Tough Medicine

It was never my intention to be born before the invention of sunscreen. And, in fact, if I had it to do over again, I would do things differently.

We had back then, of course, "Suntan Lotion". Our mommas shook it out of the Coppertone bottle and slathered us - and themselves, while they were at it - with the stuff, so that we would be as cute and berry-brown as the little girl on the label. The topless one, with the dog pulling her bottoms off. I think today that would be classified as child porn.

"Suntan Lotion" was some combination of sunbeam intensifier and cooking oil; which kept us nice and moist as we baked. The theory was that we would "tan", not "burn". That worked OK for my Italian and Greek girlfriends; but this freckled, reddish-headed, baby-blue-eyed, white-as-a-marshmallow body of mine, like a defective chameleon, turned only one color. Red. Very, very red.

Luckily, we didn't spend a great deal of time in the great outdoors while I was small. And when we went to the beach, my cousin and I were so scared of the legendary "undertoe" (gads!!! loose feet parts in the water that would haul you out to sea?) we usually stayed indoors gluing shells to tissue boxes and shopping at the 5&10.

However. My "sun-days" became numerous as I approached my teen years; thanks to an earthshattering new product which Changed the Course of Humanity. At least in the 12-year-old world. The introduction of Sun-In. Spray it on, sit outside for hoursandhoursandhoursandhours; wash your hair, wait for it to dry, and LIKE MAGIC! It would be at least a half a shade lighter! Repeat as necessary, until your mom decided your hair looked like vermin-infested straw and forbade you to buy another bottle (Which, of course, you did, when you went to the movies at the mall the next weekend. And we know now, Mom knew exactly what we were doing.)

On a side note, by the time my children were preteens, Sun-In came in a super-strength version. You could pretty much sit under a light bulb and end up with peroxide blond hair. A giant leap for boy- and girlkind, in terms of sun exposure.

But, once again, I digress.

Fast-forward to present:

NOW they tell us, because Sanjay Gupta and all his TV doc friends and Surgeon Generals and Oprah and, I think, Billy Graham, have read Very Important Studies About Teens Who Sat Outside Trying to get Their Hair Blond, we shouldn't have done that! Well, where were all those Einsteins when we needed them? Someone should have passed an Anti Sun-In Resolution ages ago.

And here is why.

Yeah, I spent most of the summers of 1969 and 1970 in the sun; buttered up, smelling like coconut and bleaching my head. But, as soon as it was cool, I was on the Sunscreen Wagon. I slathered. I didn't bake between the hours of 10AM and 4PM, and I didn't "work on my tan", which I never would have achieved anyway.

And yet, I am now in the middle of 21 days of hell, Carac treatment for facial skin cancer. My face burns/itches/hurts/burns. I have sores in my mouth, nausea, and a throbbing headache. I look like I fell headfirst into a fire ant hill. People at the grocery store stare. Every half hour I put an ice pack on my face.

And I am supremely grateful to my dermatologist; who, during a "skin scan" discovered my face full of "micro-lesions"; each one of which could have grown into a world-class problem. And will now be an EX lesion. Eventually...

Moral of the story: Get checked now. Get checked later. Do the time. You might look like this for a while:



And you might, like me, want to cry. But don't - it stings. And you'll be able to cry, and laugh, and live and love for years to come.

WILD!

I weekended at the Country Estate; and, as usual, took a wander around the grounds with my morning coffee. It was a soggy, muddy venture. The edge of the driveway looked curiously muddier than expected, however...closer examination revealed:

displaced mulch.
scratchy marks in the dirt.
some poke-y holes in the ground.
funny footprints.



And there was some kind of snuffling/scuffling noise down in the ravine...



And then:



Armadillos!




So much fun to see! Especially alive, and not mooshed in the middle of a road!


So I did a little armadillo research, and learned:

Armadillos are mammals. Not marsupials, not lizards.
They are related to anteaters and sloths.
There is only one type of armadillo in the US - the Nine-Banded Armadillo.
Armadillos live 12 to 15 years.
The Giant Armadillo is 5 feet long.
They are beneficial because they eat icky things, like fire ants and termites.
They are in constant motion while grazing, which is why all of my photos are blurry.
They grunt as they eat, and are so focused that you can walk right up to them.
Since they sometimes eat roadkill, they often become roadkill.
Armadillos give birth to 4 identical babies, conceived of 1 egg cell that divides.
If you find an abandoned baby, you must bury its food, so it learns to forage.
You can feed the baby armadillo cat food and lettuce.
Armadillos sink in water. They can cross streams by walking on the bottom.
Or, they can suck up a bunch of air, and float across the water.
Armadillos sleep 16 hours a day.
People eat them. In some locales they are kept as edible pets.
They taste like pork. (Hearsay. I will not be testing armadillo recipes.)
But you should cook armadillo meat well, because they can carry leprosy.
(The only other mammal that carries leprosy is...humans!)

Armadillos are really, really cute. And I would rather photograph them than eat them.

Results are In!

We received the results from the DNA test on our odd little dog, who is something reminiscent of a Keeshond. This is what we learned:

The above is 100% Keeshond.

