In an examination room waiting to meet my new doctor, and listening to him talk with the patient in the room next door:

Doctor: “…stabilizing the spine…”, “strengthening the core muscles…”, “…distributing weight evenly over both feet when you move…”

Me: Oh good, it sounds like he really knows what he’s talking about.

Doctor:”…don’t rush getting off of you pain meds unless you want to experience mood swings, cramps, uncontrollable shaking, (and a host of other awful symptoms of withdrawal)…”

Me: Huh, his voice really carries, doesn’t it? I need to remember that when he and I are talking.

Doctor: “…so orgasm is going to look totally different…”

Me: HELP! TMI! TMI!

Me: Extremely Important Mental Note: In order to avoid similar horrification in the future,  I will now be requiring all my physicians to communicate their diagnostic questions solely through the art of expressive dance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanksgiving evening, as my engineer husband and our 4-year old niece are building castles with her Lego blocks:

Our Niece: Are we building something AWESOME?

Uncle Mr. CFG: We’re building something symmetrical.

(Important Side Note: Honesty compels me to add that the resulting castle was, in fact, both.)

 

“Heat is evil; God made ice.”

Yesterday Mr. Cranky Fibro Girl and I went to see our massage therapist, a woman we love and adore who’s been working on us for about a decade. On the weekends she works out of her home, which is fun because she is also an animal lover, so there’s always a collection of felines around for us to play with.

However, she also has a bird. A large, vocal, cage-rattling bird who kind of undoes a lot of the benefits of my massage because, in addition to the myriad other things I fear in this world, I am really afraid of birds.

My husband though, loves to visit with the bird, because the bird loves men. L-o-v-e-s them. (Women, not so much) So when I go in to get my massage, not only does he chat with the bird and give her treats, he opens the cage and lets her out so they can play together. I often walk back to the treatment room to the accompaniment of conversations like this:

My husband (whispering sweet nothings to the bird): “Don’t worry baby. As soon as that lady leaves I’ll let you out, and then we can be together.”

But that’s nothing compared to what I see after my massage is done. And let me just tell you, there is nothing that mars your sweet Massage Afterglow quite like walking into a room to see your husband being hand-humped by a huge bird shrieking in ecstasy, while shooting you a smug look that says,

“Suck it bitch. This man is all mine.”

Lately I have had the pleasure of getting to know fibro blogger Julie Ryan of the blog Counting My Spoons. She has written some great posts lately that I’ve added to my lists of favorites, such as the post on self care titled “11 Things Those With Chronic Illness Need To Do“, and a helpful post for caregivers called, “Things To Say To Someone With Chronic Illness“.

I was honored to be asked to be a part of her Fibro Warrior series, and if you’d like to check out my interview you can read it here.

So last weekend Mr. Cranky Fibro Girl and I went to a golf tournament, and after walking a bit of the course we decided to find some seats in the stands.

We ended up at the 9th hole, and saw maybe the last twelve to fifteen twosomes come through. According to people who know, the greens were terrible that day, which I think was the reason that we also saw three or four people get whacked in the head, arm, and chest by golf balls veering tremendously off course.

With his tongue planted firmly in his cheek the guy next to me leaned over and said, “See-that’s just another way that rich, white males are privileged above the rest of us. Because when I hit a golf ball like that, there’s no human shield there for me; my balls just keep rolling all the way down the hill.”

Driving to the library this morning I passed a sign which asked, “If Jimmy cracked corn and no one cared, then why is there a song about it?”

when you look down at your phone and you notice that, due to typos you hadn’t noticed before, the last text you sent your husband accidentally proclaims the brownie you were eating to be “ass tasty”?

As I mentioned earlier, last week I went to a friend’s church to attend a concert, and while we were there we got to tour a newly built part of the church campus that had recently been finished.

“We’ll have to cover our shoes when we go in, in order to keep the carpets clean,” said The Church Member.

“Oh,” we said, “so we have to wear booties?”

“Um, actually, we had to change the name to ‘shoe coverings’ instead of booties,” he said. “Because there was a call (for volunteers to help with the “shoe covering” part of the tour). And we didn’t really think it would be appropriate to have a ‘booty call’.”