dilemma

It's late, but I don't want to go to bed.

I've Never...

That's right.... It's time to play the game you'll vaguely remember from middle school sleepovers: I've Never!

The scoring is easy. Below you'll find my (and The Hater's) list of 10 things I've done. For every thing that you've done from the list, you get one point. If you've done half of my list, that means you get 5/10 points. Grade yourself on my list and The Hater's list ... then leave your score in the Comments.... So that we can say you're almost as cool as we are...

The Hater

1. I've never snuck into a movie theater and not paid for a ticket.
2. I've never had police question me for sleeping in my car in a hotel parking lot.
3. I've never pee'd on the side of a major California highway.
4. I've never lost $900 in one poker hand.
5. I've never had to bury a skunk.
6. I've never pooped in the woods and used leaves to wipe my butt.
7. I've never been attacked by a wild kitten.
8. I've never won $1000 in one poker session.
9. I've never made whooppee on a cruise ship balcony.
10. I've never sharted. (If you don't know what "sharted" is, then your answer is no.)

genderist

1. I've never killed multiple trantulas in Honduras.
2. I've never willingly exposed myself to chemical weapons.
3. I've never played in 20+ people's poop during 12 hours.
4. I've never willingly ingested radioactive material.
5. I've never flown an airplane.
6. I've never been called upon for medical assistance on an airplane.
7. I've never judged a final round for a major collegiate parlimentary debate tournament.
8. I've never been the best female shot of an M-16 in my platoon.
9. I've never made out in the Tennessee Lieutenant Govenor's office.
10. I've never convinced the collegiate business office that I graduated with honors.

Did I mention these were things we'd actually done? If you've never played "I've Never" that would be an important piece of information to clarify. Go tally your scores already; you know you'd never do that.

scary foreign films

Angry Dissenter has us watching a movie we taped off of Sundance, Audition, and he promises that it's a great Japanese horror movie. Although he's rarely led us astray, it's hard to commit to reading the movie's subtitles to know what's going on.

The Hater has settled into the couch as Zoloft acts out her favorite scenes from Crouching Tiger, Crazy Kitty. Her ears are pinned back and she's jumping or climbing on everything to dispell some of her energy. Soon she will collapse mid-leap and sleep in that spot for a couple of hours.

Meanwhile we're amused because The Hater keeps turning up the tv -- even though the movie is in a language we don't speak. When confronted about how the louder tv helps him to read the subtitles... he grins and says it's for the atmosphere.

I have such a classy husband...

white shoe season

The real reason I became a nurse was to be a rebel against the rule about only wearing white shoes between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Mother would be so proud.

Today I'm working a partial day, but will probably stay later to help fix the weekend stuff before tomorrow. Essentially tomorrow will be a day where we try to put two days worth of treatments into one day to make up for the holiday. I'm hoping that by staying later today -- maybe things won't be quite as hairy tomorrow. We'll see how that works out.

I'm on my way out the door, and I have to confess... wearing white nurse shoes today just doesn't have the same zing as it does between Labor Day and Memorial Day. Maybe I need some pink shoes to wear during the legal white shoe season.

junk mail pandemic

My grandmother received junk mail. I'm not referring to an occasional flyer, but she would get junk catalogues and an endless supply of address labels every day. My cousins and I would be amazed that she was that special...

Mother receives every clothing catalog imaginable. Name the store, even one you think does not carry mail-order options, and she'll have the last two catalogs they printed on top of the microwave or hidden in the den.

I had never considered the genetic predisposition to getting junk mail, but it would seem that my heritage has found our small apartment mail box, and The Hater has noticed. I'm not getting junk catalogs, am getting only a couple of nice clothing catalogs (although we've never purchased anything from any of them), and will only occasionally get some kind of flyer promising to help me lose up to 60 pounds without making any diet or lifestyle modifications... No, friends, I'm getting nerd junk mail: drug paraphernalia.

And not the questionable, trendy drugs... I'm getting drug comany junk mail. Nurse junk mail. Nerd junk mail. Educational junk mail. Junk mail that promises to make you run faster, jump higher, and cure cancer.

The Hater said he didn't know anybody who got more mail than his grandfather, with the new exception of me. I'm getting daily nerd junk mail.

It's not even the kind of junk mail that looks right sitting on the coffee table. Our friend came over the other day and flipped through one -- only to point out that it didn't have any pictures and "looked boring". He was right, but the sad part is that I was almost finished reading it.

The Hater and I are on the lookout for more cool-looking junk mail circles. Please advise if you have any ideas how we could join one to soften our nerd junk mail image.

The Hater's poker magazines can only do so much...

Dear Vol Abroad

Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday to you!
Happy Birthday, Vol Abroad...
Happy Birthday to you!!

(and many, many more...)

blueprint

The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry...

adapted from Robert Burns

.

It's still nice to start out with a plan for the day, a blueprint of what can be expected. I'm feeling Friday with every inch of my being -- as if I had worked the whole week. I imagine it'll be a nice weekend of recovery and rejuvination to do it all over again come Monday.

.

Work will be busy, but should be manageable. I say this with high hopes and expectations, but will not be surprised if I end up staying late in order to finish longer treatments.

.

I will leave work for a while this morning to see the endocrinologist again for another full-body Iodine scan. I assume that this scan will show no new areas of concern, and I'm hoping for some more information about what to expect as a blueprint for the next year.

.

Even though best-laid plans aren't all they're cracked-up to be... I think I'd feel better if I had an outline of what to expect. Even if it's a vague plan with wiggle-room for dates and unexpected surprises... like a blueprint of an average Friday.

.

I might just demand one today.

monopoly

The Hater and his friend claimed the computers last night, which left me unable to post an update about the first day back to work. Not that it was particularly exciting...

I hadn't been there long before my coworkers wanted to tell me about all of the inter- and intra- office squabbles and dilemmas. Apparently drama waits for no man, but I was both glad to hear that none of it really concerned me and that nobody thought it was important enough to call me at home for a play-by-play phone tag of other people's personal problems. Quite frankly, my dear Scarlet, I don't give a damn.

I think I made it through the day on little more than the drive to do it. I was exhausted by the time I came home. I cheered for Taylor and went to bed with intentions to read, but sleep quickly found the better of me.

It was definitely a Monday in Wednesday's disguise. But that makes today Wednesday for me... and tomorrow remains Friday. It should even up by the weekend.

