But Most of All…

…Wear Sunscreen.

Baz Luhrman was right. Even back in the late ‘90’s during that dreadful spoken-word graduation address song of his that kept getting played on the radio. Most of all, wear sunscreen.

I went to the dermatologist last Friday, mostly to get a post-transplant baseline checkup since the biggest risk of getting a transplant (besides dying, of course) is developing skin cancer. I also had a red spot on my forehead that mimicked dry skin that would heal and become shiny only to become dry again. Since January. So it was time to get the look-see.

Luckily the spots on my leg, chest and hairline were, in the really sweet dermo’s words, signs that I am getting old and that I got too much sun when I was young; ie, nothing to worry about. The thing on my forehead, however, was indeed precancerous and needed to be removed and biopsied. He assured me that it wasn’t melanoma or the other invasive types of skin cancer, but an early cancer nonetheless.

So some lidocaine, a hole punch, a skin shaving and a couple of stitches later, I was on my way home, determined that someday soon I would no longer have to look down the long, dark depths into puncture wounds on my body. From bone marrow biopsies to the hickman hole (which still is under appropriate dressing) to the new little hole in my forehead, I just decided that I was so over the very disquieting sensation of seeing open holes when I look in the mirror.

Yeah yeah. Poor me. I’ll take your sympathy on the hip bone holes and the chest hole. But this forehead hole? I’ve had this one coming for a long, long time.

Consider that, in the mid-1980’s, I would lay out in the sun with my sister and her friend Christine wearing not sunscreen but baby oil. Those were the days, weren’t they? Before baby oil and sun exposure were listed in the same risk matrix as unprotected sex and junkie hookers? Good times, good times.

Then in high school I fell in love with and set about wooing and dating Christopher Mancini (not his real name), a sweet hunka hunka beautiful Italian high school amore. Oh my lord, I loved Christopher Mancini. I loved his parents, his dog, his Nonni and Nanno. He was the man I was going to marry. Just as soon as I got myself tan enough to not glow in the prom photo next to him. I hied myself to Tropic Tan where I baked and sizzled myself to a miraculous-for-me shade of vanilla latte. And oh how cute those photos were. And how I dreamed of tanning all the time so I could try to pass for a Catholic paisan when all his family arrived for the wedding and oohed and aahed over me during the dollar dances. Yeah. It was indeed amore. Little did I know it was also moltissimo stupido.

Then fast forward to college when I'd go out in the sun, maybe not to specifically get a tan, but certainly without any sense that sunscreen might be appropriate or necessary. Then cue also a bikini shopping trip for a trip to the Cape with my boyfriend (that era's future Mr. Haggis that wasn't) during which I looked at myself in the unforgiving mirror and said, "F*@# it. I'm sorry, but brown fat just simply looks better than white fat," and started tanning again for my trip.

Never mind that back in 2001 I decided I was going to Mystic Tan myself into oblivion in the summer and then attempt to channel Uma, Nicole Kidman and Cate Blanchett during the winter. You know; "winter white." By that time I had come to the tearful conclusion that skin starts to look old long before you feel old and that maybe it was time to stop kicking the sh*t out of my poor epidermis. Unfortunately, the damage (thank you, 1986) was already done.

So although I wear sunscreen (Mustela zinc oxide-based for babies, actually) and advocate the use of sunscreens as if they are condoms, I had long-since earned that forehead lesion before last week. Now I'm on the every-6 month check up schedule, and all I can do is tell you kids to stay in school, eat your greens---and most of all, wear sunscreen. :)


ps...Did I mention that some of my eyebrows and eyelashes are growing back in WHITE? Not gray, not blond. White. So now with my new skin care regimen, I seek your prayers that it all turns out looking very "Swedish Snowboard Champion" rather than "Weird Albino Girl." Let's hear it for the (Very) White Girl look that will be on all the runways this winter season.

Tell Me Why

...I DO like Mondays!

From The Hill
FBI raids Sen. Stevens's Alaska home
By Elana Schor
July 31, 2007
The Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) and the Internal Revenue Service (IRS) raided the home of Sen. Ted Stevens (R-Alaska) on Monday, advancing the corruption probe that has ensnared the once-untouchable GOP dean.

The Anchorage Daily News first reported the search of Stevens’s Girdwood, Alaska, residence on Monday afternoon, citing the assistant special agent in charge of the FBI’s local office. That home has fueled the investigation into Stevens’ ties to oil-field services company Veco, whose two top executives recently resigned after pleading guilty to bribery and fraud.

