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May 15, 2006

She was about an inch in size and I decided to name her Gladys.

Have I told ya’ll about Gladys? No? Well, let me go back a little ways and start this little tale in October of last year.

It was around the18th and I felt like Mister was sitting on my chest. I couldn’t breath and I decided that that was a bad thing so I went to see my general practitioner. His name is Eduardo and he is hot.

Eduardo being hot didn’t help the fact that I couldn’t breath. Let me preface this by saying that I didn’t have a cold, I have never had asthma and I wasn’t smoking. Eduardo took my blood pressure and it was heart attack over aneurysm. Apparently I was having some sort of anxiety attack, but to be sure that I wasn’t having a pulmonary aneurysm (Lord, that sounds so scary) Eduardo sent me to have a CT (cat scan) done with contrast.

The test was completed and the radiologist called Eduardo and let him know I was in the clear. Eduardo called me at the hospital and told me I could leave because I was fine. Cool. Good. That is nice to know because I was leaving for Austin the next day and was planning on lifting many heavy boxes and getting no sleep and helping a coworker out with a conference… and our director was going to be there.

The next day the three of us left for Austin at 6 am. We arrived, had the pre-con meeting, set up the conference and… well, my nose started bleeding… copiously. I was so embarrassed. My blood pressure was up, anxiety was sitting on my shoulders and I was trying not to pay any attention to it… so it decided to make my blood pressure shoot up so high that I got a bloody nose. Gross.

The next two days, while I was trying to register people for the conference, take care of details and make sure things went smoothly; my nose kept on bleeding. I would sneeze and have to run to the restroom all hunched over with Kleenex shoved into my face as not to ruin my little staff shirt, the hotel carpet or an errant Maltese. I think that my red staff shirt still has a little dark spot right between the boobs that I have never been able to get out.

I know you all want me. It’s in your eyes.

I’ve told you all before, it is hard work being this sexy.

So I was fine in the lung department but because my blood pressure was so crazy high and I was anxious enough to warrant some anti-anxiety medication, Eduardo scheduled a stress test for me that following Monday.

Yay, run-walking (they won’t let you jog) on a treadmill that is at like 40 degrees on a Monday morning before I go to work. Just how I want to start my week. But the people were very nice and it turns out my heart is like that of an eighteen year old. Now, if I could just get my ass to be like that of an eighteen year old we’d be in business.

So, what was the deal? Am I just getting older? (Shut up.) Is it my diet? Or lack thereof? My lack of exercise and complete disregard for losing weight? (Again, shut up.) I would have to say yes. Eduardo called me in to go over the test results so he could show me the information that the radiologist found. Oh, I made time for that… in like December or January. Yeah, I was all about this being a big deal. Very Johnny-On-the-Spot and all that.

Eduardo showed me that they had found a little hemangioma on my liver. She was about an inch in size and I decided to name her Gladys. I am not, nor have I been worried about Gladys. A hemangioma; by definition; is a benign tumor or birthmark consisting of a dense, often raised cluster of blood vessels in the skin. Mine, just happens to be in my liver. And Google tells me that she may be making an appearance because of the many years of birth control pills that I have ingested.

Eduardo said that I shouldn’t worry… but then he started wanting me to get scanned every month or so. So I got scanned… well sonogrammed, in March… and I went to get a CT with contrast this morning. So what if I haven’t made it to get scanned every freaking month. Eduardo is hot, yes, and he is sweet, and concerned about Mister and me. But I am busy… what, with all of my sitting around and watching eighteen hours of Grey’s Anatomy… I just couldn’t find time for six freaking cat scans this year.

When I got the ultrasound in March it was nice, I went in on a Saturday and drank six gallons of water so my bladder would be full. The lady who did the test was awesome and very complimentary of my cute little red corduroy jacket. She even tried it on. She also showed me my uterus and my ovaries and all of my business looks like it is in perfect working order… you know, for all of those children I am not having. The test was over quickly and painlessly. Thank God the sonogram(-ist?) person could find all of my business without having to do one of those internal sonograms.

You ladies know what I am talking about. Can I get a what-what?

I didn’t think much when I went in to see Eduardo to go over the sonogram test results… everything appears to be in normal working order and Gladys has… what? She’s gotten bigger? Well, that bitch.

Eduardo asked if I would get another CT done. Because, ya’ll know I have all of this extra cash just lying around in stacks all over the house. The new house… that we just bought and paid a frillion dollars for eleventy inspections, reinspections, movers, the precious, the new living room furniture and a freaking cook top. You know… that extra cash, right?

So, fine… we have to keep an eye on little fatty boombalatty Gladys to make sure she doesn’t get all up in my liver’s grill or anything. So I scheduled a CT scan for this morning. Well, to be honest, Eduardo had this MRI imaging place call me to make an appointment because I am all about “putting off that scan for another week or so.” So, this morning it was.

And Gladys? I feel like totally knocking her out.

I fasted because I had to get contrast done. No food or drinks for a million days before you go in for a scan. Fine… FINE. Not even water? No ma’am. But as soon as I got there they handed me a stack of papers to fill out and a cup with liquid in it. The contrast liquid that was mixed with Coca-cola.

You all know that I am mainly a water drinking girl. That milk is a big part of my daily intake and that I hardly drink any sodas. I get all talky speaky with that much sugar and the caffeine is a sure-fire way to keep me awake at night. As a matter of fact on my birthday I had a Dr. Pepper with a piece of birthday cake at work… I was so sick that evening that I almost got ill at the table when Mister took me out to celebrate for my birthday dinner. So when they handed me the contrast liquid mixed with Coke, I asked if it could be mixed with water. “No ma’am” was the reply. But they could mix it with Sprite.

I had to drink two glasses of the cursed stuff so the second one I asked to be mixed with Sprite. Regardless of what it was mixed with, it tasted like confectionary sugar mixed with carbonation. Eeesh.

They asked me to take an hour to drink that mess so when I was finished I got to put on one of those sexy gowns that open up the back. Hotness. Pure hotness.

This lady named Joan took me back to this little room to start the IV for the contrast injection. She gave me this little package with slip proof socks that were gray and I happily put them on as to add to my already attractive outfit.

Joan tied a big flat rubber band around my right arm above the elbow, asked me to squeeze this little foam airplane (with the wings ripped off) and then she started slapping the shit out of my arm. “Take that, you pale round-eye!” She screamed at me. [Smack-Smack-Smack] “I hate you and your stupid veins!”

