One of my blood relations and myself have this sadistic liking to going to the doctor. When musing it some weeks ago we both coyly admitted to each other that we enjoy it. The reason behind this sadistic liking is that when one goes to the doctor, they have an adult who is willing to talk to about their problems. Yes! An opportunity to talk about me! No wonder hypochondriacs exist, it's fun to get all that attention.
Well, the other day I concocted up a foolproof plan to see the doctor, (in order to get attention). The plan was that I would have him look at a suspicious mole on my back that seemed to come up with a new disguise every few days. Some days it was red, other days it's brown and on occasion it's more of a white color. "I know" I thought to myself, "I'll see myself to a specialist under the guise that I have a suspicious mole and then I can get some undivided attention!" (ha!)
The doctor examined it, we talked about skin, I told him I like to lay on the beach with a towel over me and he was very impressed. After that he took a look at my suspicious mole and informed me he would do a biopsy. "Sure" whatever that is I thought.
I was under the impression that a biopsy was the removal of a minuscule piece of skin that goes to be tested and then the specialist decides if there is an impending removal in the future. So, he numbed my pack, I felt some pain (but I didn't cry, so don't accuse me of crying), and then he said "okay, you're done."
I went home only to find a large patch of skin removed from my back. Well, I suppose I got what I bargained for. I got undivided attention from a concerned individual but I also inadvertently got a minor sugary.
So, if you find out that you've had a minor sugary by accident, well look on the positive side, you got attention!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
I have these two adrenaline junkies for friends. They're the types who run marathons, encourage the competition of Iron Man contests, use the word "crampons" in normal conversation and probably have stock in energy bar companies. Not only that but they get high from exercise. Now, I tend to view this as a good thing to be getting high from - considering other options.
Anyways, one day adrenaline junkie one, adrenaline junkie two and myself decided to go hiking. Now, I'm not exactly the type to go around exercising five hours a day. However, I have been known to take a nice leisurely stroll along the water, on flat ground, whilst prattling away on my mobile phone device to one of my blood relations.
Back to the story of adrenaline junkies. They said "Hey let's hike dog mountain!" And I agreed that it was a supurb idea. What I didn't know was that it is an eight mile hike. I'm used to doing little hikes that terminate within two hours.
So we drove deep into the Gorge, crossed Bridge of the Gods and arrived in "the great state of Washington" to embark on an epic hike.
They put giant medical textbooks in their packs to make it more arduous. I armed myself with a small water bottle and nothing more and up we went. At the fork that said "more difficult" or "less difficult" they veered right and opted for the more difficult way (I had no choice in this important decision, so I just followed).
When I complained about being tired and when I begged and whined for a break, adrenaline junkie one said to me "You will get a nectarine when we get to the top" and we pressed on. Well, food usually motivates me, but it all seemed futile. And, I knew there was no convincing my adrenaline junkie friends to turn around, go back to the car and hit McDonald's on our way back to the metropolis. Nope, I was stuck on the tortuous hike.
We did finally make it to the to and my effort was compensated with a tasty nectarine (and a delicious peanut butter and jelly sandwich - which really hits the spot when one is hiking). The view was worth the effort, and thus I was inducted into the Adrenaline Junkie Official Club.
Like many things in life - it was a pleasant form of misery. So, two weeks later, I did a silly thing - I did the same tortuous hike yet again.
So, to all of you out there, don't be afraid is adrenaline junkies, because one day, you might find yourself mildly attracted to their edgy lifestyle. And before you know it, you will plod up a mountain, by your own free will.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
When I was a large child, my sister and I would brag to one another about who had answered the phone when my dad’s British summer employer rang.
One of us would pick up the phone and say “Hullo?” And a voice on the other end would say so jovially “E-llew, Nigel Stah-foord hier. Is your fah-thah avaailable?” (Oh dear, I’ve just realized that I’ve tried to type a British accent but what came out was an Arnold Schwarzenegger impersonation, please just humor me and pretend it sounds British, kay? Thanks!)
“Um, no.” And then my father’s summer employer would rattle on some pleasant nonsense to us in his delightful accent and then one of us got to listen to him with an awed expression on our face.
Later that day one of us was bound to say the other very smugly “I talked to Nigel Stafford on the phone today.” And the other would say “That’s not fair, you picked up the phone last time he called!”
Now, for kids growing up in small town USA, talking to a person on the phone with a bonafide British accent was the highlight of one’s day. After that, talks with one another in fake British accents ensued. I mean, it was one thing to hear a British accent on TV, but to talk to a real British person was downright earth-shattering and exhilarating.
Now, this blog post has been rather misleading, I have no intention of talking about British accents; rather I am going to go on a lengthy and boring discourse about tea. Those who make it to the end will be rewarded with a prize for their efforts.
Well then, you ask; why in the sam-hill are you banging on about British accents if you aren’t even going to talk about them?? What’s the matter with your brain!? Well, hang on there hot-pants. It’s just that…every time I make tea, I think of Nigel Stafford (not his real name, by the way).
Nigel told my dad, who told me, that you never offer someone a cup of tea. You always offer them a nice cup of tea. “Would you like a nice cup of tea?” Now to me, this sounds like some effective way of doing some PR, or it could just be Nigel wanted his guest to stay and enjoy a nice cup of tea. I mean anyone can have a cup of tea, but a nice cup of tea, well I’ll have two thank you very much.
For us Americans, taking tea with a British person is all rather controversial and very un-American. We have historically been known to take all their tea and dump it into the Boston harbor to say “Ha! Take that you British you! We don’t need you and we don’t need your tea!”
Or maybe, saying “nice cup of tea” is a way of bridging British and American foreign relations. We like nice things. We especially like nice cups of tea, as opposed to a horrid cup of tea or an unpleasant cup of tea. But a plain old cup of tea? Well, I’ll pass. A nice cup of tea? Oh, why thank you your majesty. (I know I'm imagining myself having tea with the queen of England...I'll try to control my fantasies)
So, when you’re trying to manipulate a friend into staying for tea and talking about vacuuming and feeding the cat, I’ve found that it is in fact successful to insert the handy little adjective “nice” before “cup of tea.”
I dare you to try it.