(disguise: probably the worst word to use when teaching phonics; where would I be without dictionary.com or google?)

table me this

I started a project today. It's an exciting data-entry thing to keep up with my continuing education hours, which I did not have to do when I worked at the hospital. So I have nine months worth of stack that I sorted today and is now in chronological order.

After I made the table The Hater wisked me away for a spontaneous afternoon. It was great timing; we had a good day.

Maybe tomorrow I'll finish it, but at least for today it was started.

mrrreeeoooorrrrwww

Zoloft has been the most verbal protester of my imprisionment. She has consistently picketed outside of the bedroom door and cried every night, until The Hater goes to bed or closes her into the bedroom. If she's seen me in the hall, she immediately runs and cries to me, only to meet the door. She doesn't understand and has been most pitiful.

Today has been my first day to spend time outside of prison, and she hasn't left my side. This morning she talked to me for about thirty minutes straight -- which consists of relentless meowing, to which I talk back to her -- and we have a conversation of sorts. She just talked and talked this morning while I was reheating leftovers.

She was crying with much urgency, like she wanted me to know she didn't like how I shut the door in her face. And when I started asking her about The Hater shutting her up in the bedroom? She started crying louder, like she was telling on him.

Her antics woke him up, and he joined us. She's either stood guard or slept within four feet of me all afternoon. After my shower she moved to her perch, but has since woken and came back to me, talking.

I'm still not petting on her yet, but I think she's just happy that I'm out of the room for a while. Come to think of it -- so am I... The Hater's vote makes it unanimous: the yeas have it.

The Truth, with Garlic

Last night brought much excitement and zeal as my first meal after three weeks of the low Iodine diet. This last week The Hater and I have talked about food more than any other topic -- what did I want to eat first? What did I miss the most? When could we have chocolate again? It was much like planning a last meal in reverse.

We had decided not to get too elaborate. The Hater made me one of our favorite pepperoni pizzas, complete with all of the goodies that we add to it ourselves - onions, fresh garlic, and spices. I had visions of Heaven opening and a fanfare of trumpets welcoming me from my prison to sit on the other side of the living room from The Hater - which he had already set with one of our tv-trays and a a glass of wine. We are not always as classy, but thought it best to sacrifice candlelit dinner at the table for the rule of radioactive distance, as we very well cannot have two superheroes developing their special powers at the same time.

I took slow bites and allowed each morsel of goodness to slide down my throat. Indeed, it was great, but it didn't have the pizazz for which I had hoped. I confessed to The Hater, who said I should still remember that it was just a heat-and-eat pizza. This was true, but I was still a little disappointed.

The truth is that for about the last week I have had little desire to eat anything at all. It was probably a combination of lack of thyroid function (mild depression) and being tired of eating from the low Iodine menu. My want to eat had been replaced with my knowledge that I needed to eat; I essentially forced myself to eat and snack, tried to mentally convince my body that I was eating good, nutritious food that was important for my recovery.

The food I'd been eating was so bad I couldn't even blog about it.

Until now.

I never acquiesced to the art of eating and enjoying oatmeal. In fact, the last several mornings brought forced attempts to take multiple bites of the gruel. You never heard me mention the different other 7-grain thing because the one time I made it, it was beyond awful. I made The Hater try it one morning with me, and he looked at me and immediately said it would be okay if I never ate it again. I may try it again, mixed with milk and with some butter, but it'll be fertilizer if I'm not instantly wowed.

Apples continue to be my friend. Grapes haven't been completely played out, either. But I'm done with raw or steamed carrots for a while, and have come to understand why Angry Dissenter both despises them and refers to them as "death rods" or "vomit sticks". The Hater mentioned tonight that he's tired of steamed potatoes, and before I even started this diet I was tired of steamed broccoli. Needless to say, a diet that is to mostly consist of fresh fruits and veggies played out before the three week clock buzzed.

The "no more than 4-5 oz fresh meat a day" did not sound like such a bad stipulation, until we had started the second week. We probably won't grill chicken again until the end of the summer; even the thought of it now hits me with an aversion to all things food. But grilled food is great, you say, there are so many possiblities! This is true -- but when your marinade ingredients are whittled to oilve oil, lemon juice, vinegar, garlic and brown sugar, everything starts to taste the same.

Sure, you say, but how did you go a month without chocolate? Chocolate was considered a dairy product on my diet, which meant it was taboo to touch my quivering lip. Never fear; I found a low-Iodine brownie recipe... that was another culinary disaster. It had oil, egg whites, cocoa powder, and splenda -- and that's about it. They ended up cooking to be about a half-inch thick and tasting like cocoa powder and splenda. To simply say they were awful would rob them of their injustice as a culinary creation. I really can't believe that someone submitted it into a cookbook - or that it was included for that matter. So they were bad, you're thinking, which means I didn't eat them. Oh, but I did... they were my only options when I was jonesing for something sweet.

Which brings us to the nut mix, my afternoon snack. That's right; it was mid-afternoon before I consumed any significant protein. Oh, goodie, I can have unsalted nuts! And using an egg white with nutmeg, splenda, cinnamon, alspice, ground cloves, and other such spices, it was a sweet afternoon snack. Not as good as it's salty first cousin -- you know, the Christmas blend with chex mix -- but an acceptable alternative, I thought. But it, too, quickly led me to a stomach-turning aversion to looking at the baggy that held it.

And today? Today, the first day where I could eat anything? I skipped breakfast and wanted only an apple for lunch. By early afternoon The Hater, in desperation, tempted me with a half of a turkey sandwich, to which I begrudgingly agreed to eat. He brought me the absolute BEST toasted turkey sandwich with bacon and the perfect amount of mayo. I called him twice from my prison to priase his wonderful sandwich-making prowess. Between the non-grilled meat, real bread, and a condiment that did not mimic fruit, it was simply harmonious.

We called our friends to see if they had supper plans. We decided it was time to make a trip out of prison to a real restaurant, something else we haven't done in a month. And I wanted a beer... not because I've ever been a self-proclaimed beer drinker, but it wasn't allowed on my diet, which only lead to my hankering it even more.

Supper was good, but the fellowship was pristine. I'm still in some cabin fever shock, but it was nice to feel like a social being. I've since returned to my prison to continue the time-distance-shielding triad of protection of The Hater and Zoloft, but I'm looking forward to an official return to society, post radiation, special powers and all.

