scraps & lagniappe

the ob/gyn manifesto

So, I spent half the day at my OB/GYN's office and I have a few ideas to make the experience a bit more tolerable.  Perhaps I should make something clear: I have zero medical training (unless you count CPR class), but I feel I am qualified to make this manifesto because:

1. I am a woman; and 2. I have been a patient at exactly six OB/GYN offices.  That's right, six.  I've lived in a bunch of towns and approximately  42 medical professionals have seen me naked, maybe more.  I have zero modesty.  None.  Oh, number 3 -- I have borne three children and thus have spent a great deal of time in OB/GYN offices.  I know what I'm talking about.  I should be a consultant for doctors opening offices, seriously.

The OB/GYN Manifesto

American woman have endured many things -- ill-fitting bras, bad boyfriends, cramps -- but we will endure bad  OB/GYN office visits no longer.  Women have needs.  We need more.  The wonderful thing about America is that we have choices, for the most part anyway, and we can choose a doctor that we like.  Unfortunately, the office visit is not as pleasant as the relationship a woman forms with her doctor.  A woman's annual visit to her gynecologist is awkward and uncomfortable.  To make our visits more pleasant, I suggest the following:

1.  Put comfortable chairs in the waiting room if my wait is going to be over an hour.  Massage chairs would be nice.  Maybe bring in a pedicurist.  

2.  Gray is not an acceptable wall color.  It is sterile and depressing.  Think warm colors, something happy.

3.  If you're going to have a television on, put on the Food Network or HGTV, not a local channel with a soap opera.

4.  Music would be good (as long as it's decent).

5.  Magazines are a requirement.  Lots of magazines.  Fairly current.  Catalogs even.  

6.  Ban talking on cell phones in the waiting room.  I had to listen to a tiny blond woman plan her Christmas party for 45 minutes today and talking about how she broke her wrist rollerblading in her neighborhood.  When she ended the call, she started texting.  She hadn't turned off the clicky noise when you type.  It took every ounce of self-control I possess to not take her iPhone and throw it into the water fountain.  

7.  Forget the water fountain and put in a margarita machine.  

8.  Offer complimentary socks in the exam room.  It's cold in there and socks don't always go with my outfit.  

9.  Make sure all the signs in your office are spelled correctly.  It's called spellcheck, use it.

10. If you're going to have art on the walls, for goodness sakes, make sure it's not portraits with eyes that follow you -- it's a doctor's office, not the damn Haunted Mansion.  

11. On the scale,  have it say "superfantastic!" or "way hot" or "did you lose weight?" instead of numbers.  I'm sure the numbers could show up behind where we stand on the scale for you to see, but why don't we use this as an opportunity to boost our self-esteem?  It could be a win-win!

12. Do something about those exam gowns.  Pink, maybe an animal print, or a Snuggie.

13. Why not put in a skylight or something for me to look at while I'm in the stirrups?  

14.  Speaking of the stirrups -- this is not the time for small talk.  We all know what's going on here, no need to ask about the kids or if I have weekend plans.  The only plans I have right now are to get dressed and get the hell out of there.  

15. Compliment my earrings.  It's hard to accessorize when planning the annual exam, a great deal of thought went into this.  Now that I think about it, you could accessorize as well.  Maybe one of those tuxedo-tshirts under your scrubs.  It's just an idea.

Together we can make this a better experience.  

Love,

jobs I'd be perfect for

My post on Edie Brikell got me thinking about jobs I'd be perfect for.  Here's the list.

1. song picker for movies
2. ice cream flavor namer-person
3. anti-frizz hair product tester
4. moral compass
5. maryjane shoe designer
6. professional Trivial Pursuit player
7. big coffee cup designer
8. music reviewer
9. wig model
10. nonsense blogger
11. coffee taste-tester
12. haiku author
13. radio talk show therapist
14. back-up singer
15. professional iTunes playlist maker
16. tagline maker-upper for random things
17. detective
18. pajama designer
19. doctor's office magazine rearranger
20. petite plus sized model (sounds like an oxymoron)

reasons why I believe I'm in an unfilmed slapstick comedy

I've often felt like Lucille Ball, but lately it's all the time.  Right now, while I'm making rice, which takes 20 minutes to make, I'm going to list 20 reasons why I believe I'm in an unfilmed slapstick comedy,

