Human maintenance

"Your uterus is inflamed."

That was my chiropractor this morning, jabbing tiny needles into my ears.

"Your ears are a road map to your whole body," he continues. "And yours are saying inflamed uterus."

It was a morning for human maintenance: A visit to my regular doc for the annual girlie check-up. And then to the chiropractor for some much-needed bone crunchery.

My regular doctor had, shall we say, first-hand knowledge of the whole uterus situation but didn't mention inflammation. She recommended blood tests for irregularities that she wouldn't have known about if I hadn't told her.

But my chiropractor - who rightfully has never seen me in anything less than head-to-toe hospital scrubs - somehow knows about the uterus en fuego situation.

Amazing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I had a mini-proud moment with the regular doctor.

"Your HPV test came back negative so you're on the three year plan for Paps," she says.

"Is HPV common?" I ask, proud of my HPV-free status, but wanting more.

"Yes," she says. "Very."

There's nothing quite like a squeaky clean coochie to make you feel extra-special-good about yourself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Accupuncture will help," says my chiropractor. "It'll straighten out this hormone issue."

I like my regular doctor. She's smart and practical.

But I love love love my chiropractor. When no one else can fix me, he can.

I lost count on the needles. Three in each foot. One in each ankle. Four in my stomach. I don't know how many in each hand. Plus the ears.

After about 15 minutes on the table, you begin to feel...flattened out. That's the best way to describe it. Flat and smoothed out and mellow. Extremely mellow.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Go ahead, say it, she's your real doctor."

That was my chiropractor again.

"I never said that," I say, defending myself. "She's my regular doctor. You're my real doctor."

My regular doctor recommended one needle - drawing blood.

My real doctor recommended dozens of needles and somehow I know he's on the right track.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The washer winding up in the spin cycle
I am reading: Happy Trotter - Book 4
And I am: Relaxed

Such as, maps

“I bet she sucks dick like a champ,” said Jim over dinner at Melvin B’s Truck Stop last night. “So she’ll be okay.”

We were watching the ubiquitous clip of Caitlin Upton, a Miss Teen USA contestant who badly botched her answer during the “All This And Brains Too!” portion of the competition.

The question?

A fifth of Americans can’t locate the U.S. on a world map. Why do you think this is?

She muttered something about 'U.S. Americans' not having enough maps and then went off into a muddled mess of South Africa and 'The Iraq' before shaking her tits, flashing a smile and shouting TA-DA! to the packed auditorium.

Well, maybe not that last part, but you get the picture.

First of all, why do we expect these chicks to speak, let alone answer Very Thinky Questions? They’re up there because they’re cute, not because they’re smart.

So let ‘em jiggle and sing a little and then pick the one that looks most likely to pose in Playboy after her 'career' hits a low point 10 years from now and be done with it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
By the way, one fifth of Americans can't find the U.S. on a map because we don't need to, we're HERE!

TA-DA!!!

I'm callin' Playboy.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Suchas, maps, suchas
I am reading: Harry Potter – Book 4
And I am: Map happy

Three freaky f*ck monkeys bouncin' on the bed

There's a new guy on HedyBlog's Freaky Fuck Monkey Tote Board: Larry Craig, Republican Senator from Idaho.

Are we surprised?

According to Yahoo! News:

Idaho Sen. Larry Craig, who has voted against gay marriage and opposes extending special protections to gay and lesbian crime victims, finds his political future in doubt after pleading guilty to misdemeanor charges stemming from complaints of lewd conduct in a men's room.

I'd never begrudge a man for getting his junk pumped in a men's bathroom, but apparently Mr. Craig does - but only when he's not there to participate in the fun.

So here's the tally so far:

Republicans – 3 (Tobias & Vitter & Craig, oh MY!)
Democrats - 0
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Fray - All At Once
I am reading: Happy Rotter - Book 4
And I am: Not a monkey

Cost-plus

Back to school, kiddies.

And it’s time for a little homework. Read this article from Rolling Stone magazine:

The Great Iraq Swindle

“But it’s TOO LONG, Hedy! And I’m BUSY!”

U.S. soldiers in Iraq would love to trade places with the likes of you, sitting safely at your computer sipping a hot mug of something without sand in your shorts.

Cowboy up and read the fucking story. Now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Done? Good.

