Mr. Freeze Versus the Thyroglobulins

Having become something of a biopsy regular, I don't have the same story this time that I had last time. The only noticeable difference is that my newly acquired, super expensive, super exclusive endocrinologist doesn't believe in local anaesthetics.

"The injection of the anaesthetic will be just as painful as the biopsy needle," he tried to explain to me.

"Yes, but there isn't one biopsy needle, there's three. And you don't just insert the biopsy needle, you stick it in and wave it around like a damn jackhammer." Seriously, by the time you get to the third needle, who cares about the first teeny weeny anaesthetic injection? And this isn't even touching on how a needle actively moving around inside your throat doesn't feel like a shot of B12 to the arm, which I also had to look forward to, followed by another round of blood samples after that--what's one more needle prod?

But I lost out because the super duper endocrinologist prefers the freeze method. I didn't get a good look, but I assume it's a can of frozen air something or other which he sprayed liberally on my neck, causing me to break out in a fit of shrieks and giggles on the operating room table. The opera playing on a tape deck in the corner of the room was accompanied by the whoosh of aerosol and my full belly-laugh hysterics.

"Looks like someone is ticklish," chirped the nurse.

"I get a lot of reactions with the freeze, but I've never had anyone laugh before," said the doctor, which really made me uncomfortable, because how many patients has this super endocrinologist seen during the life of his practice and I'm the only one? I never like hearing something I do is abnormal.

And so I wait. Again. If this biopsy comes back inconclusive again, he's operating and taking my thyroid out as a cancer precaution. Apparently the cancer risk is very high with two inconclusives. If my thyroglobulin levels come back high, he's operating and taking out my thyroid. I didn't bother to ask why. If my levels are come back normal, then I get to keep my thyroid, but get put on medications to try to shrink the tumors. Even though it looks like I'm going to be one of those people who has to take medication every day for the rest of my life no matter the outcome of this, obviously I'm still hoping for the third option because frankly I kinda like my thyroid even though my body doesn't.

I asked him why all of this happened in the first place, and he said my body got confused and thought my thyroid was now magically a foreign object, so it started attacking it. Apparently my body isn't very smart.

A Little More Fortune

My life has changed so drastically over the past month that it's hard to believe I come home to the same apartment and the same boyfriend every night. It's as if I flipped a switch and started life over, just with the same bed sheets.

For starters, I left my job that I've kept for the past two and a half years. Although I'm grateful to the company for giving me a break into writing within an office environment, it was time to move on. High turnover left me a senior employee with nowhere to corporately climb.

It's all about timing. While there were virtually no technical writing jobs in Atlanta when I searched 10 months ago, this time around there were several that I felt qualified for. And, by chance, a company that hired my old coworker hired me as well.

Palms sweaty and throat dry, I sat across the faux-mahogany conference table in what would be my new boss's office. "What salary requirement do you have?" he asked, pen poised above my contract. I've been told for years that I was severely underpaid at my previous job. I saw it for myself on salary.com. But what I didn't know was the average pay for my new shinier and prestigous position.

Knowing fully well that you're supposed to answer that question with What does the position pay?, I opened my mouth and said a number. It was a nice number- a number that said I was a real, live working adult. A number that was approximately $10,000 above my current salary.

"Okay," he said, committing my sin in blue ink. By his hurried agreement, I knew I was a steal.

So I said I wouldn't take the position without an extra week's paid vacation.

And he agreed to that as well, so I must have really given them a good deal.

That FURminator is out there. It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear.

I'm afraid I've gone the way of crazy dog lady. Not only that, but I also ordered my very first As Seen on TV product. And the two above stated facts are related, which makes the situation that much worse.

They called it the FURminator. I giggled. They swore it was the brush to end all grooming brushes. I laughed. They said reduces shedding by 90%. I leaned forward on the couch and picked up the phone.

Then they said I could have it for two easy payments of $24.99, plus shipping and handling, and I guffawed and put the phone back down. I was not going to be that lady, the one that spends more on a brush for a dog than all of her combined hairbrush purchases over her lifetime. She probably wears her hair in a ponytail everyday when she's even able to contain the cowlicks.

