny bayonets piercing my throat as these microscopic soldiers lay siege to my poor, little thyroid.
War is hell.
I tell you what else is hell. As I write, I am waiting on his nurse to call with my scheduled biopsy appointment so that Blue Cross/Blue Shield can make the down payment on my doctor's summer home in the Hamptons. I'm very excited.
"Vatever you do, pease do not go home and vurry. Der is a very goot chance dat you do not hab de cancer," he said in an effort to reassure me as I left his office.
"No problem, Doc. I've never been one to worry."
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
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Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
Bless my heart, I am not a well woman. I've seen just about as many doctors lately as I have ex-husbands in search of a diagnosis for what's been ailing me.
A diagnosis and high-quality prescription medications, of course.
It all started some time ago. I began to notice how unbelievably tired I was no matter how little I actually did. My face looked puffy, my skin was dry, and my sharp as a tack mind could be better described as a dull butter knife that couldn't cut warm butter.
And then one day back in May, while applying the third coat of my Kilz-like make-up, I happened to notice a lump on my throat. I was somewhat distressed.
"I'm dying! I'm dying!" I screamed at the top of my lungs to my Yorkie while clutching my throat and weeping uncontrollably. "Sweet Jesus, I'm dying!"
In my terror, I immediately called Mr. Man, all my relatives and the nearby funeral home. "It's probably just a swollen gland," said Mr. Man, all my relatives and the lady that answered the phone at the funeral home. That's all I needed to hear. Swollen glands were normal. Everyone gets those from time to time. It would simply go away on it's own, I reasoned.
Not so much.
Months passed and during the routine spackling ritual of the crevices in my face one morning, I noticed the lump was still right where I left it... only bigger. It was now the Lump That Ate Manhattan.
"I'm dying! I'm dying!" I screamed at the top of my lungs to my Yorkie, who by this time was used to my high drama in the mornings and didn't even bother to look up from his chew toy. I called Mr. Man, all my relatives and the funeral home.
"Make an appointment with the doctor," Mr. Man said.
"Let us know what you find out," all my relatives said.
"I'll be over later with a measuring tape and some fabric samples," the lady that answered the phone at the funeral home said.
So began my medical saga. During the months since, I have been sufficiently poked, inappropriately touched, comprehensively studied and staggeringly billed. And for all my pain and suffering, only this past week did I finally receive a diagnosis.
"You have Hashimoto's Disease," said the man in the white coat that I assume was an actual doctor.
"Oh no!" I screeched. "That's even worse than I expected. That explains my fascination with bells, and why I have to wear so much make-up to wander free among the pretty people, but I thought the lump was supposed to be on my back."
"He said Hashimoto's Disease, Honey. Not Quasimodo's Disease," Mr. Man explained.
In my defense, my doctor is not from around here. I can only understand about every third word he says. He asked me once if I had "cistus" and I told him I thought I'd had it once when I was a kid, but I'd have to call my Mother to make sure.
"No, no. Not dat," he said smiling. "Do jew hab da cistus? Dit jew mutter hab moe dan one ghoul?"
"Oh. Yes she did," I answered. "My Mutter had two ghouls.
"So, I have something called Hashimoto's, huh?" I asked suspiciously. "Frankly, Doc, I think you're just making up words at this point. At least have the decency to make up an illness that sounds legitimate."
After I made him swear on the stack of 1985 Lady Golfer magazines in his exam room, I finally accepted that he wasn't pulling my leg. Well, actually he did pull my leg but I assume that was part of the exam. Or a fertility ritual of some sort. I couldn't understand him when he explained.
Apparently my pituitary has turned on my innocent thyroid and is attacking it as if it were an enemy. As a result, my thyroid is not doing it's work which results in all the wonderful symptoms I've been having and the unsightly lump on my neck.
When I think about it, I imagine George C. Scott as General Patton running around in my head leading the charge on my thyroid while yelling to his troops, "Lead me, follow me or get out of my way!" I can almost feel the tiny bayonets piercing my throat as these microscopic soldiers lay siege to my poor, little thyroid.
War is hell.
I tell you what else is hell. As I write, I am waiting on his nurse to call with my scheduled biopsy appointment so that Blue Cross/Blue Shield can make the down payment on my doctor's summer home in the Hamptons. I'm very excited.
"Vatever you do, pease do not go home and vurry. Der is a very goot chance dat you do not hab de cancer," he said in an effort to reassure me as I left his office.