Apparently so is:


Proof:


Which is proof to me that someone almost always manipulates the data.

Stranger Than Fiction

I never cared for math, so a TV show called "Jon and Kate Plus Ei8ht" with its embedded numeral (obviously a trick question) held no appeal for me. Wouldn't "Ten" have been so much simpler? And more user-friendly for the equation-phobic, as well?

Also, my idea of a great night of television is watching severe weather on the Weather Channel radar; and occasionally looking out the front door for tornadoes.

Now, it turns out, as I suspected, "Ten" isn't the right answer, after all. I think it has something to do with that embedded numeral. (Haha, embedded. I crack myself up.)

And money. Lots and lots of money.

I have seen snippets of the show. It seems to involve a lot of screaming. And the kids scream a lot, too. The amazing thing is that the kids always have BOTH SHOES on their feet when they are outside. And NO SHOES on their feet indoors. Even with only two children I only managed that scenario occasionally. For each of mine, we dedicated approximately 3 of their Formative Years to seeking lost shoes, and another 3 to scraping dog poop off the ones that were not lost.

So I had a feeling all along that this show was bogus.

Plus. They had one actress play the mother in the first show, and now there is the one with the Hedgehog Hair. And we are supposed to look the other way, and go along with that? We're not stupid.

But, what's really weird to me is that - unlike stories about that Spears chick going commando and the lady with the big lips who has 14 kids and Madonna and Jesus (is THAT a coincidence or what?) and Paula Abdul swearing on Taylor Hicks' new crossover country album that she never took a single pain pill through 21 back surgeries - I READ the stories about Prickly Mrs. Hedgehog. What's up with that?

I'm beginning to think it's the Sudoku. My Number Tolerance is improving. In fact, since the weather isn't at all interesting, I think I'll rent "With Six You Get Eggroll" tonight. And tomorrow, I'll break open the "Complete 'Eight is Enough' Gift Set."

And, perhaps, as I feel numerically stronger and stronger, I can watch a few J&K+8 reruns over the holiday weekend...and by the time the new season starts next week I'll be all caught up. I wonder how I'd look with Hedgehog Hair?

There are Moments...

When you know you are in exactly the right place, at exactly the right time; with exactly the right people. And everything is, as Goldilocks would say, "Just Right."

Like the moment your brilliant and beautiful granddaughter is baptized in front of family and friends; in an historic and achingly pretty church. And, for that moment, there is no discord. Or turmoil. Or recession, or drought or flood, or flu. Just peace, joy, and the knowledge that life goes on.

And you can't help but count your blessings.

Mystery Mutt!

For over 30 years, we have been involved with animal rescue. We have "specialized", if you don't count the cats, and adopted only one breed of dog - the Keeshond.

Keeshonden (plural) are the whole package. Smart, and beautiful; with lovely temperaments. They are wonderful with kids. They are vigilant to a fault, and will tell you about every leaf blowing across the grass. They are so pretty that people will stop you on the street to ask about them.

And they don't take abandonment well, at all.

These are not dogs to chain to a tree out front. They want to have conversation over a nice bottle of Merlot. They want to discuss preparation methods for cauliflower. They know that half of the bed belongs to them; and there is no good reason they can't ride along to the dry cleaner. Some people just don't want to have that level of involvement with a four-legged creature; hence the need for Keeshond rescue.

We have adopted puppy mill mommas who never heard a human voice until they were too old to have puppies; and have no concept of speech. We have parented a retired Canadian/American Double Champion, after her puppy-bearing days were behind her. We have gone tooth-and-nail with this beautiful, brilliant and extremely bossy brown version of the breed:



And then, there is Hope.

We got a call quite a few years ago, that a "Keeshond" was wandering around a race track in North Georgia. She had been taken to the local animal control shelter; and, well...let's just say her "expiration date" was fast approaching. Would I go get her? The rescue coordinator had been assured she was a "purebred."

Well, a "purebred" something. My two hour drive north was uneventful. South, it appeared, was going to be a different story.

This "Keeshond" was about 1/2 the size of a normal Kees. One ear stood up, the other did not. She had just about no fur, lots of freckles, a mouth full of broken teeth, and a personality as big as Montana. She also stunk to high heaven.

The drive south was excruciating. Stink and toenails. The stinky little thing wanted to stand on my lap, and clearly had no concept of manual transmission. I stopped by the office of my Sister-In-Law-The-Vet on the way back. Hope had diarrhea in the waiting room, got some antibiotics and a once-over. SIL asked, "What IS she?" My response, "I have no idea. How old do you think she is?" SIL looked at her broken teeth and replied, "Well, she could be two. She could be ten. I don't know." It was clear that she was not going to be the star of the Keeshond Rescue website.

That was nearly 10 years ago. We have been wondering and wondering about this odd, grumpy, feisty, rode-hard-and-put-up-wet little excuse-for-a-Keeshond. She has none of the attributes - although she is gray, as they generally are - and a whole bunch of "otherness" in her compact self. I have always referred to her as "a bag of sticks", because she has bones sticking out everywhere. But I just heard a better expression..."a bag of antlers." Which describes Hope perfectly.

