Aromatherapy to the Extreme

Monday, March 24, 2008

My nose has been having an interesting time of things lately. It's interesting to specify a certain part of my face as having "times" at all, but my olfactory senses have been pushed to extremes lately.

To start with the bad: I had the funk in my fridge for sure.

It all started with a lovely pot of chicken soup I cooked up back in November. It ends there too, but it does so five months later. I wish we had eaten it instead of letting it mellow in the fridge for all eternity, but that mistake can't be undone. Regardless, the soup was devoured by something...I think it's a unique kind of mold. And this mold, which I named Miguel, caused the most unholy odor to set up camp in our fridge. It was getting to the point where an exorcist was the next step. I swear the fridge was not far off from head-spinning and projectile vomiting. I think I heard it call my name in the middle of the night.

The unfortunate part is that the spirit of Funk did not just infect the fridge. That would have been bearable. No, it got into all the food. Even the food that was ziplock-bagged. It even got into the SHELLS OF THE EGGS. I swear this is not an exaggeration. MY SCRAMBLED EGGS TASTED LIKE FUNK. It was inescapable, and the lack of delicious food started to drain my will to live.

My wife tells me I am making this up.

I'm not.

At last, when I could handle it no more, I cleaned the fridge. It was nasty. It's been a week, and Meagan and I are STILL arguing over who gets to evict Miguel from his soupy home (we need that pot back...and yes, I am saying that we haven't cleaned it yet). But the tough part is that even after the fridge was squeaky clean, it still had funk! It was incredible, but the funk would not let go!

I almost cried.

After some extensive use of vinegar and baking soda (even mixing them once! Volcano!), I have the fridge mostly good. But it still goes day to day. Sometimes the funk reappears. Sometimes it's completely gone. It's impossible to predict, and I fear I have given the funk the impression that it is welcome to squat in my fridge. Funk, if you are reading this, rest assured that you are NOT welcome. It's hard, but that's the way these things go.

On to the good part for my nose:

My wife got neat soap. For the shower. It's a translucent green bar that smells of cucumber melon.

And it has become an addiction.

A SEXY addiction.

It's one of those scents that's just barely androgynous enough to be either feminine or manly, depending on what you do with it. It's like the David Bowie of scents. After adding my manly-man deodorant to the mix, I smell like a fragrant man-beast. The Creature from Bath and Body Works.

I love this soap.

And it's almost gone.

Mass purchases are on the horizon.

Maybe this time I can get Sun-Ripened Peach.

It's 95% Certain That It's A Girl!

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Or at least 95% certain that it lacks man parts.

Apparently ultrasound results for the ladyfolk are more difficult to read than for the gents. As such, our doctor wouldn't give us better than a 95% chance that the fetus is a girl.

But we're pretty sure it's a girl.


The visit to the doctor went very well. Despite being all kinds of bulgy, Meagan has still only put on three pounds from her original weight. I'm personally pretty confused about this, and have since decided that the law of conservation of mass is, in fact, bunk.

The ultrasound was good. The baby looks pretty creepy...I mean, the ultrasound doesn't really differentiate between skin and bone, so the first thing we see is this creepy skull-face looking out at us. I mean...ahh! It was pretty funky. Big empty eye sockets with little teeth...

As such, the child is currently nicknamed "Skeletor."

The baby put its (her?) hand up against the womb, as though to tell us to bugger off...or to give us a high five. Either way, I have great desires to edit this photo so that only the middle finger is extended, but Meagan thinks this in poor taste. I think she's crazy.

On the upside, there are five fingers, at least on that hand. So far, so good.

After the ultrasound, in a way that I'm almost certain was symbolic in some form or another, we ate hot dogs. I personally suggested that we go to Taco Bell, but this idea was met with scorn.

So, with that, we are, I suppose, accepting all forms of charitable donations that are oriented toward female childrens. We are also willing to hear decent names (though I'm personally pretty darned set on Lydia. I've just fallen in love with that name). So...hit us with your best shot.


Sunday, March 9, 2008

To all my Facebook friends:


(This is in reference to someone I've never met coming up to me today and saying, "Hi Tyler, I loved your blog," and my response of, "....Hi, my name is Tyler." I was quickly rebuffed because "We're Facebook friends!" and I should know better.

What a jerkface I am.)

Stupid Fish and Other Tales of Death and Woe

Friday, March 7, 2008

This is the winter of my discontent. This post will most likely seem scattershot and lacking in segue. This is likely because my brain is currently being boiled with a liberal dash of cold virus. The steam is trapped inside my head, as my plugged sinuses offer it nowhere to escape. Thus, explosion may occur. If I suddenly stop in midsentence, you'll know why.