"No problem, Doc. I've never been one to worry."
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
Visit HumorLinks on the web!
Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
Tuesday, November 02, 2004
My friends call me Annie.
I never cease to amaze myself, for truly I am a woman of many talents. I can boil hotdogs and almost never burn them. I can clean the lint from the dryer using only two hands. And, if the moon is correctly aligned with Nebraska, I can drive and recite the Pledge of Allegiance simultaneously... which as a good American I often do.
Clearly you can see why I find myself so entirely amazing. I am nothing short of a renaissance woman. You may now worship me as a goddess and if you are so inclined, offer me money to purchase my life sized cardboard cut out replica.
But yesterday, a new and completely heretofore unknown natural talent of mine surfaced which produced a certain level of shock and awe among those that were fortunate enough to witness it.
It seems that I am quite a good shot. With a gun, that is. I found myself in a situation that involved a long gun and things that didn't necessarily want to be shot and I simply couldn't help myself. I had an overwhelming desire to put a bullet in them. I attribute my murderous rampage to my low estrogen level. Let that be a warning to anyone that is considering aggravating a menopausal woman.
Gun in hand, I lifted the cold steel to touch my right cheek. I looked down the long barrel and as instructed, I closed my left eye and lined up the sites with the other. My hands trembled slightly as I found my aim and when I was certain I could make the shot, I pulled the trigger.
My target was hit. I was the victorious hunter. I had no idea pulling the trigger of a powerful gun could be so exhilarating! And a kill with my very first shot! Based upon the gasps of those nearby, I'm fairly certain such a hit the first time you pick up a gun is quite rare. I even heard one man mutter that he'd never seen a woman shoot like that.
A tear found it's way down my cheek as I walked slowly to where my fallen prey lie still. I knelt down beside it's lifeless body and offered a prayer to the universe to receive my victim's spirit and to give thanks for a good hunt.
"Excuse me! Ma'am? Ma'am? You are not allowed to jump the counter, Ma'am. And please leave the pink turtle where it is. If you want to shoot it again, you'll have to pay fifty cents like everyone else."
Oh, I'll shoot it again. Right after I remove this tethered rifle from your teenaged behind. I wonder if Annie Oakley got this kind of treatment?
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
Visit HumorLinks on the web!
Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
I never cease to amaze myself, for truly I am a woman of many talents. I can boil hotdogs and almost never burn them. I can clean the lint from the dryer using only two hands. And, if the moon is correctly aligned with Nebraska, I can drive and recite the Pledge of Allegiance simultaneously... which as a good American I often do.
Clearly you can see why I find myself so entirely amazing. I am nothing short of a renaissance woman. You may now worship me as a goddess and if you are so inclined, offer me money to purchase my life sized cardboard cut out replica.
But yesterday, a new and completely heretofore unknown natural talent of mine surfaced which produced a certain level of shock and awe among those that were fortunate enough to witness it.
It seems that I am quite a good shot. With a gun, that is. I found myself in a situation that involved a long gun and things that didn't necessarily want to be shot and I simply couldn't help myself. I had an overwhelming desire to put a bullet in them. I attribute my murderous rampage to my low estrogen level. Let that be a warning to anyone that is considering aggravating a menopausal woman.
Gun in hand, I lifted the cold steel to touch my right cheek. I looked down the long barrel and as instructed, I closed my left eye and lined up the sites with the other. My hands trembled slightly as I found my aim and when I was certain I could make the shot, I pulled the trigger.
My target was hit. I was the victorious hunter. I had no idea pulling the trigger of a powerful gun could be so exhilarating! And a kill with my very first shot! Based upon the gasps of those nearby, I'm fairly certain such a hit the first time you pick up a gun is quite rare. I even heard one man mutter that he'd never seen a woman shoot like that.
A tear found it's way down my cheek as I walked slowly to where my fallen prey lie still. I knelt down beside it's lifeless body and offered a prayer to the universe to receive my victim's spirit and to give thanks for a good hunt.
"Excuse me! Ma'am? Ma'am? You are not allowed to jump the counter, Ma'am. And please leave the pink turtle where it is. If you want to shoot it again, you'll have to pay fifty cents like everyone else."
Oh, I'll shoot it again. Right after I remove this tethered rifle from your teenaged behind. I wonder if Annie Oakley got this kind of treatment?
Visit Ms. Crazy On Her Face Online
Visit HumorLinks on the web!
Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.
HSVentures@cableone.net
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