But then the week passed. Nikita continued to blow her coat, resulting in clumps of fur rolling across the carpet like tumbleweeds- which is as disgusting as it sounds. My mother and Boyfriend stopped laughing over the FURminator and began questioning its arrival. One YouYube video later, and my fate was sealed as Crazy Dog Lady.

This is Nikita. She doesn't like being brushed.

Huskies completely shed their undercoat twice a year. You can see she's already shed it on her hind leg, and is still losing it on her back and rump.

The white fur is her loose undercoat. FURminator removes the dead hair.

The dog is under the bed, horrified with what just happened to her.

This filled an entire grocery bag. Then Boyfriend walked in on me taking pictures of removed dog hair on the floor of the apartment. Predictably, telling him it was for a blog post did not add to my credibility.

I've always looked good in a ponytail.

They have specific seating for that

Boyfriend and I were watching the Barrett-Jackson auto auction on the Speed Channel the other night. Fine, Boyfriend was watching it and I was knitting and wishing for sweet death to avoid watching a 4-hour car auction on TV.

Apparent celebrity Caroll Shelby, who I'm told has something to do with Mustangs, steps to the podium to sell his personal Mustang. Boyfriend gasps at the sight of him. I look up to the TV and gasp as well.


But I'm not looking at Caroll Shelby. I'm looking at the girl to his left. You know, the one with the coke nose.

We watched this girl for 10 minutes straight as she wobbled and hugged up against the auctioneer, who we assume she was with. He'd try to run the bids and she'd snuggle up into his side, eyes darting and swaying unsteadily. Blood running down her face.

Who knew car auctions could be so seedy?

Unlimited Shipping for $2.95 and One Headache

I bought a couple of books from Overstock.com a little over a week ago. I've tried waiting patiently for them, but then five minutes had passed and they still weren't here yet.

Sending anything via media mail is a roll of the dice—sometimes it arrives in a week and everything is fine, except the package had already been opened. Other times a month passes and that person you mailed a book to thinks you're a lazy liar. Because of this I've been glued to my delivery confirmation.


Seems like my books went to Memphis for the weekend. Hope it was a lovely vacation.

For whiter, brighter dogs too

For Memorial Day Boyfriend and I and the dog attended a BBQ at my father's house. Any time Nikita visits my father's house, she loves to descend the swimming pool steps until the cool water covers her chest. She'll lap up a drink to my protests, and then she'll climb back out and shake off. She repeats this pattern as desired, but in the summertime it's every few minutes.

But this time the swimming pool was filled with the little bodies she likes to distance herself from. Nikita has always been nervous of my step-nieces and nephews, preferring to be out of reach under coffee tables and beds from little jam hands. Instead of standing on the steps, Nikita frantically paced back and forth to the water's edge. It's summer. It's hot for a dog with two fur coats originating from Russian tundra. She hesitated as tiny screaming, splashing bodies wearing water wings pushed her out of the way from the pool steps.

Defeated she walked back towards Boyfriend and me in an effort to beg for food. I rested my hand on her back and recoiled. Her fur was scorching. "Poor thing," I murmured. "We'll hose you off to keep you cool." The dog wandered off for what I assumed was shade and cool spot of earth.

"What's she doing?" pointed Boyfriend.

I turned around. Barred from the swimming pool, Nikita decided to take refuge in my step-mother's backyard fountain. She climbed inside and stood in the water, content, while watching us.

"Noooo!" I screamed and ran to the fountain while clapping and making loud noises to shoo her out of it. The fountain has bleach in the water, used to keep algae from growing. Having given up the swimming pool, Nikita wasn't going to give up the fountain too; she didn't budge while I flapped around her.

"It's okay," my dad called over. "There's probably not enough bleach in the water to harm her."

I eyed the dog as I returned to my table. She circled around the fountain bottom, soaked a few more moments, and jumped out.

***

I sat on the couch and scratched Nikita last night. Damned if her whites aren't a little whiter.

Hrm

Celebrity sighting: Ludacris and Tommy Lee in the parking lot of Disco Kroger during my lunch hour.