But before you go slapping a shiny little star on your forehead, it’s quiz time.

Question #1: What’s a cost-plus government contract?

It’s a government contract that guarantees a profit of three percent of the total cost of the deal.

Which means there’s no incentive for government contractors in Iraq to do a job well – they are paid and more importantly, they profit – regardless of what they deliver.

And the more they spend on a project, the more they’re paid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Question #2: What’s missing from this story?

C’mon. You know.

3732.

That’s the number of American military casualties in Iraq.

Cost-plus. Yep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Quiet office noises
I am reading: This article again
And I am: There just isn’t a word to describe this kind of anger + sadness

Cunning stunts

"Up next, a stunning development in the Nicole Richie story!"

That was brainiac anchor Warner Saunders on NBC 5 here in Chicago last night.

We've got Major Local Weather to report but let's all pause from the death and destruction to hear this stunning news.

What, has she gone into hiding and ordered a pizza?

I've decided I'm not watching local news anymore. It used to be depressing, which I could handle.

But now it's just stupid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Psychobillly Freakout – The Reverend Horton Heat
I am reading: Harry Potter – Book 4
And I am: Stunning

Slobs

Here’s the mess I had to step over to get to my regular seat on the train this morning.

Newspapers. And an empty yogurt cup (and lid). In the middle of the floor.

From this sad little camera phone pic, you can’t see there’s even more mess up top on the luggage shelf: three empty Starbucks cups (and lids) surrounded by coffee stained napkins.

Slobs. People are such fucking slobs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Here’s the thing: There are large garbage cans at every door on this train. So the Train Slob has no excuse for not cleaning up after himself.

And it’s taking every ounce of my self-control (ahem) to clean up the mess that someone else made.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
No spoon. Inexplicably, there’s no spoon in the yogurt cup.

I can see him: shaking thick yogurt down his gullet like the fucking troll that he is, wiping a bit of white slobber on his sleeve before setting the empty cup on the floor between the mud-spattered legs of his pants.

Of course he’s a he. Surely a woman wouldn’t do something like this.

And his hair’s greasy. His fingernails? Filthy. He’s overweight and his wrinkled t-shirt - which he picked up off the bedroom floor with the rationalization that wearing it three days in a row saves water - is stained. With coffee and yogurt. He hasn’t shaved in a week.

Is it fair for me to make these assumptions about someone who would leave such a mess behind on the train?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One of my train buddies says he’s keeping someone employed by leaving trash on the train.

I dunno.

One thing’s certain: He’s keeping someone disgusted.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Way Life is Supposed To Be – Bob Schneider
I am reading: Harry Potter – Book 4
And I am: Yep, disgusted

Five for the price of one

You know how I feel about illegal immigrants. The majority of them are hard-working, family-oriented folks who just want a better life.

Unfortunately, Elvira Arellano is not one of them.

She's a pathetic media whore with zero regard for her son's well-being.

Anyone who'd use a child to prove a political point … oh, fuck it, you know what I mean.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Every time I try to type Karl Rover. . .See?

Rover. Every time.

Freaky.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Watch:
Entourage
Lil’ Bush
Californication
Flight of the Conchords

Do not watch:
The Astronaut Farmer
America’s Got Talent
Anything with High School Musical in the title
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One in four Americans did not read a book last year.

So c’mon. How many for you?

And why not more?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I've been watching America's Got Talent.

I know.

I got sucked into it late in the series when the contestants, in fact, did have some modicum of talent.

However. A paunchy white dude with his hand up a turtle's ass singing Crying was just christened America's Top Talent in the finale and it feels so dirty I'm heading to the shower for a good long scrub.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Five for the price of one? C’mon, Hed.

It’s free. Whattaya want?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Elvis Costello - She
I am reading: Harry Potter - Book 3
And I am: Caught up

Damp yet dry

Unlike all of northern Illinois - which has been pounded with rain for the past two days - my mental well is dry today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Mad World - Sara Hickman
I am reading: Harry Potter - Book 3
And I am: Damp yet dry

Why

Why does my hair finally cooperate on the day it’s getting cut?

Why does the iron make the wrinkles that are hardest to smooth out?

Why does my computer finally do what’s expected after I’ve contacted the IT guy?

Why is everyone so goddamn slow when I’m in a hurry?

And why do all the maniacs come out when I’m taking my time?

