She's Lump, Part Three

In the continuing saga that is That Weird Ear Lump, I had an MRI of mah head today. 

Dee, when your ear lump acts up, take out your nose ring!

I spent about a half hour crammed in a bionic tube, listening to an unnerving cacophony of clangs, bangs and techno beats. It was like trying to take a nap at a gay steel mill on dubstep night.  

Still less annoying than the sound of multiple children whiiiiiinnnninggg, though.

Anyway, look! It's the inside of my head!

Specifically, the inside of my ear. Which looks more than vaguely Ackbar-ish. Tell the truth: how badly do you want to cut-and-paste some googly eyes and type IT'S A TRAP on this right now? Pretty bad, I bet. 

I am pretty sure this is the best, most flattering photo of me EVER. I should make this my Twitter avatar.

Anyway, here's The Lump, after a shot of contrast dye.

And while that looks cool and all, I was bummed to see this picture, as the technician explicitly told me that if the lump was in fact just a harmless fatty deposit or cyst, the contrast dye would do nothing to it and it wouldn't be visible. And yet there that fucker is, clear as day, looking all connected to Other Shit, and stuff. 

Then again, I'm not a professional MRI Reader Person (don't let the size of that magnificent, spongy brain fool you), so I should probably put the CD of images and Google away and wait for my doctor to call with the full report. But where's the blogging fun in that? It's a tumah! Go for the bobopsy! Pour some wine on it!

 

If The Beach House Is Rocking...

Oh, did I say something about posting more tomorrow? As in, yesterday, the day I did not post anything because...well, I don't know. Was busy. 

OBVIOUSLY.

Planning on being similarly busy today as well, although we're leaving tonight because Noah has his kindergarten orientation (WHUT HELL NO) and Ezra needs school shoes (NOT MAH BABY) and Ike...well, Ike just kinda needs a bath.

I'm sure I could find an acceptably-sized sink to bathe him in around here, but...eh. I never claimed to not be completely ridiculous. 

OBVIOUSLY. 

PS. Yes, we totally felt the earthquake. I mean, poor Tracey did, since she was alone in the house and everything shook and wobbled like crazy and she ran out right when Ezra and I were returning from the beach for a potty break and was all, "Holy shit, earthquake!" and I was all, "Oh, I thought that was like, a truck," and Ezra was all, "I HAVE TO PEE AND SHE TRIED TO GET ME TO PEE IN THE OCEAN AND I HAVE BEEN POTTY TRAINED FOR WHOLE ENTIRE WEEKS NOW AND THEREFORE REFUSE TO PEE IN THE OCEAN BECAUSE I NOW SUDDENLY HAVE STANDARDS." 

PPS. Yeah. It's pretty metal around here. OBVIOUSLY.

PPPS. I am mostly just really glad it wasn't a volcano.

New Year, Same Crap, Now With Bonus CAPS LOCK

So. 2011. Another year, another realization that I missed my own blog's anniversary about a month or so ago...Thanksgiving-ish? December if we're waiting until I actually started posting anything other than entries that said stuff like TESTING TESTING IS THIS THING ON HA HA IT'S A BLOG BUT I'M TREATING IT LIKE A MICROPHONE OMG I AM LIKE THE MOST ORIGINAL PERSON TO EVER FIGURE OUT HOW TO ACCESS THE INTERNET? 

Anyway. Here I am, about to embark on my EIGTH YEAR of blogging, and I feel like the first entry of 2011 should be a good one. An important one. I should at least attempt to spell things mostly correctly. And I should have a really, really good topic. 

THINGS THAT ARE NOT GOOD TOPICS, PROBABLY

1) Bitching about the person who is selling a set of bunk beds on Craigslist for $150 yet has not responded to my email about wanting to buy said bunk beds. Which means they either enjoy keeping me in suspense OR they have already sold the bunk beds to someone else, someone else who does not DESERVE THEM like I do, who will not LOVE THEM like I will, so FINE, bunk-bed seller person, I HOPE YOU ARE HAPPY WITH THAT MEASLY $150, though you should know I totally would have thrown in the extra $50 you mentioned for the mattresses, provided they weren't like, gross or smelly or anything. Nothing but the best for MY preshus ruffians. 

1a) Unless you just haven't checked your email yet today. In that case I take it all back. Pick me! I am not at all the unhinged sort of person who gets completely hysterical over used furniture deals on Craigslist or anything, oh no. 

1b) I can come get them tonight! Just sent me your home address. Uh-huh. Do it. 

2) I have a cold. I would literally crush a set of solid maple bunk beds with my bare hands right now, if it meant I could take some goddamn Advil Cold & Sinus instead of all these various safe-for-pregnancy remedies that are not doing a goddamn thing. 

