Bad Advice

Remembering Fran (my mom)

My mom died twenty years ago today, August 3, 1992. I was 28, she was 54.

I was talking to an old friend who lost her mom around the same time and we agreed it feels more like five years. Not like yesterday or last week anymore, like it did for the first couple years, and not even one year, because a lot of details have faded.

But twenty years just seems so impossibly long ago. A lot of memories are hazy, but too many are still pretty fresh. Like my brother calling me just as I arrived home to tell me our mom had died. I remember he said she'd "passed." Though we knew it was coming, I was still confused by the phrasing for the first few seconds. "Passed" what?

The most tragic thing about my mom's life—and there were many tragedies—was that she never really felt good enough. She never felt pretty or smart and for that I blame my grandmother, the she-beast.

Giddy Titty City!

Okay, phew. My latest health scare was just that—a scare. The doctors found a suspicious nodule on my mammogram (that would be a scan of my boobies) and I needed to come back in for further testing. I found out on Thursday and promptly lost the plot. I had no doubt it was cancer. My mom was only a few years older than me when she died, I have lost many friends to the disease—why wouldn't I have it?

Naturally I wanted to find out ASAP so I could either figure out a treatment plan or quit hyperventilating. The radiology place couldn't see me until today so I did the best I could to put it out of my mind (yeah, right) and went about my business. Today I went in, they did more tests, and told me I had a cyst in my tit. Nothing further is to be done, it's not cancerous. I feel like it's my birthday, Christmas, and vacation all at once. I am so happy and grateful that it wasn't the Big C. So yeah, probably my posts will lighten up a bit from now on. Phew!!!

(Oh, and that's not me, it's Salma Hayek. I realize the resemblance is uncanny. Get it—"cans"!)

Meet my Cancer!

So it was an exciting week over here at Casa McGuire-Opoulos. First, I got a daily blogging gig at the Seattle Weekly, and then on Wednesday, I was diagnosed with melanoma. (There are three different kinds of skin cancer and melanoma is the worst.)

I had noticed a little mole pop up on my left ankle a couple months ago, after we got back from Puerto Rico. At first I thought it was a shaving cut, but when it didn't go away, I took a closer look and realized it was a mole. A mole that was different colors and had irregular edges. 

Coney Island Goes Mainstream(er)

Who knew there was a Coney Island American Girl doll?!? I'm not really sure what's going on here, but judging by the combination of the dropped wallet and look of surprise, it looks like she's being robbed. Also, who dresses like that for a day at Coney? Is she Amish on Rumspringa? Part of a Mormon missionary group?

Though the AG doll website doesn't really clear this up, it does provide the option to buy Rebecca (that's the doll's name) a $32 souvenir package, which includes a mini carousel and some postcards, depicting the steeplechase and other sights of yore. Most of the purchasers of the Coney package were disappointed by its shoddy quality, so it was pretty funny to read this obvious schill review stuck in among the bitching rants:

"When I saw this online, I was breathless and it was the longest 7 days until it reached my Becca. The carousel is remarkably detailed with a camel, bunny, and white horse. The canopy is red, white, and blue. It plays "The Loveliest NIght of the Year" - one of the customer service reps actually researched the carousel song "Over the Waves" for us and it is one and the same. Even my dad, hard to please, was entranced and it is displayed with her Sabbath and menorah sets. The seashell souvenir book has to inner pockets to store the postcards and ride ticket in mint condition. The postcards are amazing in detail. My grandmother and mother love them and I haven't placed them in the book yet. The ride ticket is as illustrated in "Rebecca Saves the Day" - Thanks AG for bringing Rebecca to life!"

Oh my. This is obviously written by an adult woman who still lives with her dotty, but doting, parents. I feel bad mocking it further, so I'll just leave it at that.

This is not fair.

I recently started the Watchers of Weight once again. Last time I lost about 30 pounds, but pretty much gained it all back. This time I plan to stick with it, even though I'M HUNGRY ALL THE FUCKING TIME and I'd pretty much kill a man for a cheeseburger and a slice of chocolate cake.

I'm already kind of in a mood (24/7) and so wasn't I just ready to give Serious Eats' Ed Levine a serious beat-down after reading what he eats on a typical—and successful—diet day. The list includes Cuban sandwiches, pizza (two slices!!!), prosciutto, cookies, something called tarte Basque, which sounds really good, but I'm unwilling to put myself through the drooling that would result in actually looking it up. He eats bialies pretty much every day! Sometimes with whipped cream cheese! There are cupcakes, candy—I need to stop because I'm about to keel over. The man has managed to lose weight on this diet.

Know what I ate today? Three Wassa crackers with a wedge of crappy fake cheese spread between them, a whole wheat fig newton and some grapes. I will eat more in a short while, but after a month on Weight Watchers I haven't even hit a five-pound loss yet. Levine's eating tarte Basque and losing weight! So not fair!

The next person who tells me that men have just as hard a time as women losing weight is going to get a smack upside the head.

Without Comment

Here are a few lines from the most disturbing thing I've read all week, "Scarless Surgery Uses Body's Own Openings."

• The technique has been used mostly to remove gallbladders through the mouth or the vagina.
• But at least one group has started removing gallbladders through the vagina without any external incisions, and the goal is to refine the techniques and instruments to operate entirely internally.
• After having her gallbladder removed through her mouth last November, Colleen Caddell, 53, of Hillsboro, Ore., experienced several days of throat pain so intense she could barely swallow and a week of vomiting.

Please, just cut me.

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. . .