First off, a shout out to author Sarah Burningham from Harper Studio Publishers in NY, for listing my blog as one she visits for a laugh. Shhh, everyone act natural, and put on your best "New-York-hip-dressed-in-black-with-a-side-of-Big-Apple-Pizza" so she'll feel welcome. (Her book BOYOLOGY just hit shelves. If you have teenagers, check it out.)Contest Winners for the Gigantic Signed Book Giveaway:
Congratulations!
I only thought of this because the other day, we were discussing stress dreams.You know, the ones where you're a waitress, and you can't read your own handwriting, and your uniform is a pair of overalls (because you work at a place called Cowboy Grub), and you forgot to wear a shirt under your overalls, so you're trying to strategically place the straps just right, all the while explaining to the retired folk at Table 3 exactly where the meat in the "Best of the Bull" dish comes from?
Congratulations!
I only thought of this because the other day, we were discussing stress dreams.You know, the ones where you're a waitress, and you can't read your own handwriting, and your uniform is a pair of overalls (because you work at a place called Cowboy Grub), and you forgot to wear a shirt under your overalls, so you're trying to strategically place the straps just right, all the while explaining to the retired folk at Table 3 exactly where the meat in the "Best of the Bull" dish comes from?
"Best of the Bull"
Okay, maybe it's just me.All of my stress dreams are about nude waitressing. Always. Except for the ones where I'm on Broadway, and I can't remember my lines. And I'm a man. Only I can't find my man parts. (Which, I guess really means I'm dreaming I'm a woman. I don't know. Psychology majors out there?)Stress dreams have nothing to do with my THING #16. So I should probably just erase the above. But I'm not gonna. Cuz that's how I roll.Thing #16 has to do with my calm, relaxing dreams. And this is where it gets a little gross. (I know, you thought it couldn't get grosser than the Bull Testicles dish. We really did serve it when I worked at The Cowboy Grub. Because that's what you serve at Cowboy-themed restaurants.)I digress. In my happiest dreams, when life is rather balanced, I dream about Drainage. I love to drain. Okay, I can already tell this is going to be too yuk for the blog, but it's late, and I no longer have a choice, because I have to go whack my hair.soVIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISEDI dream about removing giant wax plugs from my ears. Squeezing that zit. Scratching that scab. Even hocking logies.NOT A DREAMNeighbor A came over to my house one day to show me a cut on her leg. It had become infected, the skin pulled tight, a faint white color under the tissue. I told her it had to be drained.She didn't believe me. I think because my reaction scared her. I basically ran at her leg with the garden shears, saying, "It'll feel better, and we'll both be happy! Trust me!"The Instacare ended up draining it and, unfortunately, they didn't have an observation room with a two-way mirror so I could watch. Neighbor A did feel better, and she admitted I was right. But that doesn't make up for my loss. It's not like she could go out and cut her leg again and shove some dirt in the wound just to make me feel better. Unless the preceding sentence gives her some ideas...Speaking of drainage (which 9 times out of 10, I am) poor little Niece E (not to be confused with her twin sister, Niece E) suffers from an affliction I like to call "Ape Arms". It's where your arms must be an inch too long, because you keep knocking things off of shelves and whacking bystanders in the face. (To clarify, not that they look too long, just that they keep getting caught in doors and stuff).I know this, because I, too, suffer from a severe case of "Ape Arms". So I was totally empathetic when Niece E slammed her pointer finger in a door, and had to have the resulting ball of pus on the end of her finger drained.Now, one smashed finger may not be a definitive sign of "Ape Arms", but a couple of days later, when she slammed her middle finger into another door, and had to have that finger drained as well (through the top of the nail. Ewww) the diagnosis was complete.I had to take a picture, but it really doesn't do it justice, because I took it with my iPhone. The old one, not the new one.Yep. Ape Arms. She might as well just cut her fingers off, and save a lifetime of bruises.Oh, to be a doctor in the age of boils.And just so you know, I found a really cool video of pus being drained from a leg, but I refrained from posting it. I must be growing. Email me if you want the link.
