Bad Advice

No Fungus Among Us

Phew! I went to a new dermatologist today and she took a look at what was happening on my face and declared that it wasn't a fungus. Turns out when you're as white as I am, applying hot wax and then ripping the eyebrow (or other) hair out by the roots can irritate the skin. So my nice waxer lady wasn't doing anything unhygienic.

Dr. Win gave me some cortisone ointment and took a photo of a little unrelated blob on my nose that might just be cancerous. She offered to biopsy it right then and there, but said it would probably be a better idea to check it again in three months. I was all set to tell her to go ahead and do the biopsy (cancer is a McGuire family tradition), until she described the process—digging into my nose with a big blade to scoop the entire thing out. I decided to wait on that for a few months. Yikes.

(The photo is of a "jelly fungus." I decided to be nice and spare you the facial fungus photos I found.)

Giddy Up!

As some of you may know, my good sister moved to London last year. Aside from the British being a tad reserved for my sister's bawdy tastes, she's mostly liking it quite a bit. Sue is a health-conscious girl and recently noted that it was time for her yearly gyno exam, so she decided to test out the medical system.

"They send you behind a curtain to get undressed, but there's no paper robe or gown or anything!" she yelped at me over the phone today. "I pulled my t-shirt down over my cooter and came out." The doctor motioned her onto the table.

"But there aren't any stirrups," she pointed out to the doctor, wondering if the good doc realized she was here for a pelvic exam. The doctor patiently explained that Sue should lie on her back, make a fist, and put it under her bottom in order to obtain the proper angle!

Lady doctor did not appreciate one bit Sue's admonishment that in civilized places like New York City, our gyno tables come equipped with stirrups so the patient doesn't have to work so hard during what is a fairly unpleasant scenario anyway. "And then the doctor mushed her big boobs up against my knees and dug in," she yelped again. "I kept wondering if people were filming it!"

I guess that's what socialized medicine gets you—little in the way of stirrups, no disposable exam-wear, but loads of hot boobie action.

My Carbon Footprint. . .

. . . is about to get a lot bigger. I tried, but I hate those compact fluorescent light bulbs. I know they use a lot less energy, but I loathe the light they give off. I stupidly put one in the bathroom fixture and now suddenly I have to wear makeup because who knew my skin had a green sheen to it?

I heard a story on NPR a few weeks ago about the difference in the way that men and women process light. Apparently women are way more sensitive to the fug that is the CFL glow, but I couldn't recall the exact science so I tried looking it up. Instead, I found a Washington Post article wherein an "expert" claims women don't like the harsh light because "we are the nesters."

So true—I'm nothing if not a "nester." Give me a doily, a soothing cup of herbal tea and a cozy afghan and I'm set. Barf.

Lord of the Flies

I've been looking around for more work lately and as I am the Designated Insect Killer in our house, I thought this job seemed like a good possibility:

Seeking part-time, long-term help with a growing Internet business (http://godofinsects.com/) that deals in arthropods (collecting, breeding, trading, buying and selling). Anyone interested in this position should be detail-oriented, good with his or her hands and intelligent, with an interest in either art or science (or both). Duties would include: preparing and archiving dead insects and other arthropods, helping to rear various insects. . .

Disgusting Medical Condition of the Day

According to the new issue of Oprah magazine (go ahead, make fun!), "more than half of women over age 50 are affected by some degree of a condition called pelvic organ prolapse." In other words, more than half of women over 50 have their vaginas slide right on out of their bodies! Can you imagine? Squashed onto an overcrowded L train, when oops, something feels funny "down there." You look down and there's your vagina, just hanging out! Um, gross!

To make sure a slider vagina isn't in your future, doctors recommend a regimen of Kegel exercises. I may skip my crunches, but I don't think I've unclenched the beav since reading this article. You could crack a nut down there at this point!

I'm Not Crazy!!!!!

Well, not completely nuts anyway. As I discussed earlier in the week, my relatively new Rx of happy pills seemed to be causing a drastic uptick in my alky-hall consumption. But as this side effect wasn't mentioned in any of the literature, I chalked it up to my Mcroots reasserting themselves. But nope. Apparently, I'm far from alone in experiencing this phenom. So I'm off them. I quit. Cold turkey. And yes, I know you're not supposed to do that. But I'm a risk-taker, baby. That's how I roll.

According to the research I have a few days of nausea, insomnia (check!), anxiety and—get this—"brain zaps" to look forward to. But once this crap is out of my system, I'm positive I'll be back to my old moderate self. Maybe I'll still be depressed, but hey, at least I won't be a bloated, drunken, mess!