Bill Allen, Veco’s former CEO, is a longtime friend and business partner of Stevens, and investigators are examining Allen’s involvement in a 2000 renovation of the senior Republican appropriator’s house. The construction project added a story to the building, and contractors have reportedly testified before a grand jury that Allen and Veco received the bills for their work.

Stevens has denied any appearance of impropriety in the home renovation, stating specifically earlier this month that every bill he and his wife received was paid with their personal money, “and that’s all there is to it.” The famously combative senator has acknowledged that the federal probe may complicate his reelection effort next year — a concept still almost unthinkable to many in Alaska, where Stevens’ talent for securing federal dollars has made him a legend.

In a statement released by his office Monday, Stevens said his attorneys were notified of the search Monday morning. He vowed to continue providing for his state as normal while the investigation proceeds. “I continue to believe this investigation should proceed to its conclusion without any appearance that I have attempted to influence its outcome. I will continue my policy of not commenting on this investigation until it has concluded,” Stevens said.

He added, “I urge Alaskans not to form conclusions based upon incomplete and sometimes incorrect reports in the media. The legal process should be allowed to proceed so that all the facts can be established and the truth determined.”

The Anchorage FBI office did not return a request for comment late yesterday. Two House Republicans, Rick Renzi (Ariz.) and John Doolittle (Calif.), have experienced home raids by federal authorities this year, but a raid on Stevens’ residence marks a significant intrusion of congressional corruption scandals into the more clubby Senate. Stevens’ financial disclosure form for last year, which he requested that the ethics committee review before submission, is still under wraps after the senator requested a second deadline extension, as The Hill reported earlier this month.

The Iran Hostage Non-Crisis

I know I've been a bit out of the geopolitical loop these days, but how is it that no one is reporting on the American citizens currently being held hostage in Iran? What, has everyone been having transplants recently? Or are we all too busy with Lindsay Blohan to notice an international outrage in progress?

Why would the fact that three American citizens are being held by Iran as Zionist spies not be newsworthy? What kind of national press ignores such a deplorable and diplomatically unacceptable situation? Can you imagine being held in an Iranian prison as a spy--and having 99.8% of your country have no idea you are even there? It simply boggles the mind.

Here are some more details from Mark Steyn:
MarkSteyn

We should all ask our senators--and this White House--what they are doing to have these Americans released.

It's All Because

This made me laugh till I cried. It's a song called It's All Because (The Gays Are Getting Married). Depending on where you work, Reverend, it's pretty safe for work.

Enjoy for your Monday morning.
YouTube

Yes, We Have No Bananas

I got nuthin for ya.

Obviously, since it's now Thursday and the last post was Sunday. Couple of reasons. First, Bambina's summer camp let out last week. The end date kind of sneaked up on us. We were sitting at the table and suddenly realized, "oh my lord, Friday is her last day!" Having no suitable activity lined up for the remaining SEVEN WEEKS till she goes to preschool, we were dashing furiously around trying to find something that was either a) still available, or b) not three thousand dollars for 4 weeks of half days. In addition, Bambina has been present most of every day, so precious little writing was going to occur regardless.

Second, I've been reading. Yeah. Can you believe it? I'm actually reading books. By actual authors and not the "US Weekly" staff. At the outset of this whole stem cell situation I was certain I was going to write a book with all of my "down time." Hellooooo?! Total nonsense. The entire time I was in the hospital I could not even consider reading something longer than three column inches on Ian Ziering's success on Dancing With the Stars, such was the mental concentration fallout from the chemo. Then I assumed I'd do it when I got home. Sadly, still no ability to do more than flip through a magazine. I almost couldn't even focus on the newspaper; all that print! And so small! And about non-celebrities! No thank you. So this past week has been great because I've not only been able to read books but can actually retain a petite soupcon of their information. So far I've read:

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott (on writing in general with family stories thrown in)
Long Way Gone by Ishmael Beah (about and by a young man who was a child soldier in Sierra Leone; now living in NYC)
Half way through God Is Not Great by Christopher Hitchens. (An entertaining, thought-provoking and exceedingly well-written book about why religion is a Bad Thing)

Recommended, all.

In between calling toddler camps and YMCAs, I went to the clinic a couple of times. The wound from the Hickman line removal was green and yellow, so I figured I would call and check that out. It's still funky-looking and I am dubious in the extreme that it is healing, regardless of doctor assurances that it will get better. Note that they are not saying, "That looks perfectly fine." They are saying, "Well, shower with the bandaid off, dry it thoroughly...neosporin...dry dressing..blah blah." You know they are thinking, "Oh dear god, that sh*t is green!!" So I got antibiotics too, which always make a girl feel her shiny, happy best, don't they? And the notion of showering with the bandaid off is akin to asking me to chew tin foil with my metal fillings. You want me to leave it undressed? And let water in? And then have to look at it?! Oooooooh, I just can't wait. Which, honestly, is what led to this post: I'm avoiding going to the shower. Cue the Psycho music.