I watched her try to raise a vein on my arm to no avail.

She tied up the other arm and started to smack it around too. “Aaarrgh! I hate my job and I am going to work my frustrations out on your pale fleshy limb.” [Smack-Smack-Smack] She stuck me with a 22 gauge needle twice; once in each arm; and then called in for reinforcements.

A boy that was so cute that I had trouble looking him directly in the eye entered the little blood-letting cubby hole. “Hi, my name is Scott.” “Sc-Sc-Scott?” I stuttered. Because I am hot like that. “Yes, Scott.” He replied. He took my right arm in his hand and ran the tips of his fingers over the crook of my elbow. “Hmmm, what do we have here?” He muttered to himself while he looked for a vein.

Joan reentered and asked if Scott wanted to use a 24 gauge needle, he agreed and gently tapped my arm looking for a vein. “I would make a poor junky, huh?” I offered cheerfully. My brain screamed at me, “Oh. My. God. What a stupid thing to say! Shut up… Shut up! I know the caffeine and sugar are making you loopy but… for the love of all that is holy, shut up. May I remind you that they have needles?”

Scott decided on a spot that he liked on my right arm and went in for the kill… and then rooted around for about twenty-fourteen minutes. I started to feel a bit sick. Then I started to feel a LOT sick. I was sweating and I asked Scott feebly, “Could we just stop that for a few minutes? I feel really sick… and… Oh Lord, do you have something I could throw up into?”

Scott gave me a trash can but left that damn needle in my arm. He also handed me a tiny little wet wipe thingy soaked in alcohol and asked me to hold it by my nose. I breathed in the abrasive smell of the alcohol while Scott fanned me with a towel. I was sexy enough to dry heave into the trash can not once, not twice…but three times. Ya’ll know Scott was beside himself with yearning for me, my fleshy no-vein-having arms and my dry heaving… oh, and the sweating. Don’t forget the sweating.

I apologized to him and quietly said, “I am so embarrassed.” He was nice enough to say, “Don’t be, it happens all the time.” He said that I probably had some double-v (Vena V---blahblahblah?... anyone? Help?) word that means how my body is responding to shock… with vomiting.

I am a card carrying member of Carter Blood Care ya’ll. I give blood freely. Need blood? Here. I am O+ and I will give you some of my life force. For FREE. Why in the hell was I having such a tough time with this IV? I needed it for the contrast. And the sugary stuff was still making my tummy all wobbly.

Scott tried one more time on my left arm and no luck. They went ahead and did the scan. Why? I don’t know. My liver probably won’t show up without the contrast… but I really don’t want to go back and drink all that shit and dry heave in front of Scott for a second time.

Stupid Gladys.

September 29, 2006

Nice chairs, sure, but I have been out here for almost an hour.

Work Phone: [ring ring ring]
self: (Workplace), Susan speaking.
Stacey: Hey.
self: ‘sup?
Stacey: Well, I was just calling for two things.
self: Thing the first?
Stacey: You gonna be able to come to happy hour tonight?
self: I think so. (Mister) has the Hantavirus or something so he is home sick. I’ll call him to make sure he doesn’t need anything but I am sure I’ll be able to come. Where are we going and can I smoke there?
Stacey: Cool. And the Fox and the Hound… yeah, you can smoke, Erica smokes.
self: Rock on. And, thing the second?
Stacey: Huh?… Oh, yeah.. uh, there’s this lady in my office.
self: ‘umkay…
Stacey: And she just got signed up to sell Mary Kay part time and I was wondering if you would like to come to one of her pampering sessions .
self: …
Stacey: So, would you?
self: … Seriously?
Stacey: ::Snort:: BWAH HA HA HA HA HA… no…. Ha… hee… no, not seriously. I was making a funny. Heh. Wouldn’t you just die though?
self: Good Lord. I thought you were being serious.
Stacey: Heh.
self: …[blink]
Stacey: Hee… heh.
self: Ok, well.. uh, call me later before you leave work.
Stacey: Right.
Work Phone: [click]

That Stacey, she slays me.

Okay. Right, so. On to Mr. Scratchy Pants. I told you guys I would tell you about the worst dermatology appointment ever didn’t I?

I’m not sure if I should set the scene or just dive right in. Let me just get to it. You guys are busy. It’s a Friday. I have some drinking and smoking to get to.

Ya’ll remember a few years ago when that little Asian woman (my dermatologist at the time) hacked into my poor little chicken leg right? And then because of that precious unicorns, sunbeams and rainbows type moment, (She was SO mean.) I started to go see the man who owned the actual practice. He removed a mole on my arm after a biopsy reported that the tissue was dysplastic and the scary word on the papers fairly screamed melanoma.

So, I have been watching my skin, wearing SPF 50 (aka flannel) and trying to stay out of the sun. (But Sue, you went to Destin… FLORIDA. Yes, I know. Kindly shut up, please.) But I knew it was time to go see the dermatologist again when a new little mole sprang forth fully formed like Athena out of Zeus' head… but more like a mole on my arm than a full human person… of Greek Mythology… or something.

So I made an appointment. But ‘lo and behold, Dr. T. sold the practice! To a young whipper snapper named Dr. Doogie Houser… er, Dr. S. So, I made the appointment and went to see him last Thursday. This also may be why I was a bit ranty when I posted the last entry.

My apologies.

Dr. S. took over the practice so Dr. T. could retire and fish or wear overalls and grow tomatoes, whatever… when Dr. S. took over the practice he fully redid the office. The waiting room has new magazines as well as two flat panel televisions which run Cirque du Soliel on a constant loop as to distract you from the amount of time that you have been waiting, waiting, waiting in this guy’s freaking office. Nice chairs, sure… but I have been out here for almost an hour you fuck.

So they called my name and I went back into the newly designed hamster cages with the new little orange plastic chairs and the walls painted sage green. They gave me a paper belly shirt (what? It was SHORT.) and a little paper “drape” to place across my thighs.

Do ya’ll remember all the classy, sexy things about me like… oh, I don’t know. Like that when I get nervous I tend to sweat like a monkey and that I have a beard hair?

Those things are pretty irrelevant, I was just checking to see where I was on ya’ll’s hot meter. Paper belly shirt? Check. Paper “drape” to lie enticingly over my thighs? Check. Nerves? Check. So because of the nerves I am slightly clammy and sticking to the naugahyde death chair that has that oh-so-important butcher paper strip down the middle of it? Checkity check check, bitches.

Epitome of hot, right there.

Hot, is all I’m sayin.

