Leprosy and you

About two weeks ago I went to a dermatologist because my eye had become itchy, red and swollen. 

 

I had heard from my most wonderful, caring, and concerned best bud that Hawaii, at one time, was home to the largest known collective colonies of Lepers in the world.  I thanked her for the tidbit of knowledge and didn’t think about it much until my eye started to look like an un-ripe strawberry.  Seeing as how my Hawaiian second honeymoon was only a few months ago – I was convinced that at any moment my face would sag and my eyeball would go rolling down the hallway.

 

I immediately asked my office mates to be on the lookout for stray eyes and to kick them my way should anyone come across one in the aisles.

 

Luckily, I am told that leprosy is not at work on my eye – that it’s just some sort of infection. However, when she told me that I was going to have to throw out a majority of my make-up I swooned. 

 

 My make-up was my treasure, the literal equivalent to a pirate’s booty

 

  I couldn’t bear to part with it.  But, for fear of office eyeball hockey, I did it. 

 

I was forced to go out, in public, WITHOUT MY FACE ON. 

  I could wear certain mascaras and foundations – but that was it.  NO EYELINER, NO EYECREAM, NO CONCEALER, BLUSH, EYESHADOW, CRÈME OR POWDER! 

 

I was horrified.

 

I wait two weeks. 

I am in cosmetic exile

I am a prisoner of the “nude face.”

 

And I do feel naked.

 

I anxiously await my two o’clock appointment today.

 

IN the waiting area I read my Laurie Notaro book while the lady next to me was "killing me softly" with her perfume.  It almost was like she had Glade wisps under each arm so that every time she moved, little invisible puffs would come out to choke me like  flowery carbon monoxide.

 

Then, she struck up a conversation with the gentleman next to her about "those Methodists."

 

Thankfully, my name was called and I was rescued.  However, the religious theme was not to end there.

 

Waiting in my little room, I noticed that the walls were filled with stark faces that had been condemned to a life of skin-disease purgatory for baking to a golden, wrinkly brown in tanning beds.  Basically unfazed and a little giddy about the prospect of wearing eye-shadow by nightfall, I had just hung up my coat and sat down to read a chapter of “We Thought You Would Be Prettier” devoted to the dreaded eye twitch when I heard a rather one-sided conversation wafting from the room next door:

 

"Ever wonder why the Devil's red?"  a gravelly voice boomed

"And blood, too, blood's red."  he went on.

 

"So the Devil's red and blood's red.

Think that's a coincidence? I don't.

The Devil and blood is red." He concluded. 

"Wrote a book about it - called it 'The Devil is Red' - that's what I called my book.  Cause the Devil is Red and the blood, it's red, too."  He ended matter-of-factly.

 

I hoped that whatever procedure happening next door that had prompted his obviously well thought-out tirade did NOT involve blood, of any color.  It was my belief (in order to keep myself from getting woozy and passing out on the Melanoma chart) that there was probably a 666 birthmark being sandblasted off of my roomies' ass (which would make it red - like the Devil - ya know - red).

 

I left shortly after speaking to my doctor who granted me limited use of other, formerly forbidden cosmetic fruit and who made me very happy by not sticking a piece of “allergy tape” to my back and sending me on my way.

 

 

Stupid Human Tricks

Why is it that when my pants have side zippers I often feel like a dog chasing it’s tail?  I stand in the bathroom and circle in front of the toilet, getting dizzier as I furtively tug at the enclosure.  Finally, after two minutes of circling and biting my lower lip in deep concentration I get it zipped. 

 

            Drats!  Why is there always a hook too?

When Deviled Eggs Attack

            I was attacked in my bed the other night.

            I was minding my own business, dreaming away a nightmare-less slumber that was beautifully lacking hair spiders or anything of the sort – when – OUCH! I rolled over and felt something poking me in the side.

Groggily groping around the upper waistband of my granny panties I reached down and pulled a cone shaped object off of my side.  Without my glasses, I could barely make out the culprit of my pain.  It was the large half of a plastic Easter egg.

            I had just been attacked by a Deviled egg…in my bed.

            “PHOEBEEEE!”  I yelled at my cat who undoubtedly planted the egg in my bed after watching me take a stomach pill and two sleeping pills and who obviously thought I would sleep through the night as she used my stomach as an eggy hockey rink. 

Throwing the egg in the floor I plopped back down on the bed, face-first and immediately felt a sharp pain stab the left side of my chest.  I knew what it was even before I awkwardly rolled over and removed it.  The Deviled egg had another half.  And it just bit my boob.

Shrieking, I threw it across the room like a steroid-induced Major Leaguer. 

            A furry thump hit the floor. 

I laid in bed on my back and stared at the slits of ceiling visible from between my four poster bed as Phoebe, reunited with her “kill” systematically smacked the egg halves against my closet door in pure kitty joy. 

            Peter Rabbit is now on my hit list.

Disney and 'Donald's

Three months and counting until my metro-sexualish hubby and I jump a plane to take us to the happiest place on earth. No, not the New York Premiere of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (sigh) - DISNEY WORLD!

