Fighting over Fresca

I love Fresca. You know, that kinda tart, grapefruity soda that people either love or hate. I think more people than not hate it, but I've loved it since I was a kid. My mom would drink it sometimes, and I would snitch some from the bottle (I wonder if she ever figured that out...).

I am not a big soda drinker at all -- soda's fizziness annoys me and makes me burpy. But I do keep a 12 pack of Fresca in the house for those times when I want some soda. (aside -- TheHusband, OTOH, is a total soda-hound, with Pepsi being his libation of choice.) Funnily enough, it came out the year I was born, so we will both be 44 this year. Yay, us!

Prior to 2005, Fresca (at least in the US) came in only one flavor -- grapefruit. In 2005, black cherry/citrus and peach/citrus were added. I think that the black cherry version is an abomination (and I usually like black cherry stuff), but I adore the peach-flavored Fresca. If I had to rank the Fresca flavors, it would be 1st--peach/citrus, 2nd--citrus (original grapefruit), and a far distant 3rd is the cherry version (blech). Oddly, there are other flavors marketed in non-US markets, including a frightening-sounding "grapefruit mint". Grapefruit mint? WTF?

Anyway, there is a sort of point to this discourse on Fresca. It involves a fight over a single can of Fresca. About 4 years ago, I had the great pleasure to attend a real Hollywood premiere of a movie. I know the person who wrote and directed that movie very well and was honored (and totally juiced) to be invited. I flew out to LA from MD on a Tuesday evening, attended the premiere on Wednesday night, and flew back the next day. A whirlwind.

But not only did I get to go to this premiere, I got to go in the limo with writer/director, his family and other friends. One of the other people in the limo was my brother (of the bicycling-across-America fame). I think I've been in a limo only two other times in my life (other than the beaten up ones that take you to-and-from airports in NYC area). This was a king of limos -- a white, stretch Cadillac Escalade. The damn thing was as big as a Rose Bowl Parade float and had about the same turning radius. Only slightly worse than my Mazda station wagon, actually, but that's a separate issue. I needed a freaking stool to get into it, because I am short and it was HUGE.

There were about 10 people in the limo on the way to the premiere. We cracked open a bottle of champagne, but I, my brother, and the writer/director really don't drink alcohol. Not from any moral reasons on my part -- more because I just never really developed a taste besides get-drunk-on-it-while-in-college. Then we discovered a can of Fresca. And a fight ensued. Between me, my brother, and his friend Nina. Literally. Each of us wanted the Fresca. For our own. Grudgingly, we split the can amongst the three of us, while the rest of the passengers probably looked on with bemusement. "Fresca instead of good champagne? What the hell is wrong with them?" is probably what they were thinking. But, yes, Fresca over reasonably good champagne. And no regrets.

And I watched the movie with my eyes closed, because it was a scary movie, and I'm a wimp. The Fresca didn't fix that.

Recovery Stuff and the Lack of Blogging

Hello? Hello? Anybody there?

Yes, somebody's here. Just not blogging frequently. Or even occasionally. One other post in January does not count as "occasionally". But I will get back to it, I promise.

The recovery from the surgery has been much slower than I expected and than I like. I returned to work full-time on January 5th. I had been working only 2-3 hours/day from home in December, and then we had our Florida/cruise adventures. We returned to MD on Sunday January 3, I took a necessary recovery day on Jan 4, and then worked from home on January 5 and 6. January 7 was my first day back in the office. I had intended to ease back in, but that hasn't been the case. I've been back at full-time since then. Not really much of a transition, and it has definitely impacted the recovery. But I really do like my job, so that isn't that much of a burden.

I am to start physical therapy while I am still in the brace (which makes me look sort of like a weird Mutant Ninja Turtle). We'll see how that goes. I am still using a cane, which I HATE. But at least it isn't a walker, and I am trying to wean myself from it -- using it for longer distances and outside).

I am supposed to wear the brace for 3 months post-op, but the 3-month mark is next week (Feb 4). Can you believe that? SpineDoc will be receiving a phone call on Feb 4, as we aren't scheduled for a visit until the end of March. I want out of this thing, but only if it won't impede the damn fusion. The blood clot has not ever again been symptomatic, and I should only be on the blood thinner (aka rat poison) until early May. My levels have been beautifully consistent (2.5 or 2.6, with the target between 2 and 3) on my current dose.

Someday I will stop walking like a zombie. That was actually a topic of conversation I had with RehabDoc a couple of weeks ago. RehabDoc is handling my rehabilitation. He is a very formal but relaxed kinda guy. We address each other as "Doctor" at his request, even though we are about the same age and work in similar fields. He doesn't seem to have much of a sense of humor.

The following is a reasonable transcript of the end of our recent visit:

RehabDoc: Well, it looks like everything is going along nicely. The symptoms related to the L2-3 compression have resolved. (It was probably even more Med-Speak-ish than that.)
NeuronDoc: The back still hurts. I am not really enjoying that.
RD: Give it time. You are only a little over 2 months post-op.
ND: Is this where I should be at this point?
RD (not really sighing, but close) Yes, you are recovering well. Give it time.
ND: Okay. But when am I going to stop walking like a zombie? This Frankenstein-gait is really annoying me.
RD (completely deadpan): Give that another 6-8 weeks. The scarring and fusion need to progress a bit before your gait will improve. Then you should stop walking like a zombie. However, I can't promise that you won't be attacked by a zombie in the future and then start shambling around like one again. That would be completely unrelated to the current issue.