So Doogie Houser DG (Dermatology Guy) walks in after he made sure to wait until I was good and stuck to the butcher paper, he shakes my hand while not even looking at me (limp hand shake…. Eeesh) and then makes a “Take this down” gesture to his physician’s assistant. “So, you are allergic to Neosporin and polysporin… ?” “Well, I seem to be as I broke out last time when Dr. T cut out a mole and used Neosporin and polysporin. And also… um, Band-Aids.” “I see, I see… [hand to the chin in thinking pose] And why are you here today?” “Well, this little guy right here [I point to the Athena mole] has just popped up, it gets red sometimes and itchy… and it worries me.”

Ya’ll he grabbed my arm and pronounced, “BENIGN!” Like he was the ruler of my arm skin. He asked, “What else?” So I pointed to various things and these three freckle/mole things on my thighs. Two on the right, one on the left.

He stood to my left and yanked down my little paper drape to look at the freckle/mole thingies. He pronounced them “NORMAL!” and then while he was dictating information to his PA to write down in my chart he… started… well, absentmindedly scratching at my left thigh…with his fingernail. He wasn’t looking at me. He wasn’t looking at the mole. He was looking at his PA (whom he treated like chattel) and scratching at my mole/freckle thingy like it was his own personal scab.

No, I can not believe that I typed the word scab, and that I am going to leave it there. But. I am.

Scratching me like I was a scab.

I said it again.

He said, “I am going to freeze these three moles off and make you an appointment to cut out (Athena).”

He froze (by the way, OW.) the mole/freckles off and then walked out. He was in and out in less than seven minutes. SEVEN.

I asked the PA for some gauze and tape to cover the place where he burned/froze (whatever) things off (because I was BLEEDING from where he was scratching me, uuugh) and she, (deep breath Sue.) she put polysporin and Band-Aids on the freeze/burns. Hi. I am invisible. Does it not say “Allergic to Neosporin, polysporin and Band-Aids on my chart?”

Hate.

I was so upset that while I was paying my co-pay and a lady scheduled me for Dr. S to cut off the Athena mole. I just operated on pure adrenaline. I got in the car, came back to work, then promptly got sick… twice… because I was so freaked out about the scratching and the dismissive-ness and the polysporin Band-Aid thing.

I was so upset that I wrote a letter ya’ll.

I called the place, cancelled my appointments, wrote a letter telling them everything, faxed it and requested my records to be faxed to me.

It was awful.

A lady from the office called me the next day inquiring why I cancelled my appointment and I wanted to scream at her, “HE SCRATCHED ME LIKE A SCAB!” but I just politely said, “I faxed a letter over this morning, thank you, goodbye.”

Good news is that I found a new dermatology guy who has come highly recommended by… um… some person, somewhere. And I went to see him Saturday. Yes, he has Saturday hours. The man was THOUROUGH with a capital “He just looked between my toes” thorough.

Bad news is that Dr. Thorough biopsied eight places. Several places that Dr. Scratchy Pants deemed “NORMAL!” and five of them came back as dysplastic. So… because of my history with melanoma Dr. Thorough will be doing five mini surgeries on me in October.

I’ll keep ya’ll posted.

And um. Scab.

Yeah, that was gross.

July 12, 2007

He mimed holding up a pillow to his little head.

Holy spreadable cheese. I am so glad that I didn’t come back to the office on Tuesday. I was having such a fit, and it just was not ladylike at all.

Long story short? That Ear Nose Throat guy? Is... a total douche.

Long story long. You sure you wanna push that button mister? Fine, suit yourself. Long story long.

Deep Breath... annnnnnnnnnd, here we go.

Alright. To catch some of you up to speed, I have been snoring ... LOUDLY for a few months now. I was worried that it had something to do with my surgeries
back at the end of March when they intubated me (good times... good times). So I decided to get a referral to an Ear Nose Throat guy. Hilarity ensued.

Well, not so much as hilarity as annoyance (scroll down to the end).

If you didn’t follow the links above it is basically like this. Went to see ENT guy, he scoped my sinus passages and my throat, found Hoffa and decided to put me on three medications and asked me to come back in two weeks. I went, was still snoring, the ENT guy didn’t know why I was there. As he was entering the office, “So, what seems to be the problem today?” I was totally caught off guard. “Um, you asked me to take two weeks worth of medication and then come back and see you. Two weeks worth of three different medications.” “Ah, I see.” And then he gave me a bucket full of one hundred dollar bills, kissed me on the mouth and said that I was the next contestant on TLC’s What Not to Wear!

Not really. He asked me some benign questions. Basically the same ones he asked me the first time I visited his stellar offices. I dutifully answered. He reverse tweezed my nostrils, found them blocked (shocker) and changed up one of the medications. “I would like for you to get a CT scan as soon as you can and then come back and see me with the results.” I got the CT scan last Friday... they made me take out my new piercing (suck)... and I got the films like he asked. I went back to see him on Tuesday and this is where we pick up the story.

When I went in on Tuesday I dutifully signed in, paid my co-pay* and sat down to wait for 45 minutes to see the ENT guy. When they took me back into the offices, I was put in a different room this time and waited another 15 minutes for him to show up. He walked in and brightly said, “So, what seems to be the problem today?”

*More on this later.

in my head: “Do you NOT read my file sir? Ever? I mean seriously. I have taken off a total of almost 9 hours from work to meet with you. I have seen you (this would be my third) three times in almost as many weeks. You have medicated me up the ass. Well, not literally up the ass. But you have medicated me with not one but two decongestants, an antibiotic and a nasal spray, you have asked me to go get a CT scan, which was another few hours out of work, not to mention the $53 fee for the scan and because you are a Specialist you demand fifty (FIFTY!... $50!) freaking dollars every time I come into your office. So let’s see, that is about 11 hours of missed work, five total medications at somewhere close to a hundred bucks, a fifty-three dollar CT scan and one hundred and fifty dollars in co-pays... and you want to know ‘what seems to be the problem!?’”

outloud: “You asked me to get a CT scan. I did. The films are just to your left.”

Because, as we all know, I am a big pussy.

He looked through the films, dropping them, smearing them with his little greasy fingers, and used a ballpoint pen to point to stuff when he got them stuck up in that little lighted box thingy. He went through each slide and what did he find? Oh, gee... I am going to go out on a limb and say, deviated septum, polyps, and a maxillary sinus cyst. DING DING DING! You are our new winner! You receive this great prize!....