1. This afternoon, the boy child comes in from the backyard and requests a plain slice of bread.  Upon my opening the bread, Lucy dog runs in the house, grabs the entire loaf bread and runs back outside. 
2. I got a splinter in my left index finger yesterday without leaving the house.
3. A few minutes ago I accidentally turned the bag of rice upside down and the seam of the bag busted.  Rice everywhere.  This incident spawned this post.
4. The other day at Megan's house, I drive up and she's spray painting a giant piece of plywood primer gray, which looked SILVER in the sun.  I say, "that would match my car."  She says, "want me to spray that spot?" That would be the place of rust and a dent on my car where I backed into the hubs old car TWICE.  I told her to spray it.
5. Upon getting two sleeping bags out of the dryer, I saw that I had melted one.  Melted a sleeping bag in the dryer, that's me.
6. Yesterday my dog ate a water hose.
7. The light has gone out above our stairs, there's no way I'm changing that bulb.  Me on a ladder over the stairs?  Ha.  ER trip waiting to happen.
8. While getting clothes out of the washing machine last week, I backed up and fell into a deep, mostly empty laundry basket and was stuck for a good two minutes.  I thought about how long I would try to get out before calling 911 to say "I can't get out of a laundry basket, send the jaws of life!"
9. When the restaurant owner said "have a good lunch" the other day, I said "you too!"
10. In the car on Friday, leaving Target and weaving through the road construction, I hit a bump and heard the sound of the boy child's mini Oreos hitting the car floor.  I asked, "did you spill your mini Oreos?"  He said, "no, the car did."
11. My lawn man calls the other night and asked if we needed the grass cut, since it's fall and not really growing.  I told him no, but asked if he does mulch and stuff.  He said yes and that he'd look at my flower beds next time he's in my neighborhood, then interjected "I'm over there a lot, since I'm dating your neighbor Whatsherface."  Hello?  Are we friends now?  I don't want to know who you're dating, yard man.  I nearly choked on my beverage.
12.  Unbeknown to me, an ice cube was allowed to melt on my kitchen floor yesterday.  I stepped on the water in my slippies, which I wear around the house all the time.  Good news is, I can still do the splits all the way down to the floor.  Even the French judge would have given me a 10.
13. After getting up, I announced "I'm a regular Mary Lou Retton!" to the kids.  They have no idea who Mary Lou Retton is.  Lord, I'm old.  Then I hit my arm on the kitchen island and now have a giant bruise.
14. I was using kitchen tongs as castanets (the little "clink-clink" instrument you wear on your fingers) while singing along to music and cooking this evening and pinched the fire out of my finger.  But the tongs sounded excellent with the song.  The song was "Dance Anthem of the 80's" by Regina Spektor. 
15. Last night I wasn't feeling so hot, so I watched a little Ricky Gervais' "Animals" stand-up show to cheer me up.  I nearly choked to death on a Milk Dud when he did the bit about koala bears and human finger prints being so similar that they could be confused at the scene of a crime.  And what crime would this be?" he says, "the great eucalyptus robbery?"  My life nearly ended by choking on a Milk Dud laughing. 

So, I could only do 15 in 20 minutes.  Sue me.  More nonsense soon. 

in which Kerry convinces herself of things she already knows

There have been many pets in my life.  My first pet was a dog named Shine who "ran away."  Then we had a dachshund, Otto, who also "ran away."  Next was a cocker spaniel, Sam, who was the best dog ever -- you guessed it -- "ran away."  My parents then got a chow we named Bear who "went to live on a farm."  At some point between dogs, I had a gerbil, Penny.  I put Penny on the back steps in her cage while I cleaned my room in the middle of the Louisiana summer and when I went to get her later, she was deceased.  Once I had a fish that committed suicide by jumping down the garbage disposal while I was cleaning the fishbowl.  When I turned 18, my best friend gave me a kitten (Figaro, the best cat ever), who a year and a half later my mom took to the humane society when I was in college (at least she didn't tell me it went to live on a farm).  Lastly, the kids had a cat named Tinkerbell who actually did run away almost two years ago.  Seriously, why would I lie to you people?  The cat ran away.  She was declawed, so she was probably met with an unfortunate end with a big dog or some creature from the woods or an alligator.

I have not had the best of luck with animals.  Most of that was due to my crazy parents who were obviously not pet people.  My family now has a basset hound, Lucy Dog.  She's a half inside/half outside dog because she still acts like a puppy and lives for knocking down Andrew, the smallest member of the family.  I know I do not need to take on another pet.

So, why am I looking at kittens and puppies in the classifieds of Nola.com?  I have obviously lost my mind. 

Maybe it has something to do with the kids getting older.  It's been an adjustment having Andrew in school everyday, even though it's only two full days and three hours a day on the other three days.  I can't deny that it's been a little weird for me now that the baby isn't a baby anymore.  Knowing we're not going to have anymore babies, that mothering thing in my head wants to hold on to the baby.  That mothering thing in my head has been rather loud lately, saying, "get another pet."