2a) First person who suggests a Neti Pot gets sold on Craigslist.

2b) Seriously, if it's not used in a meth lab, I DON'T WANT IT. WAH.

3) So remember that time I ran out of gas and didn't have my wallet and did a whole bunch of other dumb shit all in a shockingly narrow timeframe? And still found time to worry about Noah's bus driver getting mad at me because I didn't manage to call the dispatch depot to tell them we weren't going to be home in time?

3a) Well! I WAS TOTALLY RIGHT ABOUT THAT, because today the bus pulled up in front of our house, and waited NOT EVEN 30 SECONDS before pulling away and gunning it down the street. I literally turned away from the window to zip up Noah's coat -- with no bus in sight -- and then turned back around and BAM. There was the bus, hightailing it away from our house. I didn't even hear the brakes squeal, that high-pitched squeal that jolts me awake in a panic every Tuesday morning at 7 am because the garbage truck's brakes make the same squeal and I flip out because THE BUS THE BUS THE BUS IS FIVE HOURS EARLY AND I AM UNPREPARED FOR IT. 

3b) The bus also usually gives us a courtesy honk if we're not out there when it pulls up. But clearly, those days are over, because of That Time I Didn't Call I Just Know It. I shall now totally resume my regular topographical surveys of my backyard to inspect for possible volcano lumps. 

3c) Or maybe because I didn't give the bus drivers a Christmas gift? Are you supposed to give bus drivers Christmas gifts? Don't answer that. I don't really want to know. Besides, there are FOUR OF THEM, including ride-on aides, plus a bajillion alternates, and I don't really know what all their names are and frankly the pick-up people are kind of rude and scary and Noah has five regular teachers PLUS therapists and art and P.E. and I feel like the gift card/cookie basket madness had to end SOMEWHERE, but then they gave Noah a card and a miniature candy cane a couple days before the holiday break and I was like, "BAIT. GIFT CARD BAIT. BAH HUMBUG."

3d) So I had to drive Noah to school. Luckily, I was actually dressed, though it wasn't until we got there and I was mid-rant to his teacher about I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED I SWEAR WE WERE RIGHT THERE BY THE WINDOW THE WHOLE TIME IT CAME EARLY AND THEN DROVE AWAY SO FAST BLAH BLIBBITY CRAZY LADY TALK that I realized I was still wearing my bedroom slippers.

4) Yep. 2011 is pretty much shaping up to be exactly the same as the last eight years or so. Personal growth and development are for suckers.

5) PLEASE PRETEND I HAD A FIFTH THING THERE. WHY CAN'T MY LISTS EVER JUST HAVE FIVE THINGS ON THEM TO BEGIN WITH?  GOD.

I Have Clear Priorities Even In My Sleep

THINGS THAT WOKE ME UP LAST NIGHT:

1) My husband snoring at 12:17 am.

2) A mislabeled calendar reminder making my phone vibrate on the nightstand at 3:00 am instead of pm, which then kept me up another hour because I had to think about OMG THAT THING I HAVE TO DO AT 3:00 PM over and over again.

3) My dog puking at 6:12 am.

THINGS THAT DID NOT WAKE ME UP LAST NIGHT:

1) The 3.4 magnitude earthquake at 5:04 am. Was it fun?

Earlobotomy

Guess what! You guys! You wanna know what I'm doing this weekend? Something I've wanted to do for ages and ages and like, forever and now I'm totally gonna do it? 

I'm getting my EARS PIERCED.

Okay, so I'm kind of messing with you there, because my ears are already pierced. Several times, actually. I think my total was...squints at ghosts of piercings past on earlobe...five. Five holes. I got my ears pierced the first time in fourth grade, even though my agreement with my parents was and had always been that I could get them pierced at 12 years old. By fourth grade, though, I was one of only two girls without pierced ears and UTTERLY DESPERATELY MISERABLE. 

I wore those little sparkly sticker things? Every day? I even kept extras in my desk because they NEVER lasted the whole day and otherwise people would know that I was just wearing STICKERS and not REAL EARRINGS because I was totally and completely FOOLING EVERYBODY, SHUT UP I WAS.

Then at home, I waged a relentless campaign of begging, pleading and probably a lot of door-slamming of the YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE variety. I think we eventually negotiated a deal surrounding the results of my next report card, or maybe that was just a cover so my parents could get me to shut the fuck up about it already while still keeping some pride and sense of parental control intact. 

And so I went with my mom to the mall and picked out the most beautiful birthstone-ish jeweled studs and BLAMMO, I was a girl -- nay, a WOMAN -- with pierced ears. And oh my God, they hurt like all hell. 