ENT: So, did you get a report?
self: YOU have the report. You asked me to bring the films and I did... you said a report would be faxed to you. The report is in my file. [barely containing myself at this point]

He looked surprised to see my file at his right hand... my file that he brought into the 1970’s shag carpeted interoffice with him.

ENT: [flipping through the file]... um hmm... um hmm.... Ah, yes, we have the report.
self: ... [fairly sure I was gritting my teeth hard enough to bite my own face]
ENT: [reading the file]... hmm... So, yes... the polyp, the deviated septum and the maxillary sinus cyst.
self: ... [plotting his death]
ENT: So, there are several things we could do here. And you are sure you don’t need a sleep study?
self: Yes, I am sure. I do not have sleep apnea. As we went over before, and twice today I am familiar with what sleep apnea is. I do NOT need a CPAP machine, I do not stop breathing when I am asleep. I am just snoring. Loudly. Like a trucker.
ENT: Well, we could install two stints into your soft pallet to make it more rigid, therefore helping the snoring...
self: [eyebrows lifted in a “Seriously?” type fashion]
ENT: But that has not been tested long term, so we probably wouldn’t want to do that.
self: [do NOT roll your eyes, do NOT roll your eyes]
ENT: There was also this surgery where they cut two trenches into your soft pallet... that didn’t really catch on except for like a year or two...
self: So, not too popular, that one, aye?
ENT: No. I could do one surgery, in office, where I cut part of your soft pallet away along with your uvula.
self: Nooooooo. [totally thinking “You are not coming anywhere near me with a scalpel mister.”]

He talked for a while longer about my other “options”. I totally wasn’t listening, just trying to will the building to burst into flames. When I finally looked over at my purse and stood up from the chair I think he got a bit panicky that I wouldn’t come back so he couldn’t rape me for another $50 and ask me, “So what seems to be the problem?” next week. So he was grasping at straws and imparted this nugget of wisdom.

Hold onto your hats because it is awesome.

ENT: Have you ever thought of readjusting your pillow?
self: [::blink::] My pillow?

He mimed holding up a pillow to his little head.

ENT: Yes, your pillow, have you ever thought of readjusting it so your head can be in a more comfortable position and then maybe you will not snore?

The screaming inside my head was so loud y’all.

self: [::deep breath::] Yes, actually I have readjusted my pillow quite often...
ENT: Or, you know... you could just lose some weight.
self: Hey! THANKS! [biiiig smile]

I gathered up my films, picked up my purse and walked out on him while he was still talking. The receptionist asked me on my way past her if I needed to schedule another appointment. I kept walking. I opened the door to the hall and walked out. Both of them calling after me “Missus [last name]?”

I walked outside, got into Samantha, started the engine, took several deep slow breaths and then messaged Mister. When he called I replayed what had happened and he was all, “You need to report this guy! We need to tell Dr. Eduardo! Holy shit, that guy is insane! I knew I didn’t like him for a reason!”

I figured if I never reported the guy who used me as his own personal scab** then I probably won’t report this asshole.

**Yeah, uh... sorry.

I am not upset that he had me on so many medications; I am not even all that pissed that he wanted me to get a CT scan. I am however (comma) quite taken aback that he was not more in tune with his patients and their needs. I am upset that I busted my ass to make up hours I would miss from work just to be there (early) for the appointments that I scheduled with his precious time. I am upset that I would have to wait an hour or more to see him. I am upset that he pointed out various different abnormalities in my sinuses and wasn’t (EVER) sure in his answer about what would be the best course of action. He would just limp dick throw medications at me and suggest stuff that sounded ridiculous. If HE’s the specialist, then why couldn’t he be more...

I don’t know.

The office looked like something out of the Jetson’s cartoon. He had that old ass equipment. He had other people do the hard work (CT scan) and never knew why I, his “patient”, was there in the first place. I’m sure he has a lot of patients, but would it kill a guy to just flip the chart open and go, “Ah, yes... this is Susan, she claims to be bothered by the fact that she is ‘snoring like a trucker’... I have already put her on X, Y, Z medications, then switched her to A and ordered a CT scan for her last week. Here is the report. I am interested in my patients. I love people who wait an hour to see me and pay me fifty dollars for 10 minutes of my time.”

Would that be too much to ask?

In the mean time, Mister has started sleeping with ear plugs firmly nestled into his perfect man-ears and we are back to sleeping in the same bed. Rock.

October 31, 2007

“It’s half past the hour and I have done something stupid...”

[Deep Breath]

Okay, so the hand burn thingy. After the blister got so large that a woman in my department asked if I was trying to grow another appendage, it burst when I was tucking my shirt into my britches. Go ahead. Gag, I even threw up in my mouth a little bit over that one.

So I knew I was allergic to Neosporin, I knew I was allergic to Polysporin. I had Bacitracin in my possession so I went home, washed my hands thoroughly and made myself a little gauze action with some Bacitracin on it and some of that fabric tape stuff. I was so worried that I would get a staph infection because I had burned my motherhumping hand on a lamp while cleaning out the cat litter that I kept the gauze, Bacitracin, fabric tape thingy going until I found myself scratching the gauze with a paring knife.

Not really.

I was just gouging at the bandage with the fingernails from my left hand and it was making an unpleasant “scritch scritch scritch” noise. It felt like I was being bitten on my burn wound by approximately twelve very angry fire ants... very large, very angry fire ants.... very territorial, very large, very angry fire ants. It hurt like a mother fucker and I finally took the covering off. My wound looked like...

Okay, you know in Grindhouse how they are driving down the road during Planet Terror and they keep hitting those people that had been infected? Well my hand looked like it had been infected by whatever strain of zombie cooties that made Quentin’s junk dissolve. A teeny active volcano surrounded by blisters and angry red welts and a nice purple color in the middle for ambiance.

I was suspicious of Bacitracin too... so suspicious that I just decided to go see that Hot Dermatology guy after a planning meeting on Monday. (Will tell you about the weekend later.) Hot Dermy guy was all chatty (he is so freaking cute y’all... and a Yankee to boot, the accent kills me. Weak-kneed and shit. I feel like my little Dr. McYankee crush is almost an affront to the Rebels.) and wanted to talk about this... and about that... but his nurse had already told me when I called that they were squeezing me in because it was sort of an emergency and not to let him get chatty.

Just checked with my coworker who goes to same McYankee dermatologist guy and he is as quiet as a mouse with her. So I guess it is just the curse of the hotness or my bubbly personality or something because apparently they have it documented in my chart, “Loves to chat with this patient.... her hotness burns the retinas of McYankee’s eyes.”

