Live and Let Die
I’m not sure if it’s winter or pregnancy, but I am suddenly plagued by incredibly dry skin that manifests itself in a super-attractive urge to scratch my entire body off in an apelike fashion. Every time I take ANYTHING off, even if it’s just to pee, I start scratching like an orangutan, sometimes hard enough to leave big ugly welted skin in my wake. I’m sure Adam thinks it’s particularly fetching when I scratch long and hard from my armpits down the sides of my torso, pausing only to have a satisfying go at the inside of my legs.
AY GOD, I am so itchy, and yet I am pitifully devoid of a decent body lotion, despite owning no fewer than 40. They either leave me too dry or lubed up like a wet seal, and you know what else? I AM STILL ITCHY. Cetaphil! Aquaphor! Nivea! Pricey department store stuff! Bath & Body Works! Body Shop! Knock-offs of both! My body rejects them all, and I am doomed to a life of sticky, red-striped, welty thighs and monkey scratching.
I meant to add the other day that my mother-in-law got a new dog — a Mi-Ki, which I’m pretty sure is one of those breeds that isn’t really a breed and is merely a … well, I won’t even go into it, but suffice it to say I’m not a huge fan of designer dogs, much less designer TOY dogs, and while I realize this kind of dog does it for her, I am MYSTIFIED and more than a little fascinated. Dude, it weighs a POUND AND A HALF. It’s cute, yes, but it’s essentially a ferret, right? I mean, she can HIDE IT IN HER PURSE, not unlike a tampon. But worse, perhaps, is that it snarls at you from her perch in her special fleece-lined doggie pouch, and if there were ever better a demonstration of impotent fury, I’ve yet to see it.
In other, hypochondriachal news, I unexpectedly spent this afternoon AND part of yesterday afternoon at various area dentists’ offices as Adam is referred to specialist after specialist for some extractions and a root canal, and we play the game of “Will he or won’t he get an extraction on the spot, rendering him too out of it to drive?” So off I go at the last minute (he’s in some pain, ergo the short notice/willingness to run out), and AGAIN today, I neglected to bring my own reading material, leaving me to read Health. Have you ever read Health magazine? It is, essentially, a series of articles that outline, in very clear, explicit detail, How You Will Die Because of Some Unknown Illness/Misdiagnosis/Doctor’s Office Clerical Error/Failure to Eat The Right Superfood.
No kidding, by the time Adam came out, still sans extraction, I was a MESS. I not only had breast cancer because ultrasound technology can be unreliable and I HAVE A LUMP OMG AND MY DOCTOR MISDIAGNOSED IT, but I also have a dry patch of skin behind my ear! Which could be malignant! And did you know that high blood pressure is the silent killer and most people don’t even know they have it, and MOST NURSES DO NOT NOTICE SLIGHTLY ELEVATED PRESSURE? AND THAT THIS MEANS YOU COULD DIE? DIE? DIIIIIEEEEEEEEE.
I’m not kidding, there was an ENTIRE ARTICLE titled, “Dry skin? Or cancer? What you don’t know could kill you.” And they had a three-part series on doctors’ errors! And an entire pull-out section on prescription drugs and how most people are the victim of wrong prescriptions at least once in their life! AND THIS MEANS THAT MANY PEOPLE DIE.
I’m sorry to use such harsh language, but seriously, I’d be really happy if the entire staff of Health magazine would go fuck themselves, because that magazine is an instrument of misery-inducing PARANOIA. It took me the rest of the afternoon to get over the trauma, but not before running out to the grocery store for blueberries, honey and carrots, because those are the three foods I apparently “can’t afford NOT to eat!” Or, you know, I WILL DIE.
I’m definitely bringing my own damn reading material when he finally goes in for general anesthesia on the 29th. My God.
Hey, happy Friday!
*Paul McCartney. And uh, Wings.
53 comments December 11th, 2008