catheroominations

Earlier this week, I asked if anyone could identify this:

There were some valiant efforts. Jenni thought it was an Asian mushroom dish. Cindy guessed a plant, but Chris said it looked more like sickle cell anemia. C&K’s pimp suggested sauteed tapeworm in oyster sauce. Karan and Celine thought it was a photo of green beans. But the entry that made me laugh the hardest was the one from weaker vessel who asked if it was French fries after a tsunami. Thanks to all who played, but unfortunately we have no winners. (Cindy was close though.) Next time, I’ll make it easier or offer a prize for most outlandish guess or something.

So now, the big reveal.
keep reading Slimy, yet satisfying

I’ve been a reader of Kristine’s blog for awhile, and every week I tell myself I’ll post something for Stuff Portrait Fridays (SPF). I finally decided to stop procrastinating and just do it. Plus, I luh-huve my new camera and want to take pictures of everything I see, even the dirt collected by my Dyson vacuum cleaner. Be grateful I’m posting SPF, or you would have had to look at dust and cat hair.

This week’s assignment was to take photos of my washer and dryer, my robe, and a flower.

My washer and dryer. I never use these because we had a run of laundry burglars not too long ago. Besides, I hate when I come into the laundry room and someone has touched my chonies and put them on the counter so they can use the washer.

My Robe. It’s white, and might look like nothing special, but it is so amazingly soft and snuggly, I had to get it. It’s from Bath & Body Works and I bought it while I was supposed to be Christmas shopping.

A flower. This is a window I bought at a little antique store when I first moved into my apartment 4 years ago. I don’t mind if it’s not authentic. I just love it.

Do you wanna play? Go here to find out the scoop. And if you did play, leave a comment letting me know, and tell Kristine too.

Today I visited Dr. Robinson, podiatrist to the stars my podiatrist. I’ve been having trouble with my big toe. It’s puffy, and red, and it stings. Whatever Brooklynite coined the phrase “the agony of da feet” knew what they were talking about. What? Oh, it’s “agony of defeat?” Ah. Never mind then.

Anyway, I went to see Dr. Robinson to have him check what I (and my BF) thought to be an ingrown toenail. Jeez, even reading those words, it’s just gross.

I’ve never had an ingrown toenail before, so I did a bit of research online. What I learned about treatment almost made me hurl. I hoped I wouldn’t have to endure the ickiness associated with any of that.

(If you’re eating, as you read this, what I’m about to describe could ruin your appetite. If you have a queasy stomach, do not continue. Go look at my cat making biscuits instead.)

Sho’nuff, our diagnosis was correct, but alas, I would not be spared the required treatment. Dr. Robinson put up a barrier so I couldn’t see what he was doing to my foot, and he explained the procedure as it progressed. I appreciated the barrier (aka barf shield) because if I had to watch, surely I’d have tossed my cookies.

Dr.: First I will spray a little anesthetic to numb the outside of the toe a bit.
(Spray hits toe.)
Me: Mmmkay. (Heh. That’s kinda tingly and cold. Nice. This might not be so bad.)
Dr.: Now I’ll inject something to numb the entire toe. It’ll start to feel like there’s a scarf wrapped around it.
Me: Mmmkay.
Dr.: I want you to count backwards from 100 to 1.
Me: Mmmkay.
Dr.: By threes.
Me: Uh…
Dr.: Or by ones is okay too.
Me: One hundred, ninety-seven, ninety-(dammit!)-four, ninety-one (mother @#$%!), eighty-eight, eighty-five, uhm, eighty-two, (holyshitthatneedlehurts!) seventy-nine, seventy-six, (How big IS* that needle anyway?) seventy-three (KELLY CLARKSON!!!), seventy, sixty-seven, six…six (S’cuse me, but when does the numbing start?) sixty four, sixty-one, fifty (Hey! I think it’s over) eight, fifty-five…
Dr.: You can stop now. Nice job with the counting.
Me: Yeah, nice distraction, but it still hurts (but I won’t cry or throw up).
Dr.: It’ll take about 10 minutes to get numb and then I’ll come in and Cut Out the Ingrown Part of the Nail.
Me: (Gulp.) Mmmkay.