I am beyond excited - and terrified, considering my daily aerobic activity to date is just about a centimeter above "dead." So - this week Harry and I have been foodie angels. Low-calorie and low-fat meals have been consumed with barely a grimace. We've done stomach crunches, rode stationary bikes and even bought dumbbells!

After a week of being downright angelic when it came to caloric consumption - we decide that no harm could really come from splitting a small fry and a diet coke from McDonald's (aka "El Diablo). So we pull up, order, and then pay. At the food window - the girl hands us a HUGE bag of food. Harry glances down in it, looks at me and then peels off like the fuzz was going to chase us down.

They had mistakenly given us - brace yourself - a 10 piece nugget and a large fry. We decided that it would be wrong to deny the food gods receipt of their gift to us, so we chowed down like two hungry, hungry, giddy, hippos.

Best part of all? Since we didn't order it - it's free! Free food! Free non-calorie food! See - free = zero calories!

Ahhh.... I am a genius!

:)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Good Reason to Sleep until Noon Everyday ...

So - I overslept this morning - had no time to wash my skanky ass much less pick out an outfit that would minimize previously mentioned plentiful posterior! So I rushed around - and since I am having poofy-eye issues it took me a good half an hour to get my make-up to even stick (wha? You expect me to leave the house without my face on! Surely you jest!).

I then throw on a too-short shirt, the jeans I had on last night and a sloppy ponytail. A blue cardigan was thrown on as an afterthought.

As I am switching my purses (What? You expect me to go carry my brown tweed Kate Spade with THIS outfit? Nope, this outfit du jor needs my new mini Coach polka dot purse!) I decide to fix a quick on the go breakfast.

Flinging open the crammed-with-nothing-but-crap fridge I see I am faced with either pudding, sour cream, eggs (when did I buy eggs?) or milk that is only a few days past its expiration. I whip up a quick chocolate milk meal and take a quick sip.

And spill half of it down my white shirt.

Crap.

So now I'm in the kitchen using a dirty towel to try to mop up the brown milk off of my chest and cursing the dairy gods for soiling my Tommy Hilfiger shirt. I lean over the sink and use the sprayer nozzle to soak my front before realizing that this means I am going to have to leave for work looking like a wet tee-shirt contest cast-off.

I could change.

But why bother?

So I leave.

Now, I'm at work - with bad hair, sliding make-up, a soiled shirt and I keep yawning.

Oh - and - I still have a fake front tooth. Yes, I went to my dentist yesterday and he didn't like the color of the tooth he made for me. So now I must go meet his "Porcelain Dealer" to have him look at my tooth. The best news? My temporary cap may fall off at anytime now since we've removed it once.

I, at twenty-six yearsold and some change, just may have to - buy Polygrip.

Is that one of the signs of the Apocalypse?

Phone Etiquette and Totem Pole Hierarchy

Geez, my job is freakin' boring!

Lemmie show you a scene of my life that happens, oh, about 40 times a day:

ME: "Good Morning/Afternoon! Smithson, Lyle, Adkins, Farnam, and Levenstien!" (names changed to protect the guilty)

CALLER: Wow! That sure is alot of names! Bet you couldn't say that ten times in row!

ME: (Sigh) (fake hearty laugh) Sure I can, it's written on the wall right next to me in big gold letters!

CALLER: That's good! That's good! (man-giggles ensue because they are now incredibly giddy that they are not as low down on the Totem pole as I so obviously am)

This happens all the time. It doesn't get any funnier either. But still, I laugh, I chortle appreciatively and chuckle at the "clever" ones who came up with their own, new, more inventive way to belittle the "help's" lack of memory skills, and I seethe inwardly.

And while I'm on the subject of phone etiquette - do not talk over me when I am answering the phone! You may see yourself as the knight in shining armour-all, ready to wipe away the trouble of having to say many names in a row - but trust me - don't. I'm in a rut, you move me from my rut and instantly, I'm in a funk. And not the good kind, either. I am used to saying the names repeatedly and often, so, please, for the kindness of my tattered brain cells, let me speak!

That is all.

Please leave your name and number at the beep and we'll be sure to get back to you.

 

BEEP!

Holly the Two-Nosed Receptionist

So - I totally have a second nose growing in.

Yup. For some reason, God has decided to bless me with an additional, less-functional nose directly next to the old one (which wasn't all that cute to begin with and really didn't need repeating). With some pangs, I have to admit that this second nose is really just a humongous zit that makes any volcano I saw in Hawaii last summer just pale in comparison.

It's icky, it's gross and it now lives on my face.

Now, I don't normally get mondo zits - I get the occasional breakout pimple that sits on my nose for a couple of days, embarresses me thoroghly and then retreats for a month before reappearing to say "hi." But rarely do I get HUGE ones.

This morning I painstakingly layered moisturizer, zit cream, concealer and foundation on the blemish until I realized that I had just made my right nostril blend into my cheek making me look even more freakish than I first started out. Admitting defeat I washed my face and started reapplying the layers of cosmetics. This time I ended up with a pasty-looking scab. Ew. Ew. EW.

Finally I decided to just grin and bear it. I left my second nose red as Rudolph's and came to work ready to face the world - two noses and all!