Why does your boss always walk up behind you as you’re opening something twisted/pornographic sent by that one deviant friend?

Why, when he has the whole backyard, does your wet dog stand right next to you to shake off?

Why are those most interested in controlling the behavior of others the last people you’d want in charge of anything?

Why does your spouse change the channel at the exact moment when what you most wanted to see/hear comes on?

Why, when I drop something, does it always land on that One Spot on top of my foot that hurts like a motherfucker?

Why do the people who talk the most always seem to have the least to say?

Why do the things that taste the best make you feel the worst?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Indigo Girls – Rites of Passage
I am reading: Harry Potter – Book 3
And I am: Asky

When flowers mattered

So we're strolling through a gift shop at Honolulu International Airport waiting for the long flight home when I see a ginormous pile of Godiva chocolate boxes.

It reminds me of something I haven't thought about in years: The Godiva Chocolate Incident.

It was very strange. Freshman year in college, out of the blue, I received a large box of Godiva chocolates from some dude I barely knew in high school.

Turns out Bill was 'wooing' me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Vot is dis voo?"

That is Bubbie from the classic movie Crossing Delancey. Watch it. It began my love affair with everything and everyone Jewish.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Anyway.

If you've known me more than 10 minutes, you know that kinda shit doesn't work.

Flowers & chocolate? C'mon. You're gonna have to be smarter than that. You're gonna have to work harder than that. You're gonna have to think harder than that.

But feeling guilty about the chocolates, which of course were shared with my roommates, I went on a date with Bill. Once.

And as suspected by the golden box of goodies, he was fairly vacuous.

I'm sure after the cash he dropped on the fancy schmancy chocolates, he was expecting something. That box was worth a good blow job at least.

But he didn't even get a kiss.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The point is, the godawful Godiva Incident got me thinking of The One Time that getting something like that actually meant something.

When I was a kid, Da would bring Mom and me flowers. Flowers from a road side stand. Flowers wrapped in wet newspaper and a rubber band holding it all together. He took his motorcycle to and from work quite a bit, so he'd tuck the flowers down the front of his jacket.

I've often thought it had to be such a lovely, romantic sight: Da zipping along, flowers poking out. I can still feel the wet texture of the paper as we carefully unwrapped them. I close my eyes and I can smell them - a mix of marigolds and daisies and baby's breath.

That is the only time flowers mattered.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sarah Hickman - Mad World
I am reading: Harry Potter Book 2
And I am: Busy

Recipe: How to Feel Like a Kid Again

Sit sideways in a big comfy armchair. Flop your legs over the side. Read a book for hours.

Eat peanut butter from a spoon.

Spray your favorite girl in the back of the head with a garden hose. Laugh like hell.

Eat Cheerios outta the box.

Bury your face in the thick fur around your dog's neck and just ... breathe.

Watch the Wizard of Oz. Hide your eyes when the flying monkeys come out.

Pick a dandelion and give it to someone you love.

Spread out on your back in the grass under a tree.

Play Scrabble with your friends.

Sniff a Zippo lighter.

Say the first thing that pops into your head and don't regret it.

Bounce a ball against a wall. Repeat until someone yells at you.

Let a tiny little olive-green bug crawl around on your hand. And talk to him.

Be naked and barefoot as much as possible.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Just Jack - Snowflakes
I am reading: Harry Potter Book 2
And I am: A big kid

A sign

Here's a sign you've been on vacation wayyyy tooooooo looooonnng: You leave the house for the grocery store and forget to wear shoes.

I refuse to bore anyone with a "what I did on my summer vacation" column (unlike Neil Steinberg, who always seems to be so above the places he deigns to visit).

I will say this: It was lovely, but there's no place like home.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Sia - Breathe Me
I am reading: Harry Potter and The Chamber of Secrets (Book 2)
And I am: Not quite here yet

Something good

“So I figured out where we’re going to dinner for our anniversary,” says Jim, standing behind the grill last Saturday.

I am distracted.

Gromit is barking at a ball bobbing in the pool. It’s what he does. He’s perfectly happy to go in and get it, but first he must bark at it for a few minutes. I’m assuming to put the ball on notice that it is about to be rescued. Or something.

“Oh yeah?” I say, playing catch-up with the conversation after Grom finally makes the plunge. “Where?”