So I rushed in, showed McYankee my hand and he was all... “Aren’t you allergic to Polysporin and Neosporin?” “Yes sir [swoon].” “Well, I have this new antibiotic topical ointment that will work [he writes a script], so... how have you been? What did you guys do over the weekend?” The nurse met my gaze over McYankee’s shoulder and basically gave me the “STEAL 2nd!!!” look which I interpreted as, “Nooooooo!!!!!!!!!! He’s getting chatty!”

I took the script and started walking down the hall... talking the whole way... with him following me and the nurse following him.

“Dr. McYankee, thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice, I really appreciate you, [your hotness] your time...” “I know you do.” (We nearly had a moment y’all.) “And thank you for taking such good care of me.” “It is always my pleasure, and call me... if not in the next few days, then definitely in the next two weeks to let me know how your hand is.”

All together now... Awwwwwwwwwww.

So I went home after I got the script filled, boiled my hand, washed it vigorously and then applied the new stuff... Albrax? Clorox, whatever, something with an “A” at the front and “ax” somewhere else in the name.

Yanno, I think it may be made out of gold ingots or something. Maybe the eyelashes of the last unicorn. Fairy wings that have been born on a full mooned Tuesday of leap year. Who knows, but something made the salve $50.00. Why does everything cost $50.00? So I had the salve that was wrung from Jesus snot and I made a bandage with the gauze, the Jesus snot and the fabric tape after thoroughly cleansing my appendages. And what do you know? I am allergic to the fifty dollar tube of Jesus snot.

(Totally keeping the Jesus snot though, just in case... of... rapture or something. “Uh, Jesus? You dropped this.”)

So, I have a bunch to tell you guys.

Okay. I come from a big family. Not like Irish Catholic big for my immediate family or anything, but... well, my daddy has 32 first cousins. His momma’s family was large (don’t even get me started on my uncle (who married my daddy’s sister) and his 13 siblings), my grandmother had 7 sisters and 2 brothers. A family of 12, and all of the sister’s looked alike, there were twins and stuff and they were all so very close that growing up (when we lived in Georgia) we would go up to North Georgia almost every other weekend. And I saw my second cousins a lot. We played and got to know each other and I am very close to my first cousins (only 6) on my daddy’s side.

I know that like... well, everyone in Georgia is related to one another but, seriously... the family is large. And as of last week there were four of the original eight sisters left. Then Troyce died on Tuesday morning in El Paso. She was 92 and wonderful, we gathered over the weekend to celebrate her life, her family and her faith.

So I took Mister and basically threw him into a huge hugging, kissing, crying, laughing mass of family. It was the first time he had met most of them and... yay, there was much rejoicing. We took off work to fly into GA on Friday and were there until Sunday. It was nice to be able to look across a table and see a great aunt hugging on my husband and he relaxed enough in the group with all of them talking and laughing at once.

Truth be told... at the viewing not just once but several times Mister was mistaken for being from my father’s side of the family. He looks a lot like my late uncle and well, kind of like my dad. They part their hair the same. (Shut up Freud.)

Oh, fun fact. My father is Kim Bassinger’s 4th cousin.

I am sure Mister is still reeling from all of the people who hugged him, kissed him, told him they loved him and all of the people that he met, the ones who told him stories or just trying to keep the aunts straight.

Each of the 8 aunts, my grandmother included, was called something other than her Christian name. My late grandmother’s name was Dallas (ironic much? Shut it.) but she was called Doodler. Troyce? Was called Trixie. And almost each of the 32 cousins has a nickname as well. Even I don’t know them all. So every time someone would start a story it would include a nickname. Oh, and several Ralph’s, Billy’s, Johnny’s, and two Bobbie Gail’s.

The name Susan is everywhere too. I am Sue Beth, my 1st cousin is Sue Lynn, my great aunt is Franny Sue and so on and so forth until your head explodes or someone gives you a flow chart complete with names, nicknames and pictures.

So in the past two weeks I have had two planning meetings, a conference, I have been in two states and more cities than I can remember, I have seen family and friends and I have laughed and cried. I burned my hand, finished the book Lisey’s Story by Stephen King and saw the movie Phat Girls with Mo’Nique*.

*Whatever her name is. And don’t judge me. I cried.

I have been thinking about purging my closet (thanks Mo’Nique) and because of that, the next time I write I am going to tell you a story about a boy named Danny and a brown dress. No more of this, “It’s half past the hour and I have done something stupid...” weather report type updates.

One more thing.

I would like to send a thank you, heartfelt and sincere, to someone who has made me laugh more than I care to mention over the past five (or more) years.

Last Monday night I had just completed a marathon of a shitty day. I was tired, I was in a hotel room that flooded, people had been inconsiderate and mean all day and I was just worn slap out. I got back to the hotel around 9:30, it was too late to call Mister to wish him goodnight and I wanted a smoke. I went outside, but the pool, lit a smoke and pulled out my blackberry.

I opened up Gmail and there was an update from someone who I knew would let me wallow in suspension of disbelief and just be entertained for a while. There was an email from Dusty Scott over at Salami Tsunami.

I don’t know if any of you remember my issues with the Ear, Nose, Throat Guy... but I am going to tell you right now that if I had even a little bit of Dusty’s wit, his charisma, his charm and his gift with the English Language my entry would have sounded a whole hell of a lot better.

I sat there by the hotel pool and laughed out loud until they sent the security guard out to check on my sanity. It was just the thing I needed to put a shitty day behind me. So please... if you are feeling blue, just wander on over and take a gander on how it should be done.

Thank you Dusty.**

**Slow John-Hughes-film-type clap starts here.

December 28, 2007

Susan and Cheese = True Love 4-ever

Who here remembers my teary break up with cheese earlier this year? You? You? How about you, over there with the clown shoes? Do you? It was ugly and I even received well played, sweet and yet smart assed (way to go Jules) condolences cards from well wishers about the heart rendering break up with my beloved cheese.