Then the 90's...happened, and you simply couldn't show your flannel-shirted self ANYWHERE with just one measly set of ear holes. You needed MORE, and you needed an ODD number because that was the only way to demonstrate your ANGST. So I got one more, because that was all my mom would pay for. 

(Then I got a job at Sesame Place and went all hardcore with two more holes once I was of legal age to get my ears pierced without a parent present.)

(Problem was that I still lived at home. So I still totally got in trouble for that.)

Anyway! So why in sam hill am I getting my ears pierced this weekend? Because apparently I have the earlobes of an old lady. My first set of holes -- the only ones that I actually wear earrings in anymore -- were always a little on the lower part of my earlobe, and in recent years have DRIFTED. DOWNWARD. I am not making this up. The holes are mere millimeters from the very bottom of my earlobe. Any type of dangly earring accentuates the unfortunate droopy-hole problem. (And I will have you know that I was not allowed to wear dangly earrings -- INCLUDING HOOPS OF ANY SIZE -- until junior high) 

Not only does it look pretty weird, in my opinion, it also triggers one of my All Time Top 10 Irrational Fears: that my earring will somehow get ripped out of my ear and split my earlobe in half. Y'all know volcanoes are my number-one Irrational Fear, followed by getting caught up in a case of mistaken identity and wrongfully convicted of murder. 

Irrational fear number three? The earlobe-ripping thing. 

Anyone who has ever met me at Blogher or in person otherwise can tell you that I have little to no problems with personal space invasion. I'm a hugger. I hug you; don't mind getting hugged back. I like smushing up against people when photos get taken. But so help me GOD, if I think for even a split second that you are going to touch my ears or earrings, I will fly into a crazy defensive fit because DON'T RIP MY EARLOBE I AM BEGGING YOU PLEASE.

When Noah was a toddler, we were eating out at a restaurant and I bent over to retrieve his toy from the floor. At some point he reached over from his high chair and touched my earring. I flipped out, slapped both hands over my ear and then completely lost my balance and fell off my chair. Flat on the floor. But at least my earlobe was okay. 

Okay, I KNOW. Why do I bother wearing earrings at all? Wouldn't just not wearing earrings be a good, practical solution here? 

I hear you. I do. But here's the problem with that: SHUT UP. EARRINGS ARE PRETTY.

So anyway, according to Google, the too-low ear piercing thing actually isn't that unusual, and it happens to a lot of women after awhile. And getting them re-pierced higher up is absolutely an option, at least according to all the wedding message boards I came across, because apparently once you're done obsessing over your dress and flowers and bridesmaids, it's time to start freaking out about your less-than-optimal ear-hole placement that could potentially TOTALLY RUIN THE WHOLE DAY.

Thus, I am publicly stating my intention to allow another human being to touch my earlobes this weekend and re-pierce them. Though I do have to ask: are my venue choices still really the same as before? Do I still really have to go find a kiosk at the mall or wander into Claire's and ask some surly teenager sorting prom tiaras to please punch holes in my saggy old-lady earlobes? Jason graciously volunteered to do it for me but I am distinctly Not Down with that. I told him I'd prefer a professional, whatever THAT means, though he will definitely need to come and hold my hand. 

OMG, I'm totes getting my ears pierced this weekend! Because I can! And because I feel like it and SO THERE EVERYBODY and my fourth-grade self is sooooo jealous of me right now. 

Indoctrination

Allow me to present definitive proof that the public schools are turning the hearts and minds of our children against us.

EXHIBIT A, which came home in Noah's backpack late last week:

 

EXHIBIT B, which came home yesterday, thus cementing the fact that this is officially a pattern:

 

If, for some reason, you are not super-experienced when it comes to deciphering preschool crayon scribblings, I present an enhanced and annotated version:

WHAT ARE THEY TEACHING THIS CHILD AT THAT SCHOOL? I swear to God, if I find out that next week's field trip to the farm is actually a volcano discovery mission, I am homeschooling from now the fuck on. 

DM me if you want to buy the TV rights...

Oh my God!

You guys!

In between all the craziness of...uh...sleeping and eating and taking like, THREE WHOLE SHOWERS IN FIVE DAYS, I completely forgot to tell you about the most exciting thing to happen to me ever in my whole life:

 

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

PHHHHHHFFFFFFFFFFFFTTTTTBBBBBB!

...is pretty much what I said when I got the notification on my phone, right before involuntarily flinging the thing upward, like it was on fire (VOLCANO FIRE), where it collided with ceiling of my car, teaching us all an important lesson about Checking Twitter DMs While Driving, i.e. Don't Do It, It Could Be A Celebrity.