Mostly I'm looking forward to cuddling with The Hater -- and learning how to eat real food again. And taking these sweet new special powers for a spin.

Two points for you if you noticed that I totally ripped off Al Franken's books The Truth and The Truth, with Jokes with my title. One point for each time you read something that we had to eat and made an ick face. Three points total if you have pity on The Hater for eating supper with me every night... and not complaining.

bleh

Yesterday ended up being a yucky day. Today's not looking any better, but at least I can eat real food tonight.

I hope I'm over the hump.

from within the abyss

I'm tired today, but doing okay. My throat's just a litle tender, but nothing that a couple of advil can't handle. I'm sucking on lemon drops to keep the radiation from setting up house in my salivary glands -- and chewing lots of gum -- drinking lots of water.

I'm waiting on sheets to get out of the dryer so I can remake my bed and take a nap. Did I mention that I'm tired?... I feel like I've been hit by a Mac truck, but only one pulling a single load instead of a double transfer, which is nice.

Just wanted to let you know that everything's still coming up roses.

LIVESTRONG

Believe it or not, today is LIVESTRONG Day, and Lance has asked me to blog against cancer today. Not that I've ever blogged for cancer, but today I will specifically blog against it, with subsections to keep everything tidy and neat.

My News

I have just returned from a long appointment with my endocrinologist. This morning we took a whole-body Iodine scan to evaluate the low Iodine dose that I took on Monday. The scan's purpose was to tell if there would be cancer in other parts of my body, if it had moved from my thyroid gland area. Good News: No evidence of thyroid tissue anywhere else in my body!

They sent me to lab to draw some more calcium and phosphorous levels to make sure I was still okay on that front. If you remember, those levels had dropped after surgery, but I've not had any symptoms since the week after surgery. This whole process will put me at a slightly higher risk of developing osteoporosis, but with activity and calcium supplementation I should be fine. They'll tell me about those labs next week.

I returned to the office to take my official radioactive Iodine dose. I told them that The Hater and I had requested the telepathic blend, since many super-heroes develop their honed skills secondary to radiation exposure, but we would also settle for being able to fly... the tech told me that was mostly based on your preexisting personality. In the meanwhile, I have my eyes on the lookout for insects I might entice to bite me over the next couple of days.

For now I am to live in our second bedroom in isolation for the next several days. We've been fixing up the room, and I figure that if I can do 6 weeks of basic camp at Ft Knox, this should be a walk in the park... without push-ups, to boot. I have to eat with plastic utensils for about a week, and The Hater has to be the food-preparer for about that long, too. He's been the best nursemaid, short-order (low-Iodine) cook, and cheerleader for the last couple of months. I'll be on strict isolation in our second bedroom for about four days, and I've got plenty to read and do to keep me busy. I return to work next Wednesday, the 24th, and go back to his office on Friday, the 26th, for a follow-up scan that will show NO MORE thyroid tissue at all. It's exciting, but the best news is that my mandated low-Iodine diet will be lifted for supper on Friday!!!! Oh what should my first meal be?

I'll start thyroid replacement hormones on Friday, too, whicih means I should start feeling better in a couple of months. We'll continue to monitor those levels closely over the next year to try to find a place that makes my body happy. In about a year we'll probably do this whole diet and preliminary scan again, but until then we'll take it day by day.

We love each of you and are most grateful for your continued well-wishes, prayers and happy thoughts you've sent our way. We have been overwhelmed with your love and support, and although we can never really repay you for your kindness and attention, please know that we truly believe that all of your healing vibes have been an integral part of our success during our journey into the world of the c-bomb.

LIVESTRONG
(because the c-bomb is bigger than my story)

The last couple of months have been an adventure. I'd argue that having cancer hasn't changed me as a person, except for now I'm minus one thyroid gland and plus an extra smile. I'd argue that it hasn't made me appreciate life any more or make me want to be a better person -- because I think those are things that are already established, innate to being human before any c-bomb diagnosis is made or life disaster occurs.

I think both of my grandfathers would agree with me. One died of lung cancer when I was a senior in high school, the other two years later from prostate cancer. You may think that past is what led me into my field of nursing, but that was dictated by the need to work day shift moreso than the job itself. It's an interesting story I'll tell you someday.

Having cancer has, however, reinforced to me as an oncology nurse the importance of patient advocacy, education, and informed consent issues. I have been fortunate to have worked with people who also share my passion for patient education, and I had assumed that all offices must be as wonderful as the places where I have worked. My personal c-bomb jerked that wool from my eyes as I have been dragged through a process where I was never given a plan as to what I could expect.

I had planned to take my oncology certification exam this summer, but missed the deadline due to my c-bomb, but have plans to sign up this summer for the fall exam. I was planning on taking the test anyway, but now I feel a need to take it with more urgency. I need more letters behind my name, credentials, so that when I stand up to complain on behalf of myself and my surviving peers, I'll be a more respected voice within the professional community.

And I'm also going to write a long letter to my endocrinologist. I'm going to offer to help his office develop a packet of educational materials for their patients who receive cancer diagnoses. I'm going to offer for them to hire me to come work for them as an advocate and educator, because they obviously need help in that department, and I've obviously seen first-hand where they need to begin their focus. Also, I'm in the process of seeking information as to how to start a Thyroid Cancer Support Group in OKC, as there currently is not one that meets in this state (to my knowledge). Those are my preliminary plans; I'm hoping to start a dialogue with my physician to help create a patient-friendly environment for their endocrine community that is more like the environment at my oncology office.

The Hater and I were disappointed that this diagnosis would mean we would have to wait longer to begin our family. It would mean a probable stay in our intention to move back to Tennessee this summer. It's also given us a purpose to be here longer than we had anticipated. Meanwhile, I've come to posess lots of yellow wristbands and bumper stickers. If you or someone you know would like one, drop me a line.

LIVESTRONG is an organization dedicated to research, education and support of people who have been diagnosed with cancer. There are more than ten million cancer survivors in the US, millions more in the rest of the world. And we all have a story. If you haven't been the person fighting cancer, I bet you know at lesat three others who have. Today is the day that we're all supposed to stand together -- as friends, as family members, as coworkers, as professionals, as politicians, as average Joe human, as a single voice against cancer, and advocate what it means to us to LIVESTRONG. I urge each of you whose lives have been touched by cancer to tell your story, strengthen the voice, make a difference.

pop music analogy

First I feel I must apologize to my more senior readers who aren't going to have a clue about this post. I promise to come up with some kind of Peter, Paul, and Mary or James Taylor analogy at a later date just for you...