For those of you who don’t know how the whole thing played out. It went down like this:

1) I went to get my lab work done for my hot Argentinean GP.
2) He hotly told me, “Oly sheet, jour cholesterol level is not good. Jour triglycerides are at 464 points, we must do someteeng.” <-- I know, my phonetically correct spelling of how he talks makes him sound like Speedy Gonzalez... but he is not. It is more Antonio Banderas, with blue eyes. Trust me. HOT. Sinewy, Harley riding hot. Dark skinned perfection that dislikes the words “fat” and “morbidly obese”. And I quote, “No, I do not like that phrase... morbidly obese, what is that? Why do they not have the term “morbidly skinny”?” Don’t you just want to chew on him?
3) I, being a big baby about the whole thing and refusing to take any more medications, say “Fine.” and adhere strictly to a vegetarian diet (WITH NO CHEESE) for 6 to 8 weeks.
4) I got my lab work redone for my hot Argentinean GP 8 weeks into the vegetarian bullshit.
5) Did I mention that I couldn’t have any cheese?
6) My labs come back and I am yet again in the presence of the Argentinean GP’s hotness.
7) He says, “Tell jour parents they are fired. Jour triglycerides are at 600 points. We can not even get a reading on jour cholesterol. Jou must take medication.”
8) I huff and say, “Fine.” again... all the while thinking... “He is so hot.”
9) I take Crestor (10 mg) and of Lovaza (400 mg) a day forever or just since April or whatever.

Okay, are we all up to speed? Does anyone really care? How about I tell you that hot Argentinean GP has dark wavy hair and rocks a lab coat?

Let’s move on.

So, I get a call from hot Argentinean GP’s office, “Susan? It is time to get your labs done again.” He asks for lab work every 6 months to keep track of everyone’s.... stuff. (Scientifically speaking, of course.)

I had stuff to do last Monday so I was fasting anyway (see also: too stupid to eat breakfast), so I swung by the lab in hot Argentinean GP’s building to see Linda. Linda is a one-stick wonder. I have this nice little vein in the crook of my right elbow; the only problem is that it runs horizontally at the surface. She gets it every time though.

I’ve been to phlebotomists or clinic people that have bruised me up and down both arms and hands looking for a spot. They’ve used 22’s, 24’s, butterfly needles, six or seven sticks at a time... and if I have been fasting it never works. They label me a “hard stick” (translation, “I can’t do this.”). But Linda? God bless her, she is so good to me.

So I went to see Linda and then scheduled my appointment to go over my tests with hot Argentinean GP for yesterday in the afternoon. Mister went with me... thank goodness because it turned out he has pneumonia.

One, two, three (all together now)... Awwwwwww.

I know. Poor baby, just what he wanted for Christmas.

So we go through all of Mister’s stuff. Hurty shoulder, dry cough, wet (ew) cough, when are his next labs? He wants a Bow Flex®. Then it was my turn. I was so selfish sitting through all of Mister’s stuff because I just wanted to know one thing. Has it happened? Have I turned into a walking block of cheese? Will I stroke out at any moment if my heart rate goes above x?

I barely let hot Argentinean GP finish his dictation about Mister’s poor state of being (aww!) into his little recorder thing before I pounced on him. I pinned him to the little rolling chair and put my face mere inches from his... “What do my labs say doc?” I asked breathlessly. He yelped and ran from the room. I had crushed his little motorcycle boot clad foot when I pounced on him.

Not really. I sat calmly in my chair and asked him breezily, “So, what do my labs have to say doc?” He flipped the chart open and said four beautiful words to me. Words that made the blinds all over the building open up and the white light of Jesus fill the rooms and offices. He said, “Your cholesterol is perfect.”

I blinked and said, “What?”

He repeated, “Your cholesterol is perfect.”

I wanted facts and figures. “Like... HOW perfect?” I asked suspiciously.

He showed me the chart. My triglycerides were 213, my LDL was 33 and my cholesterol level was 113. Perfect.

Well, mother fucker. What do you know about that?

Then he turned the page and said, “But, your thyroid has just about given up.” He compared the information from the labs from this year and now and said, “It is amazing how much can change in six months, huh?”

Oh, and as a side note, last Saturday I went to the eye doctor person to check to see if I could wear contacts. I am forever sweating (my face and head get hot... it’s weird) and I take off my glasses and then leave them places and because I am near sighted I have to have them to see to drive and I squint because I don’t have prescription sunglasses..... blah blah blah, you get the picture.

So I went for the exam thingy. I was a bit wary because I am (as Mister says) a noncompliant patient. And the thought of touching my eyeballs makes me want to throw up. Not sure why. I will hold your hair if you ever vomit and I can hang out in a surgery or seven and watch a tumor being removed on Discovery Health Channel while I eat my dinner. But the eyeballs, ::shudder:: eeeeeesh.

OMG. I just realized why.

Fucking Halloween.

When I was little they used to make up a “Frankenstein’s Lab” in the school to walk the kids through. They would blindfold you and put your hands in different bowls. Spaghetti, “Braaaains!” Corn syrup or oil, “Blooooooooood.” Skinned grapes, “Eyeballllllls!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” AAAYiieeeeee! (Vomit.) And scene.

I don’t even have an issue with that scene in Bladerunner where they are at the eye guy’s lab and the big dumb guy is putting little eyeballs on the shoulder’s of the scientist like they are little parrots. But Mister has to hold me down like a cranked out ferret to get drops in my eyes.

So, I was a bit reluctant. Add those things to the fact that I am getting over a frillion year long sinus infection and that my eyes are all burn-y anyways with the pollen in the air and you have yourself a recipe for success!

Long story short? They told me I have small eyes. Wait, let me quantify that. An Asian woman told me I have small eyes. I lost one contact within the first few hours. No clue where it went. I have taken them out and put them in again several times but it isn’t pretty. My eyes get tired from wearing them and I haven’t worked up to 12 hours of use yet. I am at like five hours.

Go me.

Does it get any easier?

April 9, 2008

My damage, let me show you it.

Well, I guess I should actually call this, “My issues, let us discuss them.” Alrighty. Here we go. Annnny moment now. Okay... GO.

I have to work myself up for this... because. Well, because I am sad. I would rather be writing tawdry stories about stuff I did back when I was hot and invincible (and incredibly stupid, naïve and irresponsible), but nooooooo... Reality. She is a bitch.

I’ll get back to the fun stuff later. I still owe you guys a circus story. And how Jay took me home to meet his family (?) and other such nonsense.

But now? Okay, here we go. Do you guys remember back in this ranty entry and the two entries that followed? Yes? I have conveniently added links for you if you would like to refresh your memory. If not. It goes like this. Don’t want to have babies, you can’t make me... want to have procedure done to prevent pregnancy, am sick of hormones, procedure doesn’t work... woe.