For Christmas this year, my mother got a DNA kit to test the genetic makeup of her Great-Dane-With-an-Underbite mutt. Who would have guessed? Boxer - of course, underbite. And Rhodesian Ridgeback? Come on, how likely is it that a Rhodesian Ridgeback is just wandering around, waiting for a boxer to come along to make really odd-looking puppies? But I fell for it, swabbed the inside of Hope's cheek with the "polyester swab" guaranteed not to cause any lasting damage. And now we are waiting, waiting. I'm just not sure how I will explain to her that we are not her "real" parents.




Stay tuned. And feel free to place bets here.

Fun with Fibromyalgia!

Fibromyalgia is a collection of symptoms that result in widespread pain and fatigue. I know a lot about it, because I've had it for years; and I also have a lot of friends who hang out at health stores and watch infomercials. Therefore, in addition to having fibro, I know what everyone except people who have it thinks will cure it.

So I have put together this helpful fact sheet for long-time sufferers, the newly diagnosed, anyone with a family member battling this demon; and hypochondriacs. All in simple terms. No scary graphics, posters or newsreels; and no Doctor Scribble.

What Is Fibromyalgia?

Within the last few decades, medical doctors noticed an alarming trend. People, mostly female people, swamped their offices, complaining of pain and fatigue. The doctors, of course, recognized hormones and hysteria, and prescribed appropriate anti-anxiety medications. Resulting in decidedly not anxious patients with widespread pain and fatigue, returning for follow-up visits.

So some of these doctors got together at a fancy resort, to discuss the trend. After a few martinis, they decided to have a Name-The-Syndrome contest. Some of the ideas floated about were "Fibrocystitis", "Chronic Fatigue Syndrome" and "Fibromyalgia" (literally, 'pain in the fibro.') The votes were split evenly, and they decided on a Limbo Tie Breaker. Dr. Finartener, from Sioux City Iowa (who was only 5' 4" and some thought should have been disqualified because he had a genetic advantage) won the Limbo Contest. He cast the deciding vote for "Fibromyalgia", because he had used that word in Scrabble and swore on his Merck's Manual that it was a real syndrome and won the game. And now he could prove it.

What are the Symptoms of Fibromyalgia?

Well, if you wake up in the morning and you feel like total poop, and everything hurts and you have stomach cramps and you are already menopausal or you are male so you aren't getting your period, and you had no idea your ears had joints except now something that seems to be an ear joint is throbbing, and you don't have a fever and you don't think you have been bitten by an exotic insect; you likely have Fibromyalgia. Another sign is if you are trying to explain to the dog how to start the coffee maker, because the thought of putting a foot on the ground makes your teeth hurt. And, come to think of it, lying here with those sheets TOUCHING YOUR SKIN is pretty painful, too.

What are the causes of Fibromyalgia?

My personal Healthcare Team have offered the following list of possibilities:

A physical or emotional trauma
A virus
An autoimmune response
A side effect of my thyroid disease
Infection
Genetics

And my mother thinks I need a new mattress.


How is Fibromyalgia Treated?

What doesn't work: Everything ever invented for the treatment of pain. Like Anaprox, Aleve, Ibuprofen...all for "inflammation" that we don't have. Topicals, like Ben Gay, and Icy Hot; because even though you THINK your knees hurt, in 15 minutes it will be your elbows. Hello, the pain is not really coming from what hurts. It is coming from your brains!! They just want to trick you into believing your hips hurt, when it is really your Frontal Lobes! Haha, silly brains! You could play Smack The Gopher with a Thermapad all day and never land on the part that hurts.

You can take Vitamin B shots. You put the needle in your arm and, I am not making this up, inject the Vitamin B slowly over a period of 3 minutes. When a doctor demonstrated the technique (using my arm) I swore I would never be in enough pain to make THAT treatment worth it. He assured me that "one day you will crawl to me on your hands and knees to beg for a Vitamin B shot!" Good to know.

You can take drugs, off-label, designed as sleep aids. Is that brilliant? I hurt, so I will take something to make me sleep through it. And then my handsome prince will kiss me awake, and I'll find the glass slipper, and let down my hair and escape from the tower.

Or, someone call Billy Mays, you can try this NEW! BREAKTHROUGH! TREATMENT! I read about yesterday...a low dose "addiction" drug is showing some promise. So it can help crack addicts, and all of us "pain addicts." Come on.

Exercise appears to be a real antidote (perhaps because when you fatigue other muscle groups you don't notice the fibro?), and I think that "mind over matter" is a great approach; staying active scares the bejesus out of this syndrome.

And some people report relief with a bubble bath, and a nice chardonnay.

We won't die of fibromyalgia; but we can wither away if we don't fight back. 4% of the population suffers - I imagine this number is very low because most people who exhibit fibro symptoms think it is a natural effect of aging. It is not.

Fight the Fibro.

This blog expresses personal opinion and a degree of smartypantsiness, and is not a substitute for actual medical advice. Please consult your medical healthcare provider for real information. No animals were harmed in the process of this study, although the dogs resent the fact that dinner will be late.