Rob Van Winkle, who you might remember as the short-lived pop sensation, Vanilla Ice, had an instant hit on the charts in 1990 with "Ice, Ice Baby". There was some upset in the music business because the catchy bass line was very similar to the David Bowie/Queen song, "Under Pressure". This is a site that mentions the questionable usage and drama associated with the previously published and slightly reused riffs.

I've since seen footage of interviews with Vanilla Ice, where he tries to explain how his song is different from the Bowie/Queen song. It cracks me up to think about it, and I can't do it justice, but it went something like this:

Their song goes da-dum-diddy-dum-diddy-d'dum dum, and my song goes da-dum-diddy-dum-diddy-Dum-dum. See? They're totally different!

I think it's the sincerety of his explaination that makes it so funny to me, or maybe it's my inner child who was read the many masterpieces of Dr. Seuss. Maybe it's because in reality we tell ourselves that small changes make plagerism okay in the real world.

Last night The Hater and I, after discussing and rejoycing in another day of non-mandated prison, began to wonder if it would be acceptable for us to sleep in the same bed. We knew that swapping saliva was out of the question, but I was also told that this dose would be low enough so that I would be no threat to an adult him. Do I inprison myself for sleep or not?

We decided that if I slept under the sheets and he slept over the sheets but under the blankets, too, that it would be an acceptable compromise. This way our skin wouldn't even touch, but we could have the benefits of a warm body next to us in bed. It's like being in prison, but not.

See, the prison layout goes dum-dum-diddy-dum, but sleeping next to him where we can't touch goes dum-diddy-dum-dum. They're totally different!

And pointing that out gave us an opportunity for a needed laugh.

More Random Vanilla Ice Moments
(because, really, everybody has more than one)

I.
In college I would be welcomed to the wonderful world of cable television and MTV. Mr. Van Winkle's dirty secret of not being a poor white rapper would would transform his career into a desperate grasp into a metal Vanilla Ice. At the point when I saw he would be playing at Main Street, another college bar in the cultural hubub of Murfreesboro, Tennessee, I was both amused and saddened that his career had come to being featured at such a metal-mecca. I won't lie; mostly I was amused.

I wish I could say I went to the bar to see the fallout, but I didn't want to rubberneck, and I couldn't talk The Hater or Angry Dissenter into going with me. Instead I drove the back way to the grocery store for about a week so that I could laugh at the sign when I drove by it...

II.
I had a roomate in college who discovered herself and transformed from a very studious, mild girl into a flamboyant, social butterfly who skipped most of her classes over one summer. She would frequently return to the dorm room from grocery shopping or drinking or whatnot at 3 in the morning, turn on the overhead light, and jump on my bed, singing either "Ice, Ice Baby" or The Divinyls hit, "I Touch Myself", complete with dancing and sometimes a cd playing in the background.

The next year I found a new, clean roomate who wanted to go to bed every night propmptly after the 10pm Simpsons reruns.

I ran into my old roomate on campus a few times while we were still in school. She had changed her major, and thought it was important for me to know that she missed the showers down the hall from our dorm room because, and I quote her, "it was the greatest place to masturbate". Awkward silence.

We may have lived together for a couple of years, but GIRL, you don't have to tell me that. And thank you, Vanilla Ice, that now whenever I think of her, your dum-dum-diddy comes to mind.

III.
The Hater has the song "Ice, Ice Baby" on his Ipod. He'll argue that he put it on there for me, but I think the real reason is that it's a much needed amusement on the drive home, usually after we've been in the car for at least ten hours.

And even though sometimes the song will circulate to play at other times, other people in the car will groan and moan when the music starts-- they all sing at least the first verse.

IV.
Sometimes we just need to stop, collaborate and listen.

comedy of errors

That title is the best description of my adventure into the c-bomb. And today, as with my prevoius endeavors, was equally baffling...

My morning was busy at work, which was nice to have a diversion. We had a lot of long treatments, IVs to start, labs to draw, new people to teach... it was a hustled morning. The worst part about the morning were my very well-meaning coworkers who wanted to take me into their arms and tell me that I'm going to be okay.

A nice gesture, I agree, but it just wasn't necessary to make a theatrical production of this thing. Please tell me you'll be thinking about me, ask me if there's anything you can do... But don't grab me like Clark Gable dipped Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind and ooze me with sentiment and nothings until you cry. Your tears, although very sweet, are not going to make me feel any better about my upcoming treatment.

Next, send in the clowns... Since my diagnosis I have been trying to piece a strategy of what will be taking place for my treatment plan. You may remember that I have made multiple calls to the physician's office looking for literature. When I asked for written literature about my upcoming treatments, his office nurse directed me to a webpage for more information. Earlier last week I called his office with a list of 5 pertinent questions, to which he quickly returned my call, saying that "it was going to be okay" and I "shouldn't worry so much".

I don't particularly consider it "worry" as much as just wanting to know what's going on. Gasp! Dare I ask for a generalized strategy? I do know there's a certain ignorance of a lot of patients I work with who will do anything I say because I literally wear a white lab jacket. Honey, I'm more educated than that, and if you want to see me worry, don't tell me what's going on and then ask me to blindly follow your lead. Don't jump too far ahead or I'll be forced to kick your surprise no-no.

So I go to my afternoon appointment. Some man without a nametag greets me and takes me back to the part of the office that has a scanning machine. I assume that he's some kind of nuclear technician. We have this conversation:

me: (sitting down, still in uniform, pulling out a notebook page) I have some questions before we do this.
him: Well, we're going to give you information today.
me: Good. I've been doing some research, too.
him: You can't trust those webpages on the internet. Not all of them have good information.
me: I went to the one that this physician's nurse told me to go to.
him: Still, you can't trust what you read on any of them.
me: (internal scream, not saying that I've taken research classes in college and am not an idiot)

We go over some of the questions.

me: So what dose will I be getting today?
him: Four milicuries.
me: Four hundred? Isn't that high?
him: No, like the single digit - 4.
me: That's not enough to ablate the remaining cells in my neck.
him: No, it's not.
me: Then what's the whole point of this?
him: The scan on Wednesday.
me: Well, it'll show hot spots if we don't ablate, right?
him: Yeah, if there's still tissue there.
me: Of course there's tissue there. There's tissue around the vasculature and parathyroid glands. I thought that was the whole point of the scan.
him: It is.
me: Then why are we just using 4 milicuries?
him: For the scan.
me: (marveling over the wonders of patient education)
him: After the scan the physician will decide what dose you will get for the treatment.
me: So it's two doses? One for the scan, then one to treat?
him: Yeah, if they decide to treat.
me: What is the "if"? We know there are still cells there.
him: We do the scan to decide what dosage is needed for the therapy.
me: (wondering why it took so long to get that answer to the question)

We go over some more questions with equally exciting outcomes.

him: Are you pregnant?
me: No.
him: How do you know?
me: (referring back to my notebook page) I knew you'd ask. I've had two regular cycles since the surgery, the last one being these dates.
him: Are you on the pill?
me: No. Not since last October.
him: Let's get a pregnancy test anyway.

