Red Nose

Squashed Like A Bug

My God, the maintenance you have to endure when you're old.

And I'm not even old! (Please, allow me my pleasant delusions.)

Today I had my yearly mammogram, only six months later than I should have had it. Hey, that's good for me. I'm very good about my yearly female-specific doctor visit, and my doctor is very good about giving me the script for the mammogram, and I am very good about filing the script the away in the deep recesses of my purse and then forgetting all about it.

Luckily, the imaging center instituted a policy of mailing a reminder letter out to forgetful slackers such as myself. I made an appointment for today, figuring it would be a great way to start out the holiday weekend. So I arrived at the imaging center, signed in, donned a gown, and let the friendly technician serve up my boobs on a plate. They have the latest equipment, so the smashing was automatic. It still took my breath away and made my eyes pop out like a Looney Tunes character. But the digital imaging meant it took less time than usual, so I was all done, dressed, and out of there in less than 20 minutes.

Score!

You know, I have decided that mammography is like childbirth. It is unpleasant at best, sometimes hurts like hell, but overall it's worth it. So if you're overdue, make that appointment. Now.

And Yet, I Manage To Get Things Done

I have noticed lately that I cannot focus on anything for more than, say, 10 minutes. I get distracted by anything. Yesterday I slipped my coffee cup into the fancy-one-cup-at-a-time coffee machine, pushed the button, and remembered that I should pick up my new parking pass.

I went to do that, but the woman in charge of parking passes wasn't quite ready to dole them out. I walked back to my desk and checked my email.

Then I remembered my coffee. Luckily it was still in the coffee machine; even luckier, it was still hot.

I'll think, "Time to do the checkbook" and head over to the computer and play a couple games of Snood. Then I remember the checkbook and open up Quicken. But I forgot to get the ATM and debit card receipts from my wallet, so I go back to the kitchen to get them, and notice that I have a couple pairs of shoes lolling around by the side table, so I pick them up and take them upstairs, where I notice that Joe's left my clean clothes neatly stacked on my dresser, so I put them away -- at least the shoes made it upstairs -- and then I might as well take off my jewelry. I pass the bathroom and decide to go.

I get downstairs and the phone rings; it's an Out-of-Area number so fuck that. I unload the dishwasher, or maybe load it, and look for a snack. Then I see my purse and remember the checkbook.

By this time the computer's gone to sleep so I wake it up and finally get to work on the checkbook.

Is there such a thing as adult-onset attention deficit disorder?

Stop Me Before I Open The Closet

I cleaned out my dresser drawers today. At first I was only going to put away my clean clothes, but when I took a good look at my underwear drawer I knew it was time for a purge.

So out with all the old, ill-fitting granny panties! Out with the two padded, underwired, and heavily infrastructured brassieres that I bought on the off-chance I'd actually wear such contraptions. (Actually, I think I wore each of them once -- they served their purpose each time but now? Out!) Ah, the jogbra -- as useful to me as tits on a snake. Begone! The pamphlet on how to tie a scarf in many fetching designs? Yes, oh so 80s and oh so trashed.

Then I decided that it was time to get ruthless on the pants and tops drawer. If it didn't fit or hadn't been worn in a year, buh bye! When that was done, I put in the clean stuff -- turtlenecks and long-sleeved tops on one side and short-sleeved summery tops on the other -- and miracle of miracles, it all fit with room to spare.

On to the two drawers stuffed full of t-shirts. Again, "ruthless" ruled the roost. I ditched t-shirts that I've never worn. I recycled award shirts from ancient software releases (it ran on 386s) and marketing shirts from vendors at conferences. Speaking of conferences, I no longer feel the need to keep souvenir shirts from them. Away with them all!

The tops and pants and Wonderbras went into the charity sack; the underwear got thrown away. I think donating one's used underpants is kinda nasty, so into the trash they go.

Then, since I was on a roll, I dusted my dresser and cleaned the bathroom.

All this by noon. What's gotten into me?

Hot

We are back in the soup here in DC -- upper 90s and high humidity garnished with an afternoon thunderstorm or two.

Our AC isn't working real well, so we tend to leave it off or set the thermostat very high during the day. The upside is we save on electricity; the downside is that it feels like a tropical rainforest when we get home. The upstairs is always a couple of degrees hotter and stuffier; it always has been, even when the AC was working perfectly.

Yeah, we need to get the AC serviced. We will. I promise.

Meanwhile, when we go to bed we turn the thermostat up high again, open the windows in our bedroom and in the guest bedroom, and stick the box fan in the guest bedroom window, making sure that it blows outside. Then we turn it on full blast. The fan sucks the air through our bedroom and spits it out the guest bedroom. It really helps a lot!

And now I have officially mentioned sweating, sucking, blowing, and spitting it out, and this isn't even a sex blog.