Christ on a Crutch!

As I mentioned last week, it's on record that my gynecologist is easily distracted. So imagine my mood today as I'm sitting in the waiting room and hear the news that a plane has hit a building on the Upper East Side. Minutes later, as I'm walking into the examining room, I get a phone call giving me very good news (which I'll write about once the papers are signed!). Good news, scary news, which should I concentrate on?

The answer to that became clear as I overhear my gyno lamenting that she lives pretty much across the street from the fire and had no idea if her house was okay or not. She came in, muttering to herself and commanded me up into the stirrups. Huh?!? I asked if maybe she wanted to postpone our visit for a better day. Nah, she decided to be a trooper and give me the exam anyway. Great. God only knows where my pap smear will wind up.

The Dark Side of the Happy Pill

Mostly I like my new doctor-prescribed happy pills. Lexapro takes away the devastating lows I used to suffer and seems to have no impact on the manic joy I'm still quite capable of feeling. Up until recently, the biggest side effect I experienced were these insane, complicated, epic-length dreams. We're talking subplots, intrigue. . . all recalled in vivid detail the next morning. At first they disturbed me, but lately, I've started to enjoy them. It's like netflix in my brain.

But the other side effect is less fun. Though I'm in a good mood most of the time, I just want to stuff my piehole constantly. Cookies! Cheese! Steak! Bring it on and then bring me some more! Not only am I eating tons more, I'm also drinking like a college freshman! I've been a two or three glasses of wine with dinner/two or three times a week lady for the past couple years. Like most Micks, I have a drunkypants past, but it's been a while. And the thing with being on a mood stabilizer is, that while I know this is bad, I'm incapable of getting too worked up about it! So I just have to go into Spock mode and be smart enough to cool it. This is some crazy stuff!

Honey, I Misplanted the Kids!

Being a somewhat responsible young lady, this morning I decided to make an appointment for my yearly gyno visit. Never a pleasant experience, the cooter clamp is one of those yucky, yet necessary, things all us gals have to go through. But I couldn't find my doctor's number anywhere. So I googled her.

Wow. Not only did I find her phone number, but I discovered that the good doc got herself in a whole lotta trouble a few years back! I knew she was a fertility specialist, but what I didn't know is that in 1998, she got a couple of the frozen fetuses that were hanging around in her fridge mixed up and implanted them in the wrong woman! The kicker being that one couple was white, the other black! Oopsie!

So when the white woman gave birth to twins, it was to a mixed set! Holy cow! At first, the white lady refused to give up the black baby, saying the other couple had to prove it was theirs by going through DNA testing. When the tests proved what everyone could tell just by looking, they reluctantly gave the kid up, with both sides agreeing to visitation rights.

I'm betting a lot of people would've taken this as a sign to find a new twat doc, but I was kind of charmed by the whole thing. Who hasn't made a mistake or two on the job? And it's not like I'm going to be having embryos stuffed up inside me. I just prefer she keep me barren. And so far she's been doing a great job.

Ralph!

Sitting through one of my ninth-grade health classes, you would've never guessed penicillin had long been invented. . . slide shows of penises half-eaten away by syphillis, vulva covered in festering abcesses. . . it was enough to put anyone off bumping uglies, and AIDS hadn't even been invented yet! My junior-high gym and health teacher, Ms. Kelly, used abject fear to keep us kids from touching each other (or ourselves, for that matter), and I have to admit that it was quite effective. For a while, anyway.

Because "health class" didn't just mean sex education, Ms. Kelly also covered other stuff—most of it equally gross. The one thing that's stayed burned in my brain all these years was her course segment on worms. For all the time she devoted to this topic, you would've figured we lived in some third-world nation instead of suburban New Jersey. Pinworms, hookworms, and, of course, the dreaded tapeworm. We heard about them all. In great detail.

By the time summer vacation came along, I vowed never to walk barefoot again—the better to guard against a hookworm entering my body via my feet and then taking over much of my insides. I looked twice at my can of Aqua Net (big hair was and always will be a Jersey-girl staple, especially when you're punk rock), but figured that since I washed my hair regularly, I was safe from the maggot/brain infestation she grimly informed us befell a poor girl with an unkempt bouffant, back in the fifties. But I did immediately stopped taking Dexatrim  once I heard that most diet pills were actually little capsules, packed full of tapeworm larvae. If there was an urban legend that could be presented as fact—Ms. Kelly would use it. Ah, the pre-snopes days. . . .

Anyway. This story in the Times brought me back to ninth grade. Figured I'd take you along for the ride.