I follow him around and pee in a cup. I labeled it, too, because it seemed like the nursey thing to do, and he hadn't done it. And it wasn't like there was a little hood to place it. Or a lid for it, for that matter. So I labeled it.

him: (returning) Well, you're not pregnant.
me: Good.
him: Good?
me: Well, that would make for really bad timing, wouldn't it?
him: Why's that?
me: Because the radiation would be bad for the baby...
him: Right.
me: (duh look, glancing around for the candid camera)

We go over the remaining questions. He tells me that this small dose should not cause any side effects. I don't have to go to prison yet. And I will have to continue the low Iodine diet for 2-3 days after my big dose of radiation, "if" I get it, which we know I will because it was cancer and there will be remaining cells to ablate. I'll probably get the big mama-jama-make-the-thyroid-cells-die-like-pigs dose on Wednesday or Thursday, but, like everything else on this journey, we'll find out when it happens. And he assured me any other questions will be answered on Wednesday.

He gives me the pill to take, a boring-looking navy blue capsule, and tells me I can't have anything to drink or eat for an hour. He invites me to leave.

me: (on my way out) Weren't you going to give me some written information or something?
him: Oh, yeah.
me: And get me to sign a consent or something? You probably need that since I took the pill already.
him: (color fading fast from his face, about to poop his pants) Yeah, I just need you to sign a few papers.

And I didn't say anything ugly. I had lab drawn, which went well. The Hater and I are excited that I'll have another day of whatever before the scan. He's officially doing the cooking and I'm eating on the finest chinet and solo dinnerware.

And, like we've been doing, we continue to wait. Send in the clowns, already, we can hardly stand the pre-game show...

D-day for the C-bomb

Plan: After sleeping literally most of the weekend, I'll be working today until 2pm, at which point I'll sachet into the city for my appointment, lab draw, and to take the radioactive Iodine (I-131). I'll return to my pimped out prison from there.

I will make a note to request a superhero side-effect, as "flying" has again taken the lead in the poll. In a few weeks when I feel better, I'll make sure to get some fancy goggles and fly around to see each of you and thank you personally for your friendship and support.

Cowboy up.

HMDTY

Albeit somewhat early, I'd like to wish all the mothers a happy day and happy weekend.

And no matter what you other people think, my Mom is greater and more wonderful than your Mom. So there.

teach your tongue new tricks

This is a second-attempt at a Rashomon experience deep in the past of Angry Dissenter and myself. After reading my version, you can go read his version and be amused at how we recall a certain moment in our past.

It would seem that this story requires a brief history as to how I even know Angry Dissenter. He and I met during his first semester at Middle Tennessee State University at a Debate Team interest meeting. Sure, that sounds boring, but I was beginning my second year and looking for an outlet that did not involve marching band, which is another story altogether.

There were always random flyers about campus, but in my search to find a non-greek activity, two flyers really caught my eye. The first had a collage of people making all kinds of faces, and it said "Teach Your Tongue New Tricks, MTSU Debate." The second had a globe and said "See the Country; Change the World, MTSU Debate." Neat slogans and the promise of appetizers led me to the Boutwell Dramatic Arts building. I had always been good at arguing with people, and I figured that debating was about the same thing; it couldn't be that hard.

In some ways I was right, but the debate community was not one where I was comfortable. I wanted the sport and fun of the process, whereas the coach wanted us to bring home trophys. His faux pro-education attitude doubled with his anger and yelling about lost rounds, about nothing being more important than the WIN was enough of an impact turn for me to look further for an extracurricular activity after my first year in MTSU debate. Angry Dissenter and I were never partners during that time, but we enjoied each other's company on the long van rides to various college campuses all over the country. We also played lots of Spades.

The Hater transferred to MTSU and joined the Debate Team the semester after I officially quit. At one point he and Angry Dissenter were partners. They ended up being dorm-roomates until they graduated, but even then Angry Dissenter has always boasted that he's known each of us longer than we have known each other.

Figuratively speaking, debate became the cornerstone for our friendship. In retrospect this is amusing only because of the multi-tiered drama that is inevitable to that community. Before we left MTSU we would frequently refer to Aimee Mann's song, Momentum , in comparison to the thing that we all grew to despise, despite that it was the first element we all had in common.

The Hater and Angry Dissenter also properly introduced me to the world of scary movies. Before the three of us starting hanging out I never watched them. They desensitized me to the gore and led me into the worlderful world of zombie movies. There were two non-chained video stores in town, and I'm pretty sure we watched almost all of their horror sections before the boys graduated. In addition to the wonderful world of zombies, they also led my formal introduction to liquor and mixed drinks. We would rent crazy movies like Phantasm and drink on the weekends when they didn't have debate tournaments.

Angry Dissenter and I were both lightweights. We would be giggly before either of us finished our second glass of whatever we were drinking, which was fun. I was always able to regulate myself by watching his tipsy level. When he would announce, "I'm OOOOO-TAAAAAAAY", and make a big rainbow-like gesture with an okay sign over his head, I knew I was finished drinking after that glass, too. I'm not really sure where that logic came, but it worked and I was able to walk the line between slight inebriation and avoiding a hangover with ease.

Time marched on. I finished my first degree and began a year of prerequisit hell to get into nursing school. Angry Dissenter finished his degree and moved to sunny Malibu, California, to go to law school. The Hater finished his degree the next semester and he and I went to visit Angry Dissenter after he'd finished his first semester as an official student of law.