I do not need to take on another pet, I say.

But you love the animals.

But I'm allergic to the animals, I say.

You're already on allergy stuff, it's cool.

But I don't want to take care of another breathing thing, I say.

Oh, but puppies and kitties are so cute.

They are cute, I say.

Remember how great Figaro the cat was?

Yeah, but Tinkerbell the cat was insane, I say.

And she ran away, so that took care of that.  You need a pet of your own.

I would really love a cocker spaniel, I say.

Cockers are great.  Remember how great Sam was?

That was one great dog, I say.

There are cocker puppies on Nola.com.

Oh, look how cute THAT puppy is, I say.

At this point I realize I have said the last statement out loud and three children come running to the kitchen table to look at the puppy. 

I want this puppy.  I would name her Sadie and I would let her sleep in my bed.  I've never let a dog sleep in my bed, but look at that face.  I am in total puppy love with this puppy. 

I do not need to take on another pet.

the Kerry blog: now with 80% more randomness

Welcome to my brain today.

Last night I went to bed with a huge sense of relief after finishing my friend's website, ready to dream of rainbows and fluffy kitties and Andrew McCarthy in 1986, but woke up in the middle of a dream where I was having dinner with Jeff Lewis (from Bravo's "Flipping Out") and Anderson Cooper, talking about the balloon boy from Colorado and I'm pretty sure we were at the Red Lobster.  What does that mean?

Balloon boy's name is Falcon.  Who names a kid Falcon?  What are the siblings names?  Eagle and Rooster?  Sparrow and Ruby-throated Warbler?  Finch and Red-breasted Nuthatch?  Poor kids.

If I had a red-haired son I would totally call him Rooster as a nickname.

I made the mistake of going to Best Buy today.  42 people asked if they could help me find something, so I finally said yes and asked where the recordable CDs were.  Chickie insisted on leading the way, I followed.  There were a row of CD-Rs and chickie says, "here are the CD MINUS Rs."  Minus.  I'm thinking if you use those you'll actually subtract part of your music collection from your iTunes. 

No, I didn't correct her. I know the dash means nothing for CDs.  

My garbage company hates me.  Over the past month, they've cracked the front of the can to where it's barely hanging together and today, somehow they garbage men managed to break a wheel off of the can.  If only there was video of my attempt to drag the one-wheeled can back to the garage -- it would be a You Tube sensation.  Of course, it would have to be bleeped every other word, but a sensation nonetheless.  

I dropped an entire pitcher of iced tea on the kitchen floor AGAIN tonight.  I have the coordination of a sleepy toddler.  I was going to say "drunk toddler," but that would be wrong.

Our modem is trying to die.  It's been doing this turn off randomly thing for couple of weeks, then last night it wouldn't come back on for 10 minutes.  I called AT&T about the thing today.  Chickie tries to get me to "troubleshoot" it.  I told her I was damn close to shooting the thing with the rifle and she needed to send me another modem.  Chickie verified that we have the extended whatever and says it will be here in 3-5 days.  Welcome to Kerry's troubleshooting -- it's not working properly, send me a new one.   I have PMS, you don't want to try me right now.

At Walgreens, I stood in front of the PMS over-the-counter section for at least five minutes trying to remember what I usually buy.  It seems there are many more boxes than before.  Drug companies, I have PMS, I don't need options right now.  I need a box that says "take this now for your cramps so you don't kill someone with a pen in the parking lot."  That's the box for me.

All the ingredients in the PMS medicines are the same, so I don't know why we need 20 to choose from.  I picked Midol.  And M&Ms.  You know, for the extra caffeine in the chocolate.

I saw a commercial tonight for Reese Witherspoon's new perfume.  Do y'all remember way back in the day when the only celebrity who had a perfume was Elizabeth Taylor?  Am I the only one disturbed by the fact that we live in a world where anyone can have a perfume? Avril "I'm so punk!  Look at me, I'm Canadian and I can flip the bird!" Lavigne and Tim McGraw both have perfumes.  I'm unveiling my new perfume next week.  It's called Kerrageous and it has all my favorite scents in one bottle: geranium, sweet pea, honeysuckle, mint, chocolate chip cookies, and cornbread. And butter.

Mmm...cornbread.

one of those days

It's been one of those days.  You know what I mean.  I know you do.  Shall I expound on my day?  Okay.