Also keeping me busy has been further necessary management of Bambina's ongoing, profound interest in all things scatological. Now it's about dogs. Somehow she learned that dogs sniff other dogs butts when they meet. Fair enough. But Bambina's favorite thing to pretend to be (besides Me Mama You Bambina, wherein she orders me around, reads to me, and tells me it's okay if I wet myself sometimes) is a dog. She loves to run around on all fours barking saying, "I'm the Mama Dog and you the baby puppy!" So this morning she started sniffing my arm, as she does, and then said, "I sniff your bum now" as she headed toward my back porch. Whaaaaat!?? I jumped up, like, "WHAT are you doing?! Mama does NOT like people sniffing her bum, thank you." She finally relented when I advised her that pretend doggies do not sniff real bums.

This is my day, folks. Dodging bum sniffing children, peering into supurating wounds, and telling myself I really should post something as soon as I finish this chapter...

Bambina Epoopanies

FYI. Be mindful of the stories you tell your toddler. You think it’s just a throwaway anecdote. You never imagine as you are telling it that it will be the only thing you discuss for the next three days. You never imagine being mortified at the possibility of your child repeating or acting out your anecdote in front of others.

Anyway, did I ever tell you about the time a bird pooped on my head and shoulder as I was walking to school in Scotland in 1979? I probably didn’t. But I made the mistake of telling Bambina. It all came about as a result of birds viewing our car as their personal commode. She wanted to know why there was so much bird poop on our car, most of it white, some of it the must-have-eaten-berries red, and some of it that must-have-had-dysyntery green. I thought I was being all “Bill Nye Science Guy” as I explained that birds, unlike people, do not care where they poop. This she knew already as a result of that Taro Gomi classic, “Everyone Poops” that we love to read in tandem with its sister publication “The Gas We Pass.”

So for no reason at all, I allowed that I had once been the unwitting outhouse for a large Scottish bird of unknown pedigree. I told her that I was on my way to school when all of a sudden I felt a small thud on my head, followed by a sinking dripping feeling. When I felt with my hand it became clear that I had been the victim of a flyby pooping. So I ran home where my mom cleaned my hair, changed my shirt, and sent me back to school just in time.

No big deal, just a quickie story to give a little local color to the science of bird feces. Or, alternatively, carte blanche for a small child to run around sticking her butt in people’s faces and yelling, “Pthpbbbbtttttt (the fart noise): Splat!” Then following up with, “Now you have to look and see what’s on you!” Cue the unfortunate pooper-onner to have to say, “Eeeww! A bird pooped on me!” For four hours straight.

Perhaps I’ll learn not to share poop stories with a 3 year-old. More than likely, perhaps not.

Bambina has had a lot of poopy epiphanies lately. She’s been potty trained for a year, through almost no effort of mine. We just bought a little potty for her, put it in the bathroom, told her that was where little girls peed and pooped, rather than babies in their diapers, and in perhaps days she was peeing exclusively in the potty. Within a couple of months and well before the age of two she had ceased pooping in her diaper even though she couldn’t obviously poop without assistance on her potty. Then a few months after that, she refused to use the potty anymore in favor of using “The Mommy Potty.” I get asked a lot how I did it, and the answer is always, “I didn’t do it; she did.” I often wonder if her early poop awareness has enhanced her interest in all things scatological. Or maybe having me for a mama explains more. I leave it to greater minds than mine to determine.

Anyway, her previous (pre-bird) scatological enjoyment came from learning that “Mama! When you fart in the bath, bubbles come out your bum!” This, she found to be humor manna from heaven. You could see the wonder in her face, like, “How amazing is this big world that you get to make bubbles out of your butt?!!!” This was preceded by her new (and hilarious) understanding that sometimes you fart really stinkily when you have to poop, so if you wake up and say, “Mama, my nose hurts when I fart,” you might need to get yourself to the loo ASAP. So now when she beefs like a trucker I look at her with my “let’s get upstairs to the water closet” look and she’ll say, “I NOT need to poop. I just farting, okay?”

Yes, she’ll be mortified when she gets older and reads this. But no more mortified than I’ll be the next time she sees the Rabbi and "bird poops" on him…

NewsGroper

Via The Moderate Voice, I happened upon this fantastically funny news satire site. Start here and just keep on clicking.