Sunday, May 22, 2011

Rock lobster

You woul think someone who lives in constant fear of any form of cancer would take precautions to prevent it.  I believe dark chocolate is cancer, brownie bits are cancer, and I definitely can't forget the zit I thought was cancer.  In order to alleviate these fears, you would think that I would use SPF 150 religiously.


That would make way too much sense.  I went to an outdoor festival yesterday and I probably should have put on some sort of sun screen before heading out.  For someone with skin whose natural color would rival Casper the Friendly Ghost, I should be using something.  Instead my legs look like I oiled them up with PAM for their day in the sun.  The rest of me is fine.  I did have sunscreen on my face and it maintained it's natural pasty white. 

My legs look like glowing red apendages.  It hurts to touch them.  It hurts to walk because that bends the skin.  It hurts to wear anything that hits below the knee.  It hurts to shower in anything besides ice water.  I walk around singing "Rock Lobster" by the B-52s to my legs: 

It wasn't a was a rock lobster!

Now to go take some more Tylenol and slather my legs with aloe....

Monday, May 16, 2011

Crazy trains and chocolate

A glimpse into the inner-workings of my mind (whether you want it or not)....

The other day I was sitting my office at work and a friend comes in to discuss some students.  At the same time I look down at my forearm...

As she is telling me what could have been very important news, I am now horrified by what I see on my arm.  There, unbeknownst to me, has formed a very large and scary mole.  I mentally run through the A, B, C, D's of skin cancer.  Asymmetrical?  Check.  Border all wiggly? Check. Color uneven?  Check.  Diameter larger than 6 millimeters?  Dunno, but I am sure it is close! 

I interrupt my friend with this terrifying news, "Look at this.  No, I mean LOOK at it! I have to call the doctor RIGHT. NOW."  I even run my finger over it to illustrate the fact that it is raised also. 

She looks at me, looks at my arm, looks back at me, and leaves.  She knows better than to derail the crazy train sometimes.  As I am googling my doctor's number I hit my arm against the desk.  My mole of death fell right off.  It also smeared a little bit...kinda like chocolate...kinda like the Hershey's Dark Chocolate that I had been nibbling on earlier. 

Oh.  Crisis averted.  For now. 

At least I didn't go to the doctor and pay the $20 copay for chocolate.

Thursday, May 5, 2011

Automobile diagnosis routines

My car is about to roll over to the 100,000 mile mark.  I watch the odometer incessantly in case I miss the historic moment.  I plan on photographing it as well, even if I am speeding down the interstate.  That should go over well.
Along with its 100,000 miles of road underneath it, my car is starting to show its age.  I have whined already about the high cost of car maintenance (tires, timing belt, thingy that makes heat in the winter, etc.).  But things keep breaking on it.
My first car was a 1987 Ford Mustang (jealous?  Hmmm, neither was anyone else at the time).  Each time this fabulous machine developed a new noise, I would just turn up the radio.  If I couldn’t hear it, it wasn’t there.  The only way I would get something fixed was if it quit running (unfortunately this was not an uncommon occurrence).  I have grown a smidgen wiser and now whenever a new noise develops, I panic and diagnose my car with same fervor I diagnose myself with cancer on a daily basis.
The other day I was driving down the interstate and I changed lanes.  My right turn signal went “tikka-tikka-tikka.”  I know you are thinking “who cares?” but I cared because it usually makes more of a “doinka-doinka-doinka” noise.  I immediately swerved back into the other lane as an excuse to use my left turn signal to see if it went doinka or tikka.  I heard doinka, so now I had to swerve back into the right lane so I could listen to the other signal again for comparison.  Envision this...a car speeding down the road weaving in and out of traffic and tailgating everyone with chrome bumpers (so I could see my turn signal before each lane swerve to make sure they were both blinking at the same intervals).   I could imagine how this conversation would go with the police officer:
“Ma’am, do you know why I pulled you over?”
“Nope.”  I always answer this way.
“You were speeding at well over the speed limit and driving erratically.  Have you been drinking?”
“(uncomfortable laughter) Oh, no officer.  My right turn signal was making a tikka-tikka-tikka sound and it usually goes doinka-doinka-doinka.  I was listening to my turn signals and I would look stupid if I was just driving in one lane with my turn signals going on and off.”
“Ma’am, I need you to step out of the car and take this breathalyzer test.”
Thankfully, I determined at the end of my highly safe experiment that my signals are both making doinka sounds.
Next the airbag sensor light wouldn’t turn off.  I frantically texted one of my friends (at a stoplight!  I was being safe!) to see what he thought of this newest car development.  He asks me if the horn is working.  So now I am driving down the road randomly testing the horn.  Drivers were swerving to avoid me as I honked my way down the street.  At the next stoplight (because I don’t text while driving) I texted him back to let him know the horn was working and that I only caused one car to leave the road.  His response?  “Good, because without an airbag you will need your horn.”  Too bad hand signals don’t convey through text messages. 
Luckily my airbag light magically went off and I am considering it a miracle healing. 
I wonder what I will have to diagnose next?