That made me laugh for hours.

That'll learn me

'Nuff said.

Hostess gift

Wisegeek says that a hostess gift is:

A hostess gift is a gift which is given to the host or hostess of an event by guests. A small hostess gift is generally considered appropriate for dinners and parties, while guests who are staying for several days may get something larger. The ideal hostess gift is tasteful and elegant, reflecting the presumed good taste of the host or hostess, and it is also something which the recipient would not personally buy for him or herself. While the hostess gift might seem like a quaint tradition to some people, it is still alive and well, and bringing a hostess gift to an event will indicate that you are well mannered and that you have been raised in polite society.

What makes a good hostess gift? Flowers -- they're safe, and just about every female likes them. Chocolate? You can't really go wrong with chocolate, but some people are picky about chocolate they eat. Wine is a nice idea but can be troublesome. You run the risk of offending a teetotaler or bringing along an inferior wine to an oenophile's house. And then you look like a dork.

So what do you bring over for a slightly snide, somewhat dry-humored coworker who always enjoys your hi-jinks? Pop Rocks and a marshmallow gun, that's what! We had my coworker over for dinner last night. He's the one who I labeled for the move way back 2 months ago. He's a really funny, witty and smart guy, who ThePinkThing really likes. It might be, in part, because she isn't sure if he is a kid or a grown-up, as she has said. He's 26, so at least legally he's an adult. But he has a marshmallow gun in his office and likes to make people's phones scare the piss out of them.

We played with that marshmallow gun for quite some time. The funniest was when TM (my coworker) acted like one of those ducks in a carnival shooting range, going back and forth, back and forth. And we could even eat the ammunition, which TPT did a lot. As you can imagine, TPT was in 7,000th heaven. Pop rocks and marshmallows? Too good to be true, even though the gun was on loan. But he did leave the bag of marshmallows.





As for dinner -- it came out okay enough. Pot roast, gravy, broccoli and noodles. I thought the pot roast was dry but TH and TM ate up a whole boatload of it. The broccoli was a little overdone, but that was an issue of inattention and poor timing. And the brain jello for dessert. The chicken dinner on Saturday turned out better.

Arcades, Skee-ball, and Air Hockey

While were staying at Great Wolf Lodge, we dropped some money in the arcade, because we all like arcades. TH loves arcade games, and he spent many hours in arcades when he should have been in school. I loved playing skee-ball (and spent many an hour doing that in one of two arcades on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City [Fun-Spot and Playcade]), so TPT comes by her love of arcades honestly.

Skee-ball has changed quite a bit since my misspent youth of the early 70's. Skee-ball, for those of you who don't know, is a game similar to bowling, but the lane is much shorter, on an upward incline, and the point is to get the baseball-sized ball into a hole rather than knock down pins. It was one of the only arcade games I was good at when I was younger, and I still do well at it.

Great Wolf Lodge has a new-fangled skee-ball game with an alien. The point of alien skee-ball is to nail the swinging pendulum and drop the alien down. Of course, while you're trying to nail the alien, it taunts you. TPT found that part hilarious. I nailed the alien twice in one game and won about 30 tickets. Good for me.

But in the back of the arcade at Great Wolf Lodge was my favoritest arcade game -- air hockey. The game I can't resist. I'll play it even if my back is killing me, and I play hard. Air hockey! You know, the game where the table blows up air from teeny tiny holes, suspending a plastic puck on a somewhat frictionless surface. This allows the players to smack the crap out of the puck using plastic handles. I LOVE this game, and I play viciously (except against little kids -- I will cut them a break). TheHusband also likes air hockey and is not averse to a good hard game.

Our first game of air hockey took place in California -- we found an air hockey table at a mini-golf/arcade place and had ourselves a "nice" game after a round of miniature golf. I bet TH something (I can't remember what) that I would whip his ass. He immediately took me up on the bet. Why shouldn't he? After all, I am short, dumpy, non-athletic, and a bit spastic. He's more than a foot taller than I am and much more coordinated. Easy meat, I suspect he thought. He played easy on me for the first minute or two, but then he realized that was a bad idea. I promptly beat his ass by a score of 7 - 1. Ka-ching!

As it happened, I had never passed along a crucial bit of information. We had an arcade-sized air hockey table in my house when I was a kid. My parents finally donated it to the local Y when my brother and I were in college. But we played it. A lot. So I had lots of practice. I regularly beat my cousins and other boys my age, and I haven't really lost my touch. I did confess after I won that first game, and he vowed never to show me any mercy ever again (at air hockey, at least).