I had never been to California before. Or Hollywood. Or Malibu. And I'd never seen the Pacific Ocean. And although there were five trillion things I wanted to do while I was there, just hanging out with Angry Dissenter was at the apex of my list. That and being noticed by a well-known movie producer, then coaxed to enter the life of cinema, to thank the Acadamy.

I have the pictures to remind us of our nights of movie-watching and drinking. His apartment, which was also a dorm-apartment, was so much nicer than the shanty where they had lived at MTSU. His couch was mostly navy and had brownish leaves or flowers or something on it. We watched movies and started drinking... and knowing that I could count on Angry Dissenter to secretly cue me when I should sotp drinking, I followed his lead, glass by glass by shot by glass.

At this time I didn't know that the purpose of the first semester of law school was to lead law students into a level of alcohol tolerance that would lubricate their systems for the remainder of their formal schooling. We knew that he'd go out with friends and drink, but we had no idea that his tolerance had FAR superceeded ours.

The Hater, in his attempts to keep up with the Joneses, passed out on the couch. Angry Dissenter talked about dragging him into bed, but I thought it would only be fitting if we made him look like a zombie first. I got out my makeup and shaded contours that Romero himself would appreciate. We took pictures before helping him to bed.

Angry Dissenter was still drinking. I should obviously be drinking, too, he goaded me. I poured a Jack and Coke and was surprised that I couldn't taste any Jack at all. He goaded further, and I guzzled straight from the bottle, very surprised that it went down like water. It was the same for the Southern Comfort. Angry Dissenter took shots, too. We stayed up for an hour longer, drinking and catching up. We finally went to bed talking about the next day's plans.

The next morning I awoke, wondering why I felt funny. Maybe it was the potato chips, I thought. I sat up in bed, only to realize that I felt better when I was laying down. After a while I moved to lay down in the hall. The Hater wondered why he was wearing makeup. Angry Dissenter cleared a path to the john, but I was sure I wasn't going to throw up. After all, I'd never drank to that extent before, and I never really reached the OOOOO-TAAAAYYY.

Then it came. I moved to the bathroom and threw up for two hours straight, then with no specific pattern for another hour or so. Angry Dissenter and The Hater checked on me periodically and praised me for my ability to aim inside the toilet, a feat I would never consider to be a talent until another mutual friend puked all over my bathroom twice after we moved to OKC.

The Hater and Angry Dissenter left me yacking to get groceries for lunch. Before this time I never liked tomato soup, but for some reason that's what I craved when I finally quit throwing up my toenails. I assured Angry Dissenter between heaves that none of this was his fault, but the more sober I became, the more I realized that the days of reaching OOOOTAAAAYYness simultaneously were in the past.

About a year or so ago he finally admitted that goading me was the wrong thing to do. We never second-guessed painting The Hater to look like a zombie. Hollywood and LA in real life are dirty towns, and I don't really know why peole with money would actually choose to live there. I'm sure that I was, indeed, destined to meet an important producer, but it was probably the morning I was recovering from my first and only power-hangover.

Jack officially popped my drinking cherry. I left a special part of myself in Malibu, and I've never again drank so much I regretted it the next morning. The tragic ending to the story is that Jack and I now have a special relationship; I can't drink it on a whim, and SoCo is out of the question. But if I'm somewhere in the need to order one thing that will last me the duration of the encounter, a Jack and Coke's my first choice.

And no matter what social situation is stirring around me, one sip instantly takes me back to zombies, dumpster-diving, and sincere friendships that neither time nor distance nor even Jack himself can taint.

here kitty kitty

This is a first-attempt at a Rashomon experience deep in the past of Angry Dissenter and myself. After reading my version, go to his version here and be amused at how we remember a certain moment in our past.

It seemed that every time The Hater and I were in his car, a radio station would inevitably be playing Lenny Kravitz's American Girl as if Elvis himself had returned from the dead for one last recording of Hound Dog. We were in a googly stage of our relationship, early enough to know that we had a spark, but not completely past the awkward stage of wanting to hear all of each other's stories. We would go for days where he would quiz me on everything from politics to music, cornbread dressing versus stuffing, existentialism, religion versus spirituality, geometry versus algebra, feminism versus genderism, shopping carts versus buggies, and everything else you could imagine. Years later he would tell me that he was trying to see if we were compatible, and years later I would tell him that if he had kept asking me questions I would have pulled out every hair on his head and made him eat them with mustard if he was going to ask me one more question.

We were obviously a match made in Heaven...

But during all of those drizzly days on campus we came to find out that we both liked cats. Dear friends, I'm having trouble falling asleep, and thought it would be a great opportunity to share with you one of my first most memorable moments with The Hater... especially since he's sawing logs in the other room and is one of the reasons I'm not asleep right now. That throat-snore-spray has now been added to my ASAP grocery list.

The Hater lived with Angry Dissenter in the family apartment housing on campus. They had a one-bedroom cinder block apartment that was on the second floor of a circa 1970s building. It was located on the backmost corner of campus and they generally had good parking, but would have to hike a mile to get to any of their classes. Looking back, it was a glorified dormitory, but at the time we thought it was a really classy dormitory.

And like most dorms on campus, there were always stray cats nearby. There's something about college kids who can barely afford to eat more than an 11 cent package of ramen noodles -- they're great about sharing with the skin-and-bone cats outside. On several occasions we would notice cats outside of his apartment building. We would always try to call them, but they would run away as soon as you would get within fifteen or twenty yards of them.

Remember that we were still in the story-telling phase of our relationship. I mentioned how when we were younger some of my cousins and I found a litter of wild kittens in my grandparent's barn and we spent all day trying to catch them. I finally caught one, but it really clawed up my arm. By that afternoon she would come when we called her. He shared similar wild kitten stories and we decided if we found wild kittens on campus, we could probably catch and tame them. It wouldn't be that much different from catching them in the barn.

One day we started seeing a kitten outside of his apartment. She was a beautiful spotted cat that couldn't have been more than 4 or 5 months old, her mew was high-pitched and sweet like honey. We would look for her and talk about catching her to tame her... and how Angry Dissenter would be excited to have a kitten, too, because he was the biggest save-and-love-the-animals person in the world. We could catch the kitten and after she got over the initial shock, would be the most precoius cat in the entire world. Angry Dissenter became part of the discussions. It was decided; somehow in a twisted universe it was our moral obligation to save this kitten from a lifetime of leftover ramen.