Now like I was saying, this week

Ha ha, I'm so witty.

Our fish died today. We had him for five days. He was an idiot. I attribute this to his fishness.

He was a betta that we never got around to naming. Names such as "Mediocrites" and "Idiot Fish" got thrown around, but nothing really stuck. He didn't like to eat, which is probably why he is dead. He was too dumb to even die right...instead of floating belly-up, like normal fish, he buried his head in the rocks at the bottom of his vase. And there he is...head on the bottom, like a moron.

Stupid fish.

As for me, I am taking a reluctant day off. I don't like being idle...there's always something I can do, and not doing any of it just makes me really nervous. But I can't focus enough to make something happen, so I'm trying to just let it go. My wife is lovely and accommodating and made me a pitcher of juice. This makes her wonderful. As do other things, but cranberry juice is high on the list for the moment.

Tragically, while trying to relax, I tried to play a video game. That wasn't the tragedy. The tragedy was that all of my video gaming implements are at a friend's house and I have none. Thus, no games for me. Sadness and woe.

My goal with this post is to depress the world. I'll be paying attention to liquor sales. If there's a spike...I will consider my job done.

May you all not get sick.

Honorable Discharge

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

First off, yes, I probably did write this post mostly just to use that title. Deal.

Well, the saga has come to somewhat of a close. What saga? The belly button story, of course! As you can read in my last blog entry, a few weeks ago my navel started to bleed and ooze and hurt a lot for no discernible reason. Not being a fan of my lifefluids oozing out of me, I thought that it would be wise to have someone of a medical nature take a look at it. I scheduled a doctor's appointment as soon as I could, but even this was a bit of a fiasco, since this whole mess happened over a three-day weekend. Of course, the doctors all took a three-day weekend too, which I'm not sure is safe. In any case, by the time I got in there, most of the problem had taken care of itself. This, of course, did not help my case.

The nurse called me back and did all the standard check-up procedures. She then sat down at the computer, innocently expecting to transcribe a standard medical problem.

"What's the problem?"

"Well....a few days ago my navel started to bleed and ooze. I figured I should see someone."

There was a long pause. And a grimace.

"That's awful."

"Yeah, I'm not too thrilled with it myself."

She typed it into the computer and left the room. I'm certain she went straight to her other nurse friends to talk about the gross guy in room five.

My doctor showed up eventually, and the first thing he said was something to the effect of, "Dr. Morrison down the hall is a surgeon, and he really wants to see this, so I'm going to bring him in, OK?"

Let me tell you, there is no thrill equal to that of being a medical novelty. " gotta come check this guy out. Gross!"

In any case, I was quickly on my back with two doctors passing a viewer back and forth. For those of you who remember the thing they use to look in your ears...yeah, that's what they used in my navel, or "umbilicus," in those ol' medical terms. This was, of course, a pretty painful experience. "Doctor, it hurts when I do this!" "Well, let me do that! Over and over! And then some more!"

Eventually they both had their fill of gazing into my navel, and, completely ignoring the presence of the actual patient, conversed with each other about what had happened and what to do about it. I guess they just hoped that I would follow along. I did manage to ask my original doctor why this was so intriguing. His response? "We see this all the time in babies, but never in big people!"

Oh, good then.

I walked out with a prescription for antibiotics and the promise of an appointment in a week with a surgeon in order to, and this is really what they said, "ream it out."

Ream: verb. 1. To form, shape, taper, or enlarge (a hole or bore, for example) with or as if with a reamer. 2. To remove (material) by this process.

Yeah. That's right.

So, I took my three giant pills each day and started feeling pretty good about things. No more big pain, no more bleeding. Keen!

Thursday came, however, and with it the promise of a thorough reaming. I showed up and again assumed the position. The ever-garrulous Dr. Morrison stood over me armed with Q-Tips and some forceps. I'm not sure exactly what he did with it, though I would be inclined to believe that the Q-Tip was actually made of steel wool. I wasn't in a great position to watch, but there was pain, and there was blood. That's about all I know. I walked out with yet another bloody cotton "stuffing" and pain upon motion. And, of course, the promise of a follow up on Monday.

Monday came, and the lovely Dr. Morrison, patron saint of good conversation, entered the room and pulled out the ear-looking-thingie. I will never look at one of those in the same way.

"There's some healing should still be tender."


"Did that hurt?"


Didn't he just promise me that it was going to hurt? Could he just not have left that one to faith?

The good doctor told me that I need to keep it dry (this has resulted in a most entertaining use of a blowdryer). Hopefully this prevents it from happening again. In the meantime, I have now added one more disease to my list of "Weird Crap that Never Happens to Anyone Else." Here's hoping for leprosy next!