As I sat there awaiting more torture, I looked through Running magazine. I found an interview with Dean Karnazes about how he manages to run for hours and hours, all over this planet, and not quit.

<tangent>
I first heard about Dean Karnazes when he was a guest on The Late Show. His passion for running fascinated me and I went out and bought his book the next day. When I was diagnosed with psoriatic arthritis (PA), I had to stop running, and that depressed me, so I never finished the book. Lately the PA isn’t bothering me so much, and I’m registered to run my first 1/2 marathon, barring any future ingrown toenails.
</tangent>

My toe started to feel kind of funky. As if it was expanding to gargantuan proportions like Fred Flintstone’s does when he drops a bowling rock on his foot. (On second thought, I think Fred’s toe smashes flat to the floor.) The imaginary scarf the doc mentioned tightened slightly, it’s warm fuzziness gently comforting my frightened hallux.

The nurse arrived to sterilize my toe. At first glance, the bristles on her scrubby brush made me cringe, but when she started to use it, I felt nothing. Whew. Then she poked (I guess) at my toe and asked if it hurt. Again, nothing. She told me I was ready for the doctor.

As he snipped away at the nail, I couldn’t help but wonder (look at me, I’m Carrie Bradshaw now) How much of my easiest-to-polish nail would remain? Would I be able to wear flip-flops this summer without scaring people? Would my pedicurist shudder at the sight of my newly-deformed toe? These are of course, very important questions. Forget the benefits of feeling better or avoiding such grossness and discomfort as an abscess. It’s all about appearance, folks.

The “surgery” took only a couple of minutes. When he was finished wrapping it, I saw him reach for a pen and figured he was going to date the bandage. When he lifted up the barricade, I saw why he needed the pen:

Last night was too much fun. Ninety minutes of non-stop Sex (and the City).

When I was first approached to do this, the screener suggested going out for a drink first. I declined for two reasons:

1. Where in San Ho are we going to find a cool bar nearby that will make us flirtinis?
2. I envisioned myself having cocktails with stuffy people dressed in suits and ties.

When I greeted the three women who came to talk to this Extreme Sex and the City Fan, I wish I had accepted the drink offer. They looked like the same people who walk through my door all the time, like my girlfriends. And they looked fun, not scientific-researchy at all. OK, I didn’t expect lab coats, but in the past when I’ve participated in focus groups, the leader has been a bit stiff. But these chicks were cool.

<tangent>
Damn, I should have bought cosmopolitan fixin’s. Ah well. And I make a mighty fine cosmo, if I do say so myself. Shoot. I didn’t even offer them a drink of water. What kind of hostess am I? Oh, that’s right. I was a Research Subject, not a Hostess. That lets me off the hook. Right?
</tangent>

At first, the prospect of having this conversation at my house seemed weird. (Mom always said not to let strangers in the house.) I was told that meeting at my humble abode would allow me to be more comfortable than I might be in unfamiliar surroundings, like a corporate boardroom. But it also meant that I had to clean. Like a madwoman I cleaned. My apartment needed it and I am the type who doesn’t clean because I want to, I clean because someone is coming over and I want to make a good impression and I don’t want them to think I’m a giant slob. These people already knew I watch a lot of TV, and that conjures up images of dusty furniture, empty soda cans, and potato chip bags and the only things you can see in the mess are a reclined La-Z-Boy chair and the remote. So I had to get rid of all that stuff before they came over.

I was put under the microscope for an hour and a half. Only, it didn’t seem like a microscope. It seemed like my living room. Oh wait, it was my living room. It was exactly like three friends had come over to talk and get to know me better. Except my friends don’t videotape me or take pictures or notes, hanging on my every word.