The where-do-we-go-for-our-anniversary rodeo typically begins in early July, in anticipation (and dinner reservations) of the blessed event in early August.

We went to Gibson’s in Chicago for our first anniversary and it’s been a lovely tradition ever since. The steaks are good, but the people watching is outstanding (Outstanding!) and we always see someone semi-famous.

Semi-famous?

Yes. Think Jesse Jackson and Dennis Hastert. Semi-famous.

But after nine years of marriage, Jim wants to break the tradition and change things up a bit.

Six weeks ago he was talking Italian. Two weeks ago it was seafood.

Both times I gave him the standard wrinkled-up-nose-but-it’s-a-tradition response, effectively tabling any additional anniversary dinner debate.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I’m thinking seafood AND Italian,” he says, looking up from his famous chicken wings popping above the charcoal.

Jesus. Can’t we just go to Gibson’s and keep it simple? I don’t want to try a new place. I don’t want seafood. Besides, my parents are coming for a visit that week, our anniversary is on a Sunday and it’s only nine years. Let’s go to dinner at Gibson’s the following week after my parents are gone and we’ll celebrate then, no biggie. It’s only nine years after all.

Of course I think all of this but don’t say it.

You don’t get to celebrate nine years of wedded bliss without learning the #1 Rule of Marriage: Keep Your Mouth Shut.

“Oh yeah?” I say again, waiting to hear about some new amazing Italian fish place in the city.

“I made two reservations.”

Heh?

“We’re going to two places in one night?” I ask, thoroughly confused.

Sure, I’ve become a fat-ass since the back injury, but damn. Two dinners?

“We’re going to Mama’s Fish House on Sunday for our anniversary,” he says with grin. “And that Italian place at the Four Seasons Maui for the sunset on Tuesday.”

It takes more than a minute to sink in.

He’s taking me to my favorite place on the planet for our anniversary. My parents are coming to visit so they can watch Gromit.

I’m going to Maui.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, to summarize:

• I have a wonderful husband
  
• I am NOT wasting one minute of Maui time with the Mac
• You guys are on your own until at least Thursday of next week.

Aloha!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: That song called Something Good by Maria and whatshisname from The Sound of Music
I am reading: Nothing until after the trip
And I am: Blessed

Sniff & Lick It

“Jim!” says the Nephew. “Get ready! This song gets faster coming up.”

“Um, Andrew?” says Jim, without looking away from the TV. “It’s Free Bird. I was listening to this before your mother was born.”

That was last night – the three of us, up ‘til nearly midnight playing Guitar Hero.

I am not a musical person. I appreciate music. And I can dance like a motherfucker.

But when it comes to instruments – even the crappy plastic Guitar Hero guitar – you might as well give it to Gromit to play. It’ll sound about the same, except I probably won’t sniff and lick it so much.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have you played yet?

It’s a blast. You’re listening to classic rock songs. You’re “playing” classic rock songs. And if you get good, you can even begin to incorporate some of the more classic rock star moves.

How’d you do, Hedy?

Again, I am not musically inclined.

Jim and Andrew suffered through my rendition of Heart Shaped Box six times before I finally made it through without the greasy-haired rocker on the screen hanging her head in shame to the sound of an angry boo-filled stadium.

But that was only after I stopped trying to “play” the song and started trying to “play” the game.

Remember Centipede? It’s my all-time favorite video game.

Back when games didn’t have sixteen bazillion buttons for you to slap/jump/kick/rip the alien’s head off and cheats to download from the Internet.

Centipede. A marvelously simple game. You shoot with one button. You move with the other.

Guitar Hero is like Centipede put to music.

These colorful disc-looking things representing music notes fly at you. You shoot them.

And if you manage to shoot all of them, Dead! by My Chemical Romance sounds like it ought to, and not like three cats fighting over a Fender Stratocaster made of cat-nip.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Watching Andrew zip through Killing In The Name and Billion Dollar Baby and Psychobilly Freakout, we now know the real answer when we ask him what he’s been up to and he says, in typical 15-year-old fashion “Nothing.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sniff and Lick It. That’ll be the name of my band. If I ever have one.

Band names that make you laugh? What would the name of your band be? What was your favorite video game growing up?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Hed’s Guitar Hero Mix
I am reading: Neil Steinberg in the Sun-Times
And I am: Rockin’ out