Let's back up a moment.  It's really a carry over from yesterday when the air conditioning was out (it's 90+ degrees here on the Northshore in South Louisiana even thought the calendar says it's October).  It was hot.  I am not a fan of heat.  Like at all.   Our a/c man is fantastic and the house started to cool around bedtime (not my bedtime, the children's bedtime), so I was in a much better mood last night. 

I went to bed around one.   Couldn't shake the static in my brain, of course.  Woke up at 5 with a migraine, took some Judy Garland trailmix and tried to go back to bed 'til 6:15, otherwise known as "time to make the doughnuts" as I say every morning when I turn off the iPhone alarm and wake the kids to get ready for the bus.  No, I've never made doughnuts.  

After I got the kids off, my migraine and I went back to bed.  If you've never had a migraine, let me illustrate the feeling: my senses were so heightened that I could smell colors and that made sense.  At 9:45 I woke up and made coffee, took a shower, put on another pair of pjs, and sat down to the Macbook Pro for the ENTIRE day.  I've been working on a friend's website for about a week and this morning I decided to publish it to the web so I could work out glitches and upload mp3s and all. 

Unfortunately, the interwebs hates me. 

I deleted the old site, uploaded the new one, but it wasn't there.  The error message on the site said something to the effect of "error blah blah blah, this page does not exist on here, fool.  Contact the webmaster."  This made me laugh until I choked on my coffee and yelled "this shit is bananas," which became the phrase of the day.  The webmaster is an idiot.  I'd fire her if it were my site. 

So, I called my good friend, Frugal Beth to tell her the story because I knew she'd laugh and she asks her professional webdesigner hubs what to do and we got it worked out.  Something about publishing to some file blah blah blah awesome.  Site was up, buggy, but up.  More issues arose, the kids came home crazy, and my friend tells me he bought the new Photoshop Elements 8.  Now, I bought PSE 6  a few months ago.  This kind of thing makes me crazy.  I hopped on apple.com and sho nuff, 8 is out.  This shit is bananas. 

After putting myself in timeout for a few minutes after telling the kids to stop asking for cookies for the brazillionth time, I returned to the kitchen to see they had eaten the entire bag of Chips Ahoy.  I put myself in timeout again to avoid the screaming boiling up from within, then sent the kids upstairs, sat down to the computer again and continued day-o-web frustration.

And then I pondered dinner for at least ten seconds before putting a frozen pizza in the oven (because that's all I could muster up tonight).  After calling the hubs' aunt and cousins to ask them to babysit next weekend, I realized I never took the pizza out.   I burned the pizza.  Nothing like extra crispy blackened pepperoni. 

This was not my day.

After burning the pizza, I chatted with my friend while making at least a dozen blog banners for his blog, then finally got the right size.  It was bananas.  The first one was 20 times too big, then too small -- it was like when I try on clothes.  Typepad said it was supposed to be so many pixels, wrong.  Whatev, they're smokin' crack.  I again recited my phrase of the day.  

It was about that time that I remembered I forgot to eat dinner, made myself some cereal, and watched Private Practice while trying to upload the mp3s.  Two will not work.  They must have gotten the memo that the interwebs hates me.  It was at this moment that I went to You Tube for some Gwen Stefani.  I'm not a fan of the Gwen, but this mix of "Hollaback Girl" with Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust" is the bomb, yo.  After -- no lie -- playing this video 7 times, it's been a much better evening.  And come on, this shit is bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s.  Sing along with me.

late night post in which I favor shopping over therapy

It's late.  Like 12:44 am late.  And I've got my 80's playlist going -- The Commodores "Night Shift" is on, y'all. 

I can't sleep.  Why?  Not sure.  The children of the corn are all asleep, Lucy dog is too.  I'm physically tired, but as usual, my brain won't stop.  So, I've been shopping online.   I've done quite a bit of online shopping lately.  When I say quite a bit, I mean I may have ended the recession myself. Someone call Barack, I deserve some kind of medal of freedom or something. 

I'm not in therapy anymore, and I'd rather spend the money on shoes and purses anyway. 

So, this is the dress I've decided on for the hubs' reunion. 

It's from Lane Bryant.  Here are the boots I bought from Zappos to wear with the dress.

How do you like that croco detail?  Shut up, that's awesome.  They're Naturalizer.  I like their boots.  Didn't go for a big heel because I like not falling down.  You all know my graceful nature.

I just bought this bag, the red will pop with the dress.

 

And while I was on Zappos getting the boots, look what I found.

These Born maryjanes are the cutest, had to get them -- Zappos said there was only one pair left.  I'll wear them with jeans and capris.  It's just too bad they don't match this bag I just picked up. 