<tangent>
I’ll admit that my fondness for television sometimes embarrasses me. But not when I can make some extra dough talking about how much I like it, and one show in particular. I also know a LOT about pop culture. You want me on your Trivial Pursuit team or Celebrity Taboo. Yes, I will be your Entertainment Lifeline if you ever get on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire (for a small fee). Some call it useless information, but others just paid me $50 bucks an hour for that uselessness. So there ya go.
</tangent>

I didn’t know just where these women were from and I tried to guess, based on the questions they asked. I figured maybe they were from HBO and were looking for interest in a new reality series that HBO is working on. Nope, HBO didn’t send them. In they end, they told me they were from a cable network (the one that airs Sex and the City). I gave them and the network permission to use all of last night’s footage (quotes, video, photos) in whatever way they see fit. (Damn, I should have fixed my makeup and worn a push-up bra.)

It was easy and fun, and damn, I wish I could do this all the time. Get paid just for talking about TV. So, get your ass on that couch and start watching some TV! It could be a whole new source of income for you.

What’s the Matter? by 10,000 Maniacs
What’s Going on? by Marvin Gaye
Where are You Going? by Dave Matthews Band
Are You Gonna Go My Way? by Red Hot Chili Peppers
If You Leave Me, Can I Come Too? by Mental as Anything
Why Can’t I? by Liz Phair
Is There Something I Should Know? by Duran Duran
Who’s That Girl? by Eurythmics
Don’t You Want Me? by Human League
Why? by Bronski Beat

In case you haven’t heard by now (it’s all over the Internets), it looks like Arrested Development is over. For good.

The show’s brilliant creator, Mitch Hurwitz, says he won’t be continuing the series. Originally, Showtime was interested in picking up the Show the FOX Forgot, but only with Hurwitz’s involvement.

Just this morning, I was discussing the lack of outstanding sitcoms on TV these days. The jokes are irritatingly predictable and the laugh tracks are ridiculous. I am one of a very few who didn’t love Raymond. Part of the charm of Arrested Development (and The Office) is the welcome absence of fake laughter. Don’t tell me when I should laugh, thankyouverymuch.

The witty writing that consistently pushed the envelope is a rarity in broadcast television, yet a staple of cable TV (HBO’s Sex and the City, Six Feet Under, and Showtime’s Queer as Folk). Many had high hopes that Showtime would extend the chronicles of the Bluth family and give Arrested Development a new home. But, it doesn’t lood good, people.

Yes, I know there are more pressing issues in our world than the fate of a television show (or mullet comebacks), but it makes me sad that shows like Hope & Faith and The War at Home continue to air and Arrested Development is, well, arrested. I’m afraid what that says about the American television-viewing public is that we are unintelligent boobs who don’t enjoy smartly written and produced comedies.

Sometimes I’m in the dark about things. I feel like I live under a rock. At such times, it’s good to have friends like Jenni and Sandi who bring vitally important topics to my attention. The news is unsettling and quite disturbing, but I’d rather know than go about my daily business, ignorant to the disaster that is

The mullet.

That’s right. It’s back.

When I think about the mullet, as I am wont to do, I realize that in some parts of the world, it never left. The fine folks at Supercuts can attest to this. The mullet is quite the look in some circles. Many hockey players, backstage crew, and country music stars are fans of the schizophrenic hairstyle.

But what stylist out there still creates the mullet? Does anyone walk into a salon and say “I’d like a mullet please.”? Or perhaps they don’t even know the name for the coiffure they’ve been sporting since the 80s. They request “Just a little off the sides. I’m growing it out in the back,” as they take a seat in the chair, placing their Vuarnets in the front pocket of their Members Only jacket.

Like the mustache, who out there is more attractive with a mullet? Anyone? I dare you to find a hot mulletified guy. Get back to me on that.

Picture the classically handsome Gregory Peck with a mullet. Or Cary Grant. James Dean. Or today’s heartthrobs Brad Pitt, Colin Farrell, or Jude Law. Doesn’t work, does it?

In an attempt to spread mullet awareness, the San Francisco Chronicle published this informative article. After reading it, I now can answer “WWJD?” He’d have a mullet.

I am certain that Yanni and NASCAR are behind all this mustache/mullet mayhem.