From the top part of this entry... after... AFTER (!) all of that mess from the links above:

At the consultation my issue de jour was, “Um... you know how you guys burned off the lining to my uterus? Well, see, here’s the issue, I have a Super Uterus and it regenerates. I have been having my cycle since last year about August-ish. What can we do to shut ‘er down? I wanted a tubal ligation and a side order of ablation to cut off the babymakin at the pass, see? And all I got was a lousy hospital bill and a regenerating uterus.”
I was nicer and probably a bit more eloquent than that, but y’all get the point.
[Gyno Guy] scheduled me for another “procedure” for 3/28/08 and he was pretty cool about it even when he said, “I can’t promise that this will work. From your HSG it looks like there is no blockage, so it should be okay, but if it doesn’t work, we’ll figure something else out.”
This SO better work.

So... you are up to speed, yes? Good.

Well, yeah. Guess what didn’t work?

And now? If you just mention the word menstruation around me I have a period. And if I get like 80 comments with just the word “Menstruation” I am going to pout and then.... I am going to type up long rambling entries about my dreams. Fair warning, deal?

I have been spotting since the 28th and I am starting to get pissed. Not only was Gyno Guy unsuccessful in his attempts to render me barren but now I have to worry about what panties I wear... all the time.

Also? ALSO? (Very caps locky... bear with me.) The first time when Gyno Guy couldn’t do the tubal ligation he had Mister tell me the surgery was unsuccessful. On the 28th? Yep, it was my dear sweet husband who was the one to tell me that the procedure was a failure when I came out of the twilight anesthesia.

By the way, that shit? The twilight anesthesia... Rocks. No vomiting. Just knocked out... annnnnd we’re back.

Do y’all know what it is like to have had this little termite thought in the back of your mind since you lost your virginity saying, “What if you get pregnant?!? OMG, WHAT IFFFFFFF!?” Just back there chewing away at your relaxation, your warmth, your sexuality!? I will say this one more time. Getting pregnant (tubal... May 1997... resulting in c-section, for those of you who don’t follow links) when I was on two forms of birth control and having several “scares” before and after that happened will really fuck with you.

I am a 35 year old happily married woman. I have healthy desires and appetites (as most of you know from my stories and because I talk like a sailor)... but think about it in this context; you really want a steak. A big juicy perfectly cooked (medium rare) steak. You have been denying yourself said steak because of your... cholesterol or because you are Ramen noodle poor or because you have a guilty conscience because it is a cow or whatthefuckever. But... BUT, you finally are served a steak. The exact one you have been dreaming about. You start eating the steak. Mmmmmmm good. Good steak. Love the steak, want more steak (harder, faster... shut up) and then the little thought pops up like a maggot in your perfectly cooked steak.

What would that do for your appetite? Hmmm?

I would like maggot free steak please.

Or to be a little bit more... oh, hey, can you hand me that stick? I need to beat this dead horse... relaxed, a little less skreechy (in my head... because in person I am not this much of a harpy... or I would like to think), a little more spontaneous, a little less “Wait! What about the full body condoms, the spermicidal jelly, the sponge, the IUD and for God’s sake, PULL OUT!”*, and definitely more able to enjoy the fruits of my labor... if you know what I mean. And I think you do**.

*Ah, memories of high school***. How sweet.
**Mangos
***And my first marriage.****
****That boy was a certifiable dirty leg.

Enough. You know too much. I must keel you.

///////

Edited To Add @ 8:23 p.m.

To clarify for my darling Melinda… and for sweet Sil who called my cell a few short moments ago all sorts of confused…

The Essure procedure (where they implant little metal coils into your tubes – your body is (in theory) supposed to scar over the coils thereby rendering your tubes impassable… ergo no eggs delivered to the uterus) is what I was supposed to have done on the 28th of March.

When Gyno Guy got in there to take a look around he found that everything was ablated. Scarred over, he couldn’t even find my lil tubes.

Next step? Another HSG to find out if the tubes are open… they were last April. Now? I dunno.

Again, woe.

Sorry I didn’t make myself clear earlier, I thought you guys could read minds.

April 15, 2009

Late Bloomer

Good Tax Day to you! Unless you have already filed for an extension, then I say… Way to work that procrastination! Kudos!

I have a bunch of stuff to go over with you guys. I know that I promised more content this month, but apparently I was lying. Well, not really. This is the second post and it is only the 15th of the month! Woot! I could post another one in a week or so and completely blow the previous eleventy months out of the water, no? What do you mean… No…? Fine, yes, baby, I still love you. It is just that, well… your ass. It’s gotten really… HOT! And I just can’t keep my mind off if it! Rawr!

You all know of my preoccupation with my teeth right? And yes, it is a complete diversionary topic to keep me from getting all bajiggety about my multiple chins and how my skin has decided to send me a big ol FUCK YOU in the form of massive oil production. Which, I have to say, is mighty sexy… in a bottom of the chicken bucket greasy kind of way. If you know what I mean… and I apologize for the mental image if you do. More on the skin later.

The teeth. Alright. I have wanted bright, white, shiny, straight freaking Super Hero teeth that make an audible “DING!” when a starburst of sun glints off of my right canine when I smile winningly at you, and I have wanted them forever. Well, forever is kind of misleading, as I basically had a gorgeous smile until about 10 years ago and THEN about six years ago this freaking space began to spread my two front teeth apart. I grind (mrawww!) my teeth together at night and the result was my lower jaw was crowding up under and behind my upper jaw and the upper jaw was all, “fine, let me just get out of your way here…” and the result is a less than attractive smile. I feel like if I left the shit alone, then in about another 3 to 4 years I would have been able to bite a pumpkin through a chain link fence. Hot, right?

So after begging like a turn coat double agent found rifling through the director’s wife’s underwear drawer, I got set up to have Invisalign braces. Here… look. CLICK FOR LINK And as of yesterday I am on tray six. They did a series of trays, for me… they designed 11 trays for my upper teeth and 9 trays for my lower teeth. I wear each tray for two weeks and I have these little button-like things attached to four up my upper teeth and two of my lower teeth.

Before I started the Invisilign thingies, I could fit a coffee stir in between the two front teeth with room left over for a small Barcalounger. Now? Nary a space baby. And I am only like half way through. They are throwing in the ZOOM whitening at the end and I am going to be all pageant-y smiling at everyone and waving like the motherfucking queen. I will, OH YES, I will wear mulberry wine lipstick again!