Hello, my name is Kerry and I am an emotional shopper (but at least I'll look cute).

what I do when I'm sick

I'm sick.  I wouldn't be surprised if you already knew that because I've told everyone.  I haven't shouted it from the rooftops, because my throat hurts too much.  So, I thought I'd tell you what I do when I'm sick.

1. Watch movies.  I've watched 3 or 4 movies today, 2 documentaries from my bed.  Not my deathbed, just my bed.

2. Chatted with friends on Facebook.  This is something I do everyday, but today my throat hurts too much to talk, so it's Facebook, smoke signals, or gang signs.  Oh, and texts and emails, because I don't know Morse code.

3. Played way too much Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook.

4. Scratched off a scratch-off lottery ticket.  Megan came by my mailbox and put in one of those chain letter things where you send 6 lottery scratch-offs to someone and you're supposed to get 36.  Well, I lost.  I'm not doing it.

5. Listened to Andrew tell knock-knock jokes.  All of his jokes end with "______ on your head."  This grows old after a few jokes.

6. Ordered 3 magazines. 

7. Looked at lolcats.

8. Communicated via Barbie walkie-talkie with the children.

9. Taken Tylenol, Advil, and sprayed my throat with Chloraseptic.  It still burns.  I think I need ice cream.

10. Read up on how to install Windows and Parallels on my iMac so I can use Homestead Sitebuilder for the ScrapFest website.

11. Coughed.  A lot.

12. Felt the swollen glands in my neck to see if they're swollen.  They are.

13. Used my voice for two phone calls.  Andrew's school and my doctor's office.  Should have sent smoke signals.

14. Tried to nap.  Tried.

15. Wrote this blog.

16. Developed a crush on British comedian Alan Davies, a panelist on the show Q.I.  He's the one rhyming things with "purple" in this clip.  SO my type. 

really, I don't mind at all.

At least that's what I'm telling myself.  Because the more you tell yourself something, the more you believe it and then after a while, it's part of your composition.

So, maybe I won't mind. 

But for now, it's important to me because a person should have people in their life that they feel like they can count on.  And it hurts.  I'm not sure why I'm airing this here (because it's not as though they read the blog after all), and as the song says, "it's getting so you never know when things are left alone."  I don't believe leaving things alone is a trait of mine.  I'm pretty sure I wasn't in line when God was giving that one out, just as I wasn't in line for many other traits.  The trait I was blessed with for better or for worse, is expression.   And even though I'm not paid for it, fundamentally I've always been a writer-girl and the written word is my main form of expression.  So, what I can't verbalize right now will be written and maybe I'll get around to saying how I feel to whom this is directed and maybe I won't.

I know many of my readers come here for a laugh, but it hasn't been one of those days.  I hope you understand.  I'm sure I'll put a smile on my face and get back to our usual shenanigans tomorrow.  But for today, here's the song. 

I Dont Mind at All - Bourgeois Tagg

a Friday night with Kerry

So, it's Friday night.  Although I've never been the party girl, I never thought a Friday night would become quite this anticlimactic. 

I've just dyed my hair orange. 

Orange was not the color I was going for, in fact, Light Auburn is the shade on the box.  But it might as well be called Orange.  Don't believe me?  Let's go to the evidence.

Oh, yeah, I dyed my eyebrows too, because I want to look like the Carrot Top version of Groucho Marx. 

This is all kinds of sexy, wouldn't you agree?  Not so much, I know.  The houseboys aren't exactly lining up outside the door. 

As the color began to to darken on top of my head and I checked the mirror, a song popped into my head. 

Can you guess which one?

"They call me Heat Miser..."

It's the one and only Heat Miser from 1974's "The Year Without a Santa Claus."  

The Heat Miser and I have one thing in common.  Okay two.  1) flame-colored hair and 2) similar body shapes. 

Besides that we're total opposites.  He likes it hot; I like cool temperatures.  He hates Santa; I love Christmas.  He can melt objects with his bare hands; I melt in the heat and humidity.  He sings Ragtime; I sing everything on my iPod, no Ragtime.  He has a much-hated step-brother, the Snow Miser; I have a sister in Texas, where it has snowed before .  His mom is Mother Nature herself; my mother has enjoyed the Animal Planet.   He clearly has no fashion sense; I'm me.  He has minions which are miniature versions of himself;  I'm not allowed to speak about that until after the trial is over. 

Just before I rinsed my hair, I checked the mirror again and another image came to me.  

Syndrome from The Incredibles. 

Either I need to go back to the salon for professional coloring or I need to stop watching animated television and movies. 

This is just sad.

I just had the strangest epiphany.

If the Heat Miser and I had a child it would be Syndrome. 

Look at him.  Seriously.