BREAKING NEWS!
Seriously, this qualifies as Breaking News given that it took 3 months, two bottles of Motrin, 7 candlelit Calgon-style baths, and 3 37 made-up obscenities to get to this point.
But….I’m ridiculously thrilled to announce that You Cannot Be Serious is now (FINALLY!) available for download onto the iPad, iPod, iPhone, and all other “i” devices! Click here for details….
Moving on (’cause that’s what we do ’round here)…
A few weeks ago I had an appointment with a new gynecologist. (Don’t worry; this isn’t going to get graphic.)
As an aside, what is it about the gynecologist whereby, pre-children, it’s a dreaded appointment and post-children you almost want to go twice a year because you are asked to lie down and someone asks questions—albeit awfully personal ones—about how you are doing.
This being my first appointment with this new doctor, she understandably had a slew of questions for me.
Did I say “a slew?” It was more like an avalanche.
Let’s just say that I think I discussed all the kids’ births, but I may have added a kid, or forgotten one, or embellished one’s birth weight. By several pounds.
Anyway, the questions began innocently enough.
“Do you exercise?”
My response: “Please define exercise.”
“Ok. I’ll put ‘moderate.’ Do you smoke?”
“Never.”
“Do you drink?”
“I wish.”
“Any street drugs? Meth? Cocaine?”
Silence.
“I’m sorry, WHAT?” I finally responded.
And, just as flatly as she asked the first time, she repeated, “Any street drugs? Meth? Cocaine?”
“NO! Good Lord, does anyone ever say ‘Yes?’” I inquired.
“You’d be surprised,” she revealed. “I had a woman a few weeks ago admit that she does meth on occasion so that she can stay up for several days at a time.”
“Wait,” I intervened, “Can you even do meth ‘on occasion?’”
“Well…” she attempted to answer.
“And, let me just ask,” I continued (because, hell, I’m paying for the appointment) “What do you even SAY to someone who says that? Do you say, ‘Have you ever heard of coffee’?”
“Yes, it’s awkward,” she stated.
I should say so.
So while I began that month concerned about my addiction to Pinterest, I was left feeling much better after this conversation, knowing that, indeed, it could be worse.
Lots worse.
Oy to the vey.
Source: vi.sualize.us via Elizabeth on Pinterest
Once upon a time, there was this guy.
Which, by the way, is how the most awful of stories usually begin.
Anyway, there was this guy, this guy who I was just sure I was going to spend the rest of my days with. Because when you’re 18, you know everything. In fact, when you’re 12 you know everything. For real. Just ask my daughter.
So there was this guy, and there was also this girl. Not me. Another girl. A girl who, one afternoon during a particularly boring Earth Science class, dared me to get a tattoo of The Guy Who I Knew I’d Never Be Without.
Unable to say No to a dare (I can today, people, so don’t even try it), I did it. Yep. It was awesome. And by awesome I mean that my father STILL doesn’t know about it.
I remember when I showed it to my mother in our den just after it had been done (God forbid I tell her before, and I still don’t know what possessed me to tell her ever). It was still, shall we say, oozing. And she just said, “Oh! Oh my! Um, do not tell your father.” And that was that.
And that boy and I? We totally were together for the rest of…that month.
Seriously, my advice to today’s youth? If you ever want to permanently break up with someone, just get their name permanently inked on your body. That ought to firm up that “there is no way I can’t be with you forever” mentality for, oh, a few weeks at best.
Obviously, I could not keep this moniker on my hip forever. So back I went to the glorious tattoo studio (and by glorious I mean that I’m real lucky I didn’t walk out of there with anything in addition to a tattoo), and said, “You have to do something with this.”
To which the tattoo guy responded, “Uh, that will be difficult. All I can really do is make it a rose. And it will have to be blue.”
Because that makes sense. A blue rose. You see those everywhere. Clearly, this guy was creatively challenged.
So, a blue rose it became. It’s awful with a capital A.
However, I recently gleaned a glimpse of Bret Michaels’ Every Rose Has Its Thorn motorcycle, and as it turns out, the rose on that bike looks almost identical to the one on my hip. IT’S EVEN BLUE! So now I simply tell people that this whole thing worked out exactly as it was supposed to.
I’m sure Bret would not be at all freaked out.
But now I’m thinking of getting a tattoo that actually means something to me (beyond representing my very public love for Bret Michaels). So I’ve started a Pinterest tattoo board to keep track of what I like. And I don’t know that I’ll ever do it. But let me tell you, trying to narrow down the field to what one thing you’d ink permanently onto your person is a great way to learn a bit about yourself on a Monday afternoon.
Just Saying.
