These are the people who read my blog: friends, relatives, friends or relatives of my friends and relatives. Catch that? What I mean is that most of my blog readers are connected to me socially, one way or another. It’s a very little blog.
Lately though, things have been getting a little Key-RAZY! Lately I’ve been hearing from people I don’t know. I have this one person I didn’t know who has been commenting on my blog, like, literally, once a week. Who’s got time to read all that?
I told Scott it may be time to switch up the game plan. Where do you go to hire a publicist and personal attorney in a small town? What about bodyguards? Should I wear a disguise? It’s just a whole knew world, and I have a lot of questions.
I thought I might pick up the phone and give Oprah a ring-a-ling. I’ll ask for some pointers. She can probably hook me up with a lot of this stuff. I’ve never talked to her, but what are the odds that she hasn’t read my blog, and already knows who I am? I agree. Slim to none. She’ll get it.
I was chatting with my unknown commentor this week. She is funny. I was amazed that a clever, funny stranger liked my blog. Then, she told me she was a friend of an old friend. Wait. She wasn’t a fan/stalker/paparazzi? She’s a friend of a friend????!!! I just wanted ONE decent stalker. Is that so much to ask?
As long as you’re so anxious to talk about people who read my blog, let me tell you another thing I’ve been thinking about. Let’s talk about people who are very literal. Sometimes I have conversations with people who have read my blog, and I realize they have taken me literally. I feel badly when that happens. I don’t feel badly for myself, I feel badly for confusing someone. I like people. I feel honored that they’d spend one minute of their life reading something I wrote. I take no pleasure in confusing them.
I have my serious moments, but mostly I can’t resist nonsense. I thought maybe I should put a disclaimer before each blog to help literal people out: “Caution: what you are about to read is generally utter nonsense. This information cannot be verified, and serves no real purpose. Read it at your own risk of confusion.” Do you think I should include that? I might.
This isn’t a new problem for me. I’ve had this problem since before the invention of the interwebs and blogs. The first years of our marriage, Scott and I were adjusting to each other. When we were with people we didn’t know, he’d often give me the subtle thigh squeeze, or kick under the table. Later he would explain why. He would tell me that when I’m meeting new people, they don’t necessarily know that I’m a screwball. He suggested that it wasn’t ALWAYS appropriate to use sarcasm. He said I could possibly hold off on full scale jokery until I get to know people better.
Wow! Hurt much? That was a little bit of the cold, hard truth from my Amish husband. After I nursed my hurt feelings for a bit, I admitted that he may have a point. Over time, he changed his stance some too. He realized that there’s really just one version of his wife. He learned to suffer through some awkward moments, trusting folks would eventually learn his wife means no harm.
Do you remember when I told you about our small bathroom? It’s a half bath. Scott and I use this bathroom. We share the shelves in the medicine cabinet. There are three shelving units in this medicine cabinet. Scott has told me multiple times that he wants one of the three units, and one shelf in the middle. I guess lately my stuff has been encroaching across his borders.
I know that SOUNDS like a fair agreement. But, is it really? Do you think it’s a simple process to look as good as I do on any given day? NO. It takes some effort, friends. It takes lots of bottles of spray and lotion and wax and oil. Okay? It does. Scott needs soap and a toothbrush. So, I’m not sure his deal is so fair after all.
The other day I decided to examine his side of the medicine chest a little more closely. I saw that I was wrong. He actually did have a couple more things than I had thought. Like, a bottle of Aspen Cologne. Have you heard of it? Oh, you haven’t? Maybe that’s because the last people to wear it came over on the Mayflower.
I didn’t even know he wore cologne. He said he wears it on special occasions. That green bottle of Aspen Cologne was given to him as a graduation gift…from high school…28 YEARS ago. There’s about half a bottle left. I told him that seems kind of wasteful. At this rate, he’ll use up that whole bottle by the time he dies. Then what are we supposed to pass on to the grand kids? Because I’m pretty sure they’ll be counting on some Aspen.
Speaking of dying. I had a little bit of a close call. Don’t be alarmed. I’m going to be okay. If you want to send me flowers and cards with money in it though, who am I to argue? Sometimes it’s just a blessing to give.
I’ve had this spot on the bridge of my nose. I didn’t think much of it, but then one day I realized it really should have gone away by now. Then it clicked. I have skin cancer.
I did what I always do when I’m dealing with a life or death emergency. I consulted with my associates on Web MD. I looked through the pictures on their website and tried to find something that looked even a tiny bit like what I had on my face. I didn’t find a perfect match, but I thought I found something close enough. I called the clinic to make an appointment.
My appointment was after work. When I took the kids to school I asked myself if I should tell them that I had skin cancer yet. No. Not at the beginning of the day. That wouldn’t be fair. I would bear this burden on my own. Let them enjoy their childhood for another day. I started getting choked up thinking about all the sacrifices I make.
I saw the doctor in the afternoon. She took a look at this spot and started yammering on about eczema, viral infections and who knows what other nonsense. I said, “It’s skin cancer, right?”
She answered, “No. That is not skin cancer. That is definitely not skin cancer.”
I said, “My dad had skin cancer. I was a life guard. I have a lot of moles. Are you getting the picture here? Plus, I don’t have what you’d call a “medical degree” (I used air quotes for emphasis) but I do read quite a bit of information on WebMD. My associates there agree that it could be skin cancer.”
She turned away. Did I see her roll her eyes? She did. Well, isn’t she a little punk.
She turned back and said, “I am 100 percent certain that you do NOT have skin cancer. 100 percent. We can swab it to see if it’s some kind of viral infection, if that will make you happier.”
What did she mean, “If that will make me happier”? Like I asked to have cancer? Like I ASKED to be caught in this nightmare?
I said, “Sure. Do that.”
The test came back. It isn’t cancer or a virus. I guess it’s just dry skin.