I drove home with this huge dorky grin on my face, composing hypothetical replies in my head that included the somewhat embarrassing factoid that I was a devoted Reading Rainbow watcher until the age of 12, maybe 13, SHUT UP YOU, and that I record the show for Noah whenever our PBS station decides to air it, and that a rerun this past summer was about composting and I sat there watching it BY MYSELF, with GREAT INTEREST, shouting to Jason in the next room about how we were TOTALLY gonna plant us some potato chunks in our backyard this year, because one potato turns into like, 45 potatoes according to Reading Rainbow, and think of how much money we'd save on potatoes? MILLIONS, probably. Also, yes. Reading was more of a strong point for me than math, as a child. Or ever.

Obviously, I planned on...editing all that down once I got home. Into one concise, non-crazy-fangirl reply, embodying both the reverence a Really Important Childhood Idol deserves with the grown-up understanding that we're all just regular people and stuff. 

Then I call Jason and screamed into his voice mail: I JUST GOT DM'D BY GEORDI LAFORGE. JEALOUS MUCH?

(For the record, he SO WAS.)

Then I loaded up TweetDeck to actually compose my masterful reply and found that I couldn't. Because LeVar Burton doesn't actually follow me, because I am endlessly baffled by the Direct Messaging Rules of Twitter, always asking people to DM me and then they're all: I can't, Dipshit.

So I thought...well, maybe he plans to follow me and just hasn't gotten around to it. I should wait a couple hours and see what happens. Play it cool. Yes. I am cooooool.

Of course, he didn't follow me, because...why would he? I am a terrible Twitterer. Tweeter? Twit? I would probably use it solely to keep the world abreast of my children's bowel movements, if I could. I mean, I'm aware that I could, I just often forget that Twitter even exists for days at a time, while everybody else seems so much more...into it and plugged into the whole concept and @ @ @ RT RT #hashtagcakes.

My point is, Twitter makes me feel patently uncool, and we all know that my fragile vagina flower ego simply cannot handle that. So, when faced with the LeVar Burton Direct Message Quandary of Doom, I opted to simply ignore Twitter for a few days until it came to its senses and LET ME SEND LEVAR BURTON A DIRECT MESSAGE, DAMMIT.

Then Jason asked me why I didn't like, just thank LeVar Burton for his message on Regular Twitter, talking to him like everybody else does. And I fretted about that, because you know, he sent the message awhile ago, so I felt WEIRD bringing it up, plus wouldn't that seem kind of obnoxious, like I was BRAGGING to everybody else that OH HAI, LeVar Burton sent me a DM and not you, let's all bask in how AWESOME I AM?

Jason: Seriously, do you not get how Twitter works AT ALL?

Amy: Not really.  But remember that time you asked me what the hell "RT" meant? I totally knew the answer to that one.

@LeVarBurton: *is just really wishing Amy had just sent the danged public tweet because OH YEAH, a whole blog entry about this is soooooo much less creepy*

Anyway. I'm writing this because today TweetDeck crashed and I opted to go crazy old school, using Twitter dot com...where I suddenly discovered that I do indeed have the option to reply to LeVar Burton's Direct Message, even though he doesn't follow me. And that I could have replied to him ALL THIS TIME. ALL ALONG, I had the power. And then I went back to TweetDeck to yell at it, maybe kick it a little bit...and discovered that I actually could reply there too, but I'd simply been looking for the wrong icon:

 

In my head, the lack of a little arrow box in the top left corner meant I couldn't reply. I checked the little gear wheel setting and all the little drop-down menus, but for some reason, THE BOX WITH THE ENVELOPE, THE ONE THAT SAYS "DIRECT MESSAGE LEVARBURTON" WHEN YOU PUT YOUR MOUSE OVER IT, never once came to my attention.

No. Seriously. This is the dumbest thing I have ever done. I admit that. Worse than getting off the train in Newark. Worse than the Not-Pregnant Mistaken-Identity Lady. It's failing at TWITTER. Topped off with a bonus of it involving a VERY MEANINGFUL CELEBRITY CHILDHOOD ICON.

But what could I possibly say at this point, because I would feel the need to explain WHY I hadn't replied earlier, which was so RUDE of me, because Oh Em Eff Gee, he's LeVar Burton and he took the time to cure me of a lifelong phobia and I couldn't even be bothered to come up with a single 140-character reply? Like, I don't know: "THANK YOU." That's only like, 34 characters, or something.

Clearly, my only real option was to turn to my blog and 1) tell you guys about what a freaking dumbass I am (again) (some more) (six bloggy years and counting!) and 2) go ahead and completely freak poor LeVar Burton out and get myself blocked on Twitter for the very first time.

So it is written, indeed.