Category Archives: Humor

8 1/2 Fingers and Counting

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They say bad things happen in threes.

Well, I’m two-thirds of the way there so I figure #3 is lurking nearby, ready to pounce. Will I be driving, swerve to avoid a deer and crunch my car against a tree? Will I be walking the dogs when Skip, for the millionth time, stops directly in front of me for no apparent reason, whereupon I nosedive onto the sidewalk, breaking said nose? Or, more likely, it will have something to do with cats. It usually does.

don't blame the catTake injury #1 that occurred 3 weeks ago. I was trapping ferals for spay/neuter and using our new remote control drop trap for the first time. What an awesome invention. Cats are smart little buggers and they sometimes catch on to the fact that I’m trying to capture them, especially when I have to be present to operate a normal drop trap. They seem to know I’m hiding 50 feet away in the bed of a pickup, not-so-clandestinely peeking over the tailgate.

But with a remote control trap, I can be 200 feet away. Sometimes I need binoculars to see whether it’s a crow under there or a small black cat. But after testing the trap, I noticed it sometimes jammed when I pulled the trigger, failing to drop down all the way. This is not good. The cats were watching, like furry little spies, from behind wheels of parked cars, so I decided to test the trap again but catch it before the heavy metal hit the cement with a bang, scattering the ferals.

great idea

Or was it?

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My Self Evident Truths

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In my silly life, I count on some things being predictable. Some simply occur and I accept them. Then again, some of my truths are nothing more than just my opinion. I guess you could say I hold these truths to be self evident…

truthsWhen taking my dog, Nellie, for a walk, she will poop on the lawn of the one person in our entire neighborhood who happens to be out front the moment we walk by. Every other house we pass is like the Twilight Zone, appearing eerily empty from the outside. Yet that damn dog will zero in on the one lawn which also happens to be perfectly manicured. She never does it on a dead lawn or in a rock garden.

I sense it the second I see someone out front tending their garden or mowing their precious lawn. Those people are like magnets to my greyhound. I even get my poop bag ready as we approach, prefacing my apprehension by saying, “Don’t even think about it, Nellie.” But she does more than just think about. Every. Single. Time.

Nellie at park

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A Little Poking, Prodding and Squishing

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As you read this, I’m on my way home from vacation in the desert. Therefore you’re reading a post from  a couple years ago. This in no way implies it’s not worth reading again. On the contrary! I think it’s mandatory  for men…possibly even life saving. What?! I suggest you get right to it…

MEN ARE BABIES. Uh, let me rephrase that so as not to lose any male readers.

MOST MEN ARE BABIES. How’s that sound? Well, probably not much better. What about this then…Guys I know will not visit the doctor unless they’re bleeding from an orifice one should never bleed from and/or something is amiss with their Johnson, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

Anyway, I bring this up because for me summertime is not just about enjoying warm weather. No, it’s also the time when I go for my annual poking, prodding and squishing of body parts in determining the overall health of this 59.98 year old body.summertimeWhat I don’t understand is why so many guys refuse to get checkups, whether annual or every 5 years. What’s that all about? When you compare what we women go through during our yearly visits, men having a gloved finger placed up their butt is a walk in the park if you ask me, which you didn’t. But there you have it.

When women visit a gynecologist (the ultimate pokers) not only do we get the finger, so to speak, but we also get a long metal device, sort of like BBQ tongs with a trigger, inserted into our baby making parts. speculumI can think of a thousand things I’d rather be doing than counting ceiling panels, my feet in stirrups while the doc inserts that Popsicle-cold speculum, followed by an unusually long Q-tip placed into my cervix, where cells are scraped for testing.stirrupsNow guys, doesn’t a gloved finger up your butt pale in comparison to all that?gloved fingerAnd it doesn’t end there. I also had a mammogram last week. Again, something men usually don’t need to experience. Hey, I’m just grateful there’s a test for abnormal breast cells. But seriously, is there no other way? One that is less squishy perhaps?