Later The Hater and I were driving back to his apartment from renting movies and saw the kitten in the breezeway of the building. I crept to about twenty-five yards from her while The Hater snuck around to the other side of the building to catch her from behind. It was going to be perfect.

I held eye contact and sang the most soothing melodies as I saw him tiptoe into place, then pounce and grab her back from behind. The scene that followed had not been anticipated.

The cat flipped an exorcist-like twist in his hand, while clawing his arm, and bit down on the skin between his right thumb and index finger. She was hissing and snarling, this the darling kitten who we just wanted to pamper and feed and love.

The Hater cussed. Imagine a cat biting and clawing, except doing it to an extent that he couldn't pull it off of him with his other hand. The cat was still going nuts and clawing as The Hater continued to sling his arm in another attempt to rid himself of his leachlike barnacle, the furry demon.

The slimy cat didn't let go. Well, she quit clawing, but was still chomped onto his hand. He continued to sling. I'm tried to tell him not to hurt the cat, but I couldn't because I was laughing so hard that tears were rolling and I was beginning to double over.

He continuesd to pull with his left hand and alternate between shaking his right, until finally the mangy mongrel released her death grip and fled for the wooded lot behind campus. She turned around and hissed again before escaping into her den in the woods. Incidently, we saw her again a couple of times around campus, but never again at his apartment building.

Meanwhile, I walked The Hater up the stairs to his apartment, struggling to find a line between showing concern and laughing my guts out. Angry Dissenter was watching tv, waiting for us to bring back the movies, and was immediately concerned when we entered the apartment. I took The Hater directly to the kitchen sink and sat him in a chair while I washed his hand and arms to wash the blood and see if anything looked worthy of needing stiches.

What happened?, Angry Dissenter demanded as he handed me paper towels.

At this point I've lost all ability to struggle my emotions and I'm laughing so hard I can hardly breathe and I'm convinced that I will wet my pants before this is over. We tried to catch the kitten, I told him. One of the great things about Angry Dissenter is that he immediately fell with me into the I-can-hardly-breathe catergory of laughing.

The Hater started to laugh. We begin to gasp through acting out catching the kitten for Angry Dissenter, who at this point had gone back to the couch and fallen over through his laughing fits. I never thought you'd actually try it, he repeated as he rolled. I never thought you would actually try it.

I looked back at The Hater's hand. He was going to need something stronger than dish soap to clean it. But of course they didn't have any alcohol or peroxide, or even bandaids. They were rugged bachelors and had no need for pansy things like that.

We left The Hater holding presure on his hand over the sink as Angry Dissenter drove me to my dormitory so that I could gather first aid supplies. Halfway to my dorm we had to pull over and laugh some more, tears continuing to run down our faces, and we returned somewhat straight-faced to patch The Hater's hand and bruised ego.

I don't remember what movies we watched that night, but we probably drank either some flavor of Tropicana Twister fruit juice with Smirnoff or Jack and Coke.

Incidently, we never tried to catch a wild kitten again.

to fly or not to fly

And the other tragedy is that my special ink pen died today. It's true that I have oodles of other pens to pick from, but my special purple ink pen had sentimental value that all those other pens can't even touch.

It was a 2nd street special, and the only one like it in OKC. Maybe this Christmas my Peanut will be someone with special powers who will be able to procure me a new special purple pen.

Speaking of special powers, updates to the radiation poll (blue box to the right) include a total of 79 votes to date. If you remember, the special power which wins will be the one I request from my endocrinologist prior to taking the radiation treatment next week. We have a total of 80 votes: in the lead are Flying (like Superman) with 24 votes, Jedi-like powers (like Yoda) with 20 votes, and Telepathy (like Professor X) with 18 votes. If you haven't voted yet, or if you want to vote again, you have less than a week to make those numbers change! Rock the vote already.

cha-chugga

Today I felt like an old stick-shift trying to catch second gear on a steep incline. It was a cha-chugga-cha-chugga, one task at a time, kind of day. I'm pooped.

Timeline review: This is my second week of the low Iodine diet. Next Monday afternoon I take the radioactive Iodine (I-131) and will be confined to our second bedroom for 5 or 6 days after that.

We're hoping I can eat real food again by the end of next week. We're already planning taboo goodies as soon as we are given the opportunity to go back to real life, too. We're ready to be boring people again.

Mostly we're ready for all of the cha-chugga to be behind us.

why do I bother

This time of year I start to get excited about what I'm going to plant in the pots on our small porch. We needed plants that love hot, full sun. I start researching months before it's time to plant to plan the perfect potted porch paradise.

This morning I awoke with the bug and proceeded to draw out final plans for the plants I would need to pretty up the porch that overlooks a sea of asphalt and erosion. Knowing that the closest nursery is pricy, I thought I'd go look at Home Depot first. Their selection disappointed me, but I picked up a couple of small things.

It started to drizzle. What great timing to play in the dirt, I was thinking, there won't be any lines in the landscaping departments because of the weather. I headed to Lowes, who had a better selection, but still not what I was hoping to find. I left there with something that wasn't on my list, after waiting in line for about twenty minutes.

I called The Hater to make sure he had no opinions about what I planted. I wanted to make sure he didn't care what color flowers the plants had. I told him that BigDaddy didn't care what Nana planted, so long as it wasn't pink. And every year since his death, she's had nothing but pink in her back yard. I was telling him this because I thought it would be important to have this conversation before I came home with flowers that he didn't like. He assured me that he would like whatever I decided to plant, whatever color it might be.

But that was the problem. I really like the flowers with purple and blue blooms, but when we've tried those on the porch in the past, you really can't see them when you're walking from your car to the apartment. They get lost in front of the dirty gray building.

I proceeded to the nursery, wide-eyed and having a great time. I found a strawberry pot and lots of reasonably priced goodies to bring back with me. The Hater helped me get them up the stairs, through the apartment, and out to the deck without any major carpet drama.

I worked for about two hours mixing dirt and planting. It's young now, but by mid-summer it should really put on a show. Of course I only brought back two things that were on my original list. I wonder now why I bother making a list, but next year I'll probably be doing the same thing.

Here are the final selections:

Asparagus Fern (left)

In the past this plant has went bananas on our porch. We're hoping for another big green show this year.

Arizona Sun Blanket Flower (right)

We've not tried this one before, but it says that it loves hot, full sun, and droughts - so we'll see how it does. The few blooms showing really dazzle from the parking lot. The Hater declares it as his favorite thus far, and the many unopened blooms are hiding a future show.