My skin. I don’t know if any of you have ferreted me out on FaceBook* or not or if you have seen pictures on Flickr or stalked me as I walked into my office building, but I am sure if you have seen me lately you have noticed/and or said to yourself… (or like my father said to me… on Friday) “Are you hot baby?” “No sir, I am fine.” “Well, you have this… sheen.” “Sweat?” “No, a sheen.” Which apparently is nice daddy verbiage for, “Damn, girl… you sure is oily.”

*Oh holy shit. FaceBook… gah. More on this later.

I have over 200 of those little blotter papers in my make up bag that I carry daily. I have pressed powder, I have loose powder (you slutty powder, you), I have mattifying gel, I have oil control moisturizer, I have used everything that I can, and yet, every two hours, you could ring out my face to lubricate Jeff Gordon’s chassis. (PS, Shut up… I am not a NASCAR fan, I just know who the man is because I live in Texas for the Love of God.)

So as Hotty McG, my dermatologist has been working on slowly but surely carving enough pieces and parts out of my poor translucent skin to leave me a pitiful little walking scar**, he has also diagnosed me with acne. Yeah, I know. I am so excited to have acne, braces and glasses ALL IN MY MID THIRTIES! Suck that puberty!

**Compared to my previous dermatologist this guy is not only hot, but brilliant with a knife. Where once I was all Frankenstein-y with my scars he has made the last … (geeze) seven procedures (after the biopsies come back dysplastic) look like wee little lines. LOVE HIM. Love. If you need a good dermatologist, message me. We’ll hook you up.

The only bonus that I can see out of the whole acne diagnosis is that he suggested a series of five microderm abrasions. Let me finish that sentence with a caps locky TO BE COVERED BY MY INSURANCE. Fuckin A, right!? So I had my first microderm abrasion on Monday.

Hi. Ow.

This shit is medical grade, not spa grade. Holy crap.

Whatever, I am going to have porcelain goddess skin on my face some day and my insurance is going to take care of everything but my co-pay. BONUS. They suggested the series of five (one ever two weeks and a day) then after the series of five, maybe one a month.

All dudes who have gotten this far in this entry, email me. I owe you a bawdy limerick or something. Seriously. A cookie? Whatever… you are a trooper. Congrats.

I have this list of shit to discuss with y’all… but I think I will cover one more thing and then wrap it up, because… I want to continue the whole Shelby and Tom series without turning into one of THOSE journals, but I kind of want to go there once, you know? I also want to talk to y’all about this weird deal that happens in my office when I wear anything slightly different than my normal black pants, black shoes, top (adult geranimals) bullshit. I also want to talk to you guys about counseling (we are really growing apart y’all, and I miss you) and…. Some other stuff.

One last thing.

My girl Fredlet*** and I were twittering back and forth about old lovers coming out of the woodwork in mass quantities and how FaceBook is enabling the whole thing. My favorite text from her (in reply to one of my wailings) was “Venus Retrograde is over by April 15th, but I tend to call it Penis Retrograde because that’s when all the old lovahs show up. ;)”

***Fredlet is smarter than all of us combined. Don’t fuck with her. She will ruin your credit and have you declared legally dead in six countries in about twenty minutes.

So I want to talk to you guys about that. I also have been reflecting and want to reword some of the things I said about one person in particular. Oh hell, I just want to apologize. I was wrong. We’ll talk about it later.

July 29, 2009

Thirty-Five Plus ... the Humpenning.

I have decided that Bai Ling completely ruined Crank 2: High Voltage for me. I cannot believe that the same dudes wrote and directed it as the first Crank film. Just me? Whatever. Suck it. It was genius in a very odd, “holy crap, that is exactly how everything looked when I got high that time” but other than making me want to hold the TV still for the entire movie, Bai Ling’s “You are my shiny lunch box!” and “That my boyfriend, he going to jack you off!” (“Wrong expression” deadpan’s Jason Statham, heh.) were more annoying than helpful to the … plot. ? Is plot the right word here?

I know, you didn’t come here to hear a movie review, so … ONWARD.

This is going out to the women over 30… the rest of you, go, slather yourself with body butter and make sure that you are wearing SPF and never fail to moisturize and take care of yourself, get a real hair stylist, dress for your age/body type and don’t be afraid to tell someone that you think they are attractive. Also, send me dick jokes. Yes, I think they are funny.

As you were.

For the rest of you Mister has decided that he is married to the unholy union of the Progressive Insurance commercial lady.

And Kathy Griffin.

Yes, I pussied out and put in the Safe For Work video. Gah.


So, this is all fine and well if you want to think of me of someone who has a very foul mouth and gets WAY too excited about name badges (and tacos), but it does not help my plight with… Middle Age Cougar Syndrome, or MACS (pronounced “max”) for short.

Here’s the problem. I just turned thirty-seven (shut it you whippersnappers) in May. Some switch got flipped and now all the sudden it’s like I am an 18 year old boy hormone wise. Yeah, I know… we’ve discussed this a little bit before but, Holy Shit…. Y’all just don’t KNOW. And for you who do, I need a crash course in “not humping your office chair during business hours 101”. What the hell? Seriously, this can NOT get any worse.

One minute I’ll be calmly working on specs for a conference and the next I am all, “MROW! Hey, How YOU durin!?” Regardless if I am alone or in a room full of people. Working or silently trying to keep my composure at dinner… or you know, sleep. Good LORD. It does not matter. And if this doesn’t go away, I may have to I don’t know… is there such a thing as taking up porn as a hobby?

I can’t listen to the radio… country music turns me on, thrash metal turns me on, alternative music turns me on, classic music… you see where I am going here right? It’s like, if the radio isn’t on the XM/Sirius Spa channel, then I am in trouble. Distracted? Don’t even get me started. I have been trying to substitute an insane amount of reading and an even larger amount of time spent playing Rock Band 2 so I don’t accidentally kill anyone (sorry Mister) with my overdose of sexiness.

Mister and I are going to a ranch outing with another couple this weekend. We are supposed to go four-wheeling. I am already nervous. Does that tell you anything? I have nightmares about being called to the front of the class to work a math problem on the blackboard… then humping the teacher. I am having the most inappropriate thoughts about people that I would never dream of even flirting with much less riding them like Sea Biscuit. Men, women, that couch over there… it Doesn’t Matter.

Tell me what to do y’all. Seriously, I am asking for your help and advice here. Yeah, yeah, it’s all fun and games until someone gets arrested for indecent exposure.

About Medical

This page contains an archive of all entries posted to Suzanna Danna in the Medical category. They are listed from oldest to newest.

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