As my just desserts for ignoring my blog and not making time to visit your blogs, I just got a near fatal whiff of karmic tea.

It would seem the answer to “What’s that smell?” is, in this case, “The tea I’ve had sitting at my computer desk for over a week.”

Let this be a lesson to all of you: Don’t drink tea!!! And if you find you must drink tea, don’t be the kind of slob who would leave such a thing lying around for weeks.

The smell of the old tea was not quite as bad as that of the curdled milk I once found lying on one of our more underused tables but was worse than almost any other liquid I’ve ever smelled - urine included.

It just occurred to me that “urine included” is rather a strange turn of phrase. Is urine included? Or is it extra?

Nevermind. Just ignore me. I’m being silly. Don’t encourage me in any way when I get like this. Have a lovely day.

Nothing says “I love you” like a stuffed turtle you knit yourself, right? ‘Cause that’s what my husband got for Valentine’s Day. It wasn’t my idea. He asked for it, so I made it for him.

Obviously, my husband is gay and was searching for the best way to spring it on me, and the best idea he could come up with was, “I know! I’ll ask for a stuffed turtle for Valentine’s Day!”

Well, guess what? I’m still not biting. He bought me diamond earrings, so I’m not going to nit-pick about his sexual orientation. No need to rock the boat. Don’t ask. Don’t tell.

In case anyone is interested, here’s a list of other ways in which my poor dear closeted husband has hinted that our sex life might be one penis shy:

1. He bought tickets to “Lord of the Dance”. It was his idea and he went of his own accord.

2. He took his mother to see it with him.

3. He liked it so well, he bought the video.

4. No, really! He bought the video.

5. “Mama Mia!” tickets. His idea. (Yes, it’s an Abba musical. Sigh.)

6. He listens to Abba. He also likes Erasure.

7. He sleeps with men. (Okay, I’m kidding about this one, but you totally believed me, didn’t you? Because of the video, right?)

So, anyway, he took his turtle to work with him yesterday. Nobody beat him up. Still can’t figure that one out.

Hello internet. I hope everyone is well and that none of you have been pining away for me too much in my absence. I don’t have a good excuse as to why I’ve been neglecting the blog - unless you count that I’ve been devoting more time than usual to being a big ol’ southern drama queen. I’m still suffering from a downright nasty case of the vapors (and not without reason).

Here’s today’s installment:

I’m sitting in a dentist’s chair, listening to the oral surgeon describe exactly what parts of my face he’d most like to cut on and move around. We’ve just met. He seems like a nice enough guy. I can’t quite put my finger on what I don’t like about him. Maybe it’s the plaster skull he has in his hands - the one with the clamps all over it. Obviously, it’s the vision he has for my future. It’s reminiscent of something I saw in Hellraiser, and let me tell you, it’s not the best icebreaker. But, who knows? In a more literal sense, maybe it is. Hell, it might be the ultimate party tool. He might also be able to use it as a nutcracker or a handy-dandy skullrific bottle opener. It might even administer oral sex. I don’t know. All I know is that he needs to keep the creepy fuckin’ thing away from me.

So, he’s waving his toy skull around and talking about blood loss. My blood loss. I shouldn’t lose more than five percent of my total blood supply. If I were to do that a transfusion would be necessary but that is a very unlikely scenario. That last part about the transfusion being unlikely? Yeah, I didn’t hear that part. Michael told me that later. When the doctor started in on the blood loss thing, I was trying not to throw up and doing a mighty fine job on the not throwing up front. But, then I was trying to remember to keep breathing too, and I must’ve totally flaked on that part, because I noticed the doctor’s voice starting to fade and everything starting to seem far away. I took my glasses off and the nurse said, “Whoa! Doctor, should I get her some oxygen?” At this point I managed to ask for a glass of water and the nurse brought some water in a Dixie cup. The doctor offered to shut up for a minute so that I might better stay conscious.

During this brief intermission, I occupied myself with breathing in and out slowly while the nurse explained to me that the skull wasn’t “real.” This was both unnecessary and uncalled for but it is rather amusing on hindsight. I’m a coward not a moron, thank you very much. Everybody knows, doctors only use real human skulls for bookends and sometimes for bowling. But, I’d like to meet the doctor who has the chutzpa to do otherwise. “You see, Debbie, this skull belonged to my last patient, but I TOTALLY know what I screwed up and I can assure you it won’t happen again.”

Anyway, did any of you have a clue that I was this much of a candy-ass? I don’t think I even grasped it myself. But, I should have fully expected to get woozy and make a fool of myself today. Here’s why:

A. I don’t breath at the dentist’s office. I just don’t. I do my breathing in the car after the visit is over.

B. Every single time they take my blood I pass out cold. There was one particular incident where I woke up between a nurse’s boobs. Why she positioned me there, I dunno. I was seated when I fainted, but I guess she didn’t want to shove my limp ass back onto the chair. Anyway, you take my blood, I lose consciousness. It’s my thang. If you lay me down before you take my blood, hopefully, I won’t fall on the floor.

C. The doctor said “blood” over and over, like it was his frickin’ mantra or something. Oh, and he said “milliliters” and “blood” in the same sentence. Worse yet, he was STILL talking about my blood. I’m American dammit! I have only a vague understanding of the metric system!* And he kept saying “blood.”

So, yeah, I’m a big crybaby pants, and even after all thi
s whining, I may yet chicken out and not do the surgery at all. I’m still thinking about it, but it is mainly cosmetic and he said “blood.”

Last but not least, I’d like to send best wishes out to Brian who is gonna get rebuilt so that he’ll be part man, part monster truck. It’s gonna be cool.

Word.

*Please note: If he had said “pints” or “quarts” or (god forbid) “gallons”, I’d have gone all swoony even sooner. It’s my thang.