We have an ongoing contest -- we play every time we find a full-sized table. I am the West Coast champ. I think he's the tropical champ (Florida). We found a table at the place where his 20th high school reunion was held and played best 2 out of 3 games. To his great annoyance, I won that match, so I am definitely the Ohio champ. I am now the Virginia champ as well. TPT's eyes were big as saucers watching us whale on the puck, hitting it as hard as we could. Her mom and dad were really trying to beat the other one, no holds barred. She was actively rooting for me, and she jumped up and down when I won (7 - 4). Take that, Husband!

No, really, I'm not crazy

I picked ThePinkThing up from camp yesterday evening and freaked out one of her counselors. You see, I left a flesh-eating bacterium on TPT's carseat and she was happy about it.

Huh? Now you're thinking I'm out of my mind. I'm really not. You see, I love flesh eating bacteria (Strep pyogenes). I also love rabies (Rabies virus), mad cow (bovine spongiform encephalopathy), and Influenza A (orthomyxovirus). Now you're thinking she's gone off the deep end. I can hear you thinking it. Really I can.

Nope. I'm sane. Or mostly sane. I just love microbes in their giant friendly form. Giant Microbes to be exact. They are the stuffed animal version of various germs that you may encounter during your lifetime (e.g., the common cold), germs you hope never to encounter (e.g., Ebola), or other cells that you can't live without (e.g., red blood cells). They even have other critters such as algae, mosquitos, and bed bugs. I've sent out Ebola (to Janiece), swine flu (to my aunt who had it and recovered), and pneumococcus (to a friend who recently recovered from pneumonia).

Being a doctor with a vivid imagination, a love of anthropomorphizing inanimate objects, and a reasonably strong stomach, these are the stuffed animals for me. I currently own a neuron (duh, of course), rabies (in honor of Jenny McCarthy), the flu, mad cow (it eats brains, I couldn't resist), and flesh-eating bacteria (it is the funniest one, in my opinion). The flesh-eating bacterium is my favorite, and it is the source of much fun between TPT and me. It's name is (appropriately) Fleshie. Fleshie loves TPT and stares at her. (Fleshie is a girl, according to TPT, as is Mad Cow. Rabies and Flu are boys. Don't ask me.) Fleshie frequently asks TPT if she (Fleshie) can eat her (TPT). TPT always says no. If Fleshie becomes too obstreperous, she gets banished into time-out (the laundry hamper). Sometimes one or two of the other germs are also banished into the hamper. Then they get into a fight in the hamper, with me animating all of their voices. I always have a rapt audience, who doesn't hesitate to wade into the fray. It entertains us both. TheHusband is amused and not infrequently bemused.

TPT is kinda pissed that all of the "giant germs" are mine. I promised her that if she learned to swim by the end of the summer, we would buy her two germs for her own. The other day we went to the web site to see what they have, and so the TPT could pick some potential germs for herself. I went along their catalog alphabetically. TPT wanted to know the real name of each germ, what each one does to people, and if they can kill you. This was all fine and good until I got to Chlamydia. It totally stopped me in my tracks. O.O How the hell does one explain an STD to a 6 year-old? I got out of that sticky situation by saying that it causes boo-boos on a vagina or a penis, but can't kill someone. Thank goodness she didn't ask how it gets there... As we scrolled through the rest, I skipped gonorrhea and syphilis. Once was enough. TPT wants Epstein Barr virus. Why? Because it is pretty. God help me.

Anyway, back to why "they" think I'm crazy. As I said at the top of the post, I left Fleshie on TPT's seat. She immediately picked Fleshie up and made her "bite" me. So I grabbed Mad Cow out of the bag and had Mad Cow "bite" Fleshie and TPT. The counselor looked on in bemusement. When TPT explained, she didn't look any less concerned. I am sure that she went back to the other counselors and told them that TPT's mother is crazy... She is probably right, but at least I am having fun. I doubt it will scar TPT.

Have a nice weekend. I'll be back on Wednesday!

My first phone call in the new building

So my brand-new office building comes with brand-new phones (and phone numbers). These phones are complicated and have all sorts of bells and whistles. And I mean bells and whistles. We can choose from a multitude of ring tones, including two that go "Are you there?" (0ne male and one female). Who the hell would ever choose that ring? And who the heck thought that one up?

Anyway.

On my way back from a meeting, I stopped by to ask a favor of a coworker (TM). He said fine and that he'd be in my office "in a jiffy." So I came into my office and was looking at my bookshelf (deciding what to put on which shelves). All of a sudden someone shrieked "ARE YOU THERE?" from directly behind me at the top of her lungs. It practically scared the pants off me, and I shrieked. Of course, there was nobody there. TM had snuck into my office while I was at the meeting and changed my phone settings to that stupid ring tone. He waited until I was in the office to call me and heard me shriek from two doors down. He insists he didn't turn the volume up, and I guess I believe him. Maybe. Moral of the story -- don't let the kids play with your telephone...

I told this story to ThePinkThing, who thought it was hilarious. Ha-ha. What is really weird is that she isn't fazed by a phone with a ring tone that says something. When I was a kid, telephones had rotary dials and cell phones were the stuff of Buck Rogers. Need I say more?

Husband's heart

Today my husband is wearing a t-shirt that says "My belongs to a Neurologist". I wonder who bought him that shirt.