The Squisher

The Squisher

I wonder if this type of contraption would be in use to diagnose similar abnormal cells in, let’s say, testicles. Something tells me the method of detection would not include men willingly placing their family jewels onto a machine that smashes said jewels into dollar-sized pancakes. That would be one empty waiting room. I’m just sayin’.dollar size pancakesWe women stand against a giant metal machine like something NASA would build, while a clear glass plate lowers onto first one breast then the other, squishing them not simply into pancakes but crepes. And believe me, there’s a big difference.

See what I mean?

See what I mean?

The technician turns a knob that incrementally lowers the plate, smashing said boob flatter, then flatter some more. All the while she smiles and says, “Feel okay?” I’d prefer to respond, “It feels like my breast is in a flippin’ vise and if you turn that knob one more time I might have to hurt you.” But instead I say “Sure, doin’ great. Thanks for asking.”

Now don’t get me wrong; I realize these tests are a necessary evil to help us stay healthy. I actually don’t mind a little poking, prodding and squishing if it means peace of mind. To me that trumps the following —what you don't know That only counts when you’re being gossiped about. And not the good kind like, Isn’t she the nicest, sweetest person you ever met? Otherwise it’s a load of crock.

So buck up, you guys; don’t be babies. Get your butt and all your other body parts into the doc’s office. Do it for your family and friends, if not yourself. I’m here to tell you a gloved finger is the least of your worries. Besides, it’ll be over before you can say, “Doctor please, I hardly know you.”

What might happen if you don’t go for that checkup is much scarier. Don’t you think?

Welcome to My World

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I slept three and a half hours Friday night. This is not particularly unusual for me. That’s partly because ever since menopause my body says: Who needs sleep? Why waste all that time with your eyes closed when they could be open? That’s what my body says to me and unfortunately, I usually listen.

So Friday night (actually early Saturday morning), I was sound asleep, having finally dozed off somewhere around 12:30 a.m. watching Stephen Colbert. Then one of the dogs started whining at 4:00 a.m. It was my Greyhound, Nellie.

stephen-colbert

Nellie happens to have the bladder of a camel so I know at that hour she was simply bored and wanted to go outside to eat poop off the hill, keeping me waiting at the back door until she has her fill. Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not exactly psychic. I know Nellie eats poop because she returns chomping on it. Anyway, I didn’t fall for her whining this time and told her to go back to bed. Trouble is, now I couldn’t do the same.

My mind started thinking of my ‘To Do’ list for Saturday and it was a long one. So I read a magazine for a half hour, hoping it would bore me to sleep. But it didn’t. So I watched a program I’d taped. Then I watched another. By 7:00 a.m. I was still awake but starting to doze off. That lasted until 7:30 when the animals decided they’d had enough rest for the night and it was time for me to rise.

rise-and-shine

And so our morning routine began…

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Awaiting the Return of Chatty Cathy

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I’m writing this Friday at 6:15 p.m. and I’ll have you know it’s pretty much the first time I’ve sat up all day. Yes, friends, I’m sick. A sicko. Under the weather. A bit peaked. In other words, I don’t feel well. I’ll pause here to give you time to feel sorry for me before I continue. Done feeling sorry? Then let’s continue.

sorry-youre-sick

The reason this is a big deal is because I hardly ever get sick. Seriously. Mind over matter. I get injured frequently, but not sick. When I feel I’m not up to par in the energy department, I tell myself: I feel good, I feel great. I down a packet of Emergen-C, get to bed before midnight and the next morning, bingo-bango. I’m me again.

emergen-cThe last time I was this sick was on a trip to Spain in 2013. Just like now, I lost my voice, acquired bronchitis, and was knocked hard on my butt. I don’t mind the coughing all night, having to sleep upright, nor the disgusting stuff one coughs up with bronchitis. But losing my voice? That’s torture for me. Can’t speak for my friends (or to them!) but my guess is they’re enjoying the silence. Sadly for them, I’ve become quicker at texting.

no-voice

Remember Chatty Cathy dolls? Pull the cord and she talks. I guess you could say I’m a larger version of her. But now my cord is jammed. Curse you bronchitis! So today I stayed prone just about all day. I know I’m sick when I’m not hungry, but I forced myself to eat a pear this afternoon at 2:30, then I napped.

chatty-cathy

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