Lisanthus (left, blue)

Again, not on my list. But the sign at the nursery had a sun without sunglasses and a big sign that said they recommended it. I went straight for the blue ones.

Apple Mint (right)

My parents have been suggesting a mint plant for the last couple of years. This one should grow 18-24 inches and produce a summer of perfect sweet tea.

Alyssum (left)

Imagine these little flowers, except with blue versions. This year I talked myself into adding some little goodies like these to my list for more color inside my pots. Again, not on my list.

Hens and Chicks (right)

Of coure they were on my list! Why else would I have gotten a strawberry pot, you ask. I'm hoping for babies to give away soon, so get something to put them in when they're ready to share.

Ivy (left) (honorable mention)

Boring, yet about the only thing that will live inside of our dark apartment.

I played all morning and early afternoon, ate a late lunch, and zonked quickly. I had a great nap, not realizing how tired I was. It really wore me out, but I think the porch will look nice in a couple of months.

After The Hater fixed my supper, leftover steak and a mashed sweet potato, he's been playing football video games. He drafted this year's college players from the NCAA football game, saved that class, started a new Titans franchise on the NFL game, traded for the 3rd draft pick, and then drafted Vince Young and Lawrence Mahoney to his team. He's having a good time playing real life simulations.

And I've just made brownies. It was time to heed the chocolate call.

pimp my prison

The Hater has been trying to spruce up the second bedroom for my future isolation. We're talking about straightening it up this coming weekend. We've got lots to do in anticipation for the 15th.

And he's started by getting a new LCD flatscreen HD monitor for the computer desk. It's nice to get rid of the old monitor and speaker systems. He'll eventually be able to plug his game console into it, too. And it's got picture-in-picture capabilities so I'll be able to play on the computer and watch tv or a movie at the same time.

We had talked about getting a new piece of furniture, like a long buffet, to chunk the junk tv stand and junkier computer desk, but decided that we should save our money for the new luxery car we just bought, named Thyroid.

There's a futon in the room that doesn't completely fold out, which will be fine enough for me. I've bought some leopard print sheets to go along with the already existing movie posters on the wall. The lava lamp is in place.

But we're on the lookout for more no-budget or low-budget ideas to pimp my prison. Please advise.

Meanwhile, I found a really interesting study that Standford did in the 1970s on institutionalization. If you've got some time you should read it. The psychology is elementary, but fascinating. It would have gone better with the lava lamp variable, methinks.

5 more minutes

Or so pleaded The Hater...

me: It's up time. Get up.
him: (pulling covers over his head) Huh-uh.
me: (singing the morning up-time song)
him: Please no up time.
me: Honey, you have to go to work. Unfortunately, you've got to get up to do that.
him: (groaning) 5 more minutes. (rolls over to turn back to me)
me: (pulling back covers) (begin singing a louder morning up-time song)
him: Please. 5 more minutes. I love you.
me: You always want 5 more minutes.
him: Huh-uh. Sometimes I don't say it. But today I NEED it. 5 more minutes.
me: You realize we've just spent a minute having this converstaion?
him: (grinning) (whispers) 5 more minutes. I love you.
me: (turning off lights) You're killing me softly.
him: 5 more minutes.

Although we don't have this exact conversation every morning, we have some version of the 5 more minute plead at least three days of the five day work week. It's amusing.

Logically speaking, he doesn't "always" make the plead, but it seems more often than "sometimes", which would exclude "never" altogether. "Usually" would lean towards a predictabe pattern, but doesn't have much connotated gusto. I need a much better, more annoying word to use the next time he catches the early morning pity train.

Meanwhile, at work a couple of days ago one of my coworkers said this, or something like it, after throwing something away that she needed, "That was a plebeian thing for me to do." Now I think of myself as having a good vocabulary, but I had no clue what the word meant. Apparently it's a Roman way for calling someone ignorant or vulgar.

I need both a better word than "usually" for my next early morning duel with The Hater - and I need to figure out a way to just throw "plebeian" around in regular conversations with him without sounding forced. And then see how long it takes for him to read this post and figure out what's going on.

The time starts now, as he walks into the room, announcing that he's a Mitchum Man.

mischevious

Today at work I did something very exciting, even for my repertoire of sneaky feats. This afternoon some of my coworkers were questioning each other, wondering who did the thing that I'd done on my lunch break. I questioned along with them, and even mentioned more names to question in the future. Oh who could it have been?

It's been so long since I pulled off a sneaky thing, especially at work, that it was all I could do to keep from giggling or dropping my game face. Oh, yeah.

And the best part about it? The tease involved something that I wrote, that everybody decided was "too well written" to have been anybody in our office. It's nice to know I've still got it.

gruel: it's what's for breakfast

This is day #2 of oatmeal for breakfast. I'm trying to be a compliant little nurse on this low Iodine diet... and I can't really think of a good reason why I've never embraced oatmeal.

It looks like gruel. It tastes like gruel. It bubbles on the stovetop like gruel. It's oatmeal, not gruel, but it looks like what the old movies want you to think they served orphans: gruel.

I'm not even sure why I like to eat grits for breakfast, truth be known. In college I'd mix a package of grits with a lipton chicken soup packet, make them really thick, and spread the yellow goodness on crackers. And then I didn't eat them for years, until I started getting them for breakfast again, sans soup.

The consistancy throws me off. Oatmeal kindof slides around in your mouth like shrimp. It gooshes around your teeth and swims to the back of your throat. It's slick and gritty at the same time. And did I mention it looks like gruel?

I think I can make this love-hate relationship work for a couple of more weeks. It's nothing a drip of olive oil and Mrs. Dash can't fix. And although I can't use chocolate syrup or the hot chocolate mix, I do have some cocoa and splenda if I need a special morning concoction.

Grits: 1
Oatmeal: 0

hey-hey, we're the monkeys

We were short two nurses today; it was three bananas short of a Zoo.

It's been unusually busy the last couple of weeks. I've probably treated an average of 30 people a day the last week or so. I start a boatload of IVs and give gallons of chemo. It's crazyness, and tomorrow's schedule doesn't look any better.

Few things would make me happier than my job being terminated because all cancers had been cured. I'd lead the party. I'd happily complain about having to find another job.

We're not there yet.

Until then, take care of yourself. Drink water. Eat fiber. Quit smoking. Get tested. Be smart. Please do what you can to put me out of a job.