Ladies, I don't know about you, but the LAST thing I want to do during my annual OB=GYN visit is to have a conversation. Unfortunately, that's just what happened to me today. Now, I love my doctor. I really do. She is very sweet, personable, friendly, etc. She's an enthusiastic, vibrant lady and I'd love to be friends with her. She talks with a big smile on her face and raises her eyebrows for emphasis. So keep that picture of her in your mind while you read the following transcript of my doctor visit:
Dr. Brown (comes in and sits on little rolling chair): Hey, Kimberly, how was your year?
Me (sitting uncomfortably BUTT NAKED under a paper vest and paper sheet): Um, it was fine.
Dr. B: So, have you done anything fun? Gone on vacation or anything like that?
Me: Um, no.
Dr. B: Oh, really? (sighs) We can't go on vacation because our kids are going to several camps this year.
Me: Uh-huh . . .
Dr. B: Yeah, and they have to be tutored because of the high expectations of the school system.
Me: Mm-hmmm . . .
And so it goes for at least 15 minutes. She covered the following topics: different learning styles of children, Catholic versus public schools, homeschooling, everyone finding their own niche, her experiences as a student, her children's experiences as learners, reading fluency, reading comprehension, artistic oriented people--
Okay, so you get the idea. I kid you not! Meanwhile, it was all I could do to concentrate on the conversation and not worry that one of my boobs was falling out of the front opening of the vest.
Finally, it was time for the exam. Whew! I was so relieved that I could finally just sit and be quiet. But alas, the conversation was not over yet. This is the conversation that actually happened DURING MY EXAMINATION!
Dr. Brown: Did you ever notice how Europeans just LOVE a terrible ending in their books?
Me: Oh, yeah . . .
Dr. B: It's so interesting that Europeans and Americans enjoy different types of endings to stories.
Me: Mm-hmmm . . .
Dr. B: Yeah, they write books that are kind of like Oprah books. Too heavy, deep and depressing.
Me: Uh-huh . . .
Dr. B: I never liked those Oprah books. Give me something uplifting!
Me: Nods
Dr. B: You can find all of that depressing stuff on the news and in everyday life!
Yada Yada Yada until finally the exam was over.
Dr. Brown: Okay, we're done! You look great! Good to see you! Bye! See you in a year! (gives me a hug)
Me: Yeah, bye.
And they wonder why my blood pressure was high both before and after the exam.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Being a Buckeye
Today, I finally read the Sports Illustrated cover story on their investigation into Ohio State football NCAA violations. It took me this long to do it, because I simply did not want to believe what I heard. But after reading the story, I know this is not a smear job. SI had too many facts, and I believe their allegations.
It was very disheartening.
Although I am not a born and bred Buckeye, Ohio State was my college of choice. I was very proud to go to Ohio State. I saved my money for 5 long years after high school so that I could go. And it was worth it! I got a great education, made some good friends, and had a blast! I have memories that will last my lifetime.
But I have to say after reading the SI article that I feel cheated.
Jim Tressel cheated all of us poor kids who paid our own way through college, worked part time jobs, applied for every grant and scholarship available, and went deeply in debt with student loans. That's right, he cheated us. He turned a blind eye to his players and their shenanigans. Here they were, getting a free college education (and mostly because of God-given talent), and that wasn't enough. No, they had to have fancy cars, cash to spend, and tattoos out the ying-yang. They showed no respect for the traditions of the Buckeye Nation, no respect for their fellow students, and no respect for the alumni whose sacrifices and support allowed them all of the things they were given for free.
So I would like to thank Jim Tressel, Terrell Pryor, and the other Buckeye football players who contributed to this whole mess for cheapening my diploma. I can no longer say "I went to Ohio State" with pride. My degree from OSU will forever be tainted by the actions of some selfish people. And that is something I cannot forgive.
It was very disheartening.
Although I am not a born and bred Buckeye, Ohio State was my college of choice. I was very proud to go to Ohio State. I saved my money for 5 long years after high school so that I could go. And it was worth it! I got a great education, made some good friends, and had a blast! I have memories that will last my lifetime.
But I have to say after reading the SI article that I feel cheated.
Jim Tressel cheated all of us poor kids who paid our own way through college, worked part time jobs, applied for every grant and scholarship available, and went deeply in debt with student loans. That's right, he cheated us. He turned a blind eye to his players and their shenanigans. Here they were, getting a free college education (and mostly because of God-given talent), and that wasn't enough. No, they had to have fancy cars, cash to spend, and tattoos out the ying-yang. They showed no respect for the traditions of the Buckeye Nation, no respect for their fellow students, and no respect for the alumni whose sacrifices and support allowed them all of the things they were given for free.
So I would like to thank Jim Tressel, Terrell Pryor, and the other Buckeye football players who contributed to this whole mess for cheapening my diploma. I can no longer say "I went to Ohio State" with pride. My degree from OSU will forever be tainted by the actions of some selfish people. And that is something I cannot forgive.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
President Clinton, the Secret Service, and Me
One of my very favorite people of the famous variety is Bill Clinton. I know, I know, I can just hear my feminist friends screaming "But what about the Monica scandal?" Well, the way I look at it, he's not the first man who couldn't keep it in his pants, and he certainly won't be the last, but I digress from my story--which is about the time when I actually got to meet the former President.
Let me say from the start that this is a true story. I have told some of you parts of this story, but I have never actually told the complete story to anyone, so here it is for the first time for you, my lucky reader.
It began one day when I heard that the former President was on the campaign trail for his wife Hillary when she was trying to obtain the Democratic nomination for President. I realized that Bill was going to be in my very own county that very day. Quickly I began plotting how I could make my escape from work and go see him. I realized it was probably a once in a lifetime chance for me to meet one of the people I most admired.
I managed to finagle my way out of work for a half day, debated about wearing my "Bill Clinton for First Lady" tee-shirt, and went straight to the Ag Center. I knew I would be early, but I was hoping that I could get a good viewing location. As it happened, I was one of the first people there and I got to stand in the FRONT ROW!
Eventually President Clinton came on to the stage and spoke. I was mesmerized. I was within spitting distance of one of my idols! I was certain that he was staring directly at me at times as he spoke. And then, he was done. He walked off the stage and started going around the front row shaking hands. He was getting closer, closer, and finally, he was right in front of me. I gave him my biggest smile and shook his hand. I was so star-struck that I couldn't think of anything to say.
When he finished greeting people, the Secret Service came around to gather items for Mr. C. to autograph. They explained that they would take the items backstage, he would sign it all, and then they would bring everything back to us. Since I was in the front row, a couple of people asked me to hand stuff to the Secret Service guys for them. "Sure," I said, being my usual courteous and kind self. So I had in my hands my Hillary for President campaign button, a book, and a tee-shirt. Before I knew what was happening, other people from the back of the crowd began piling stuff up into my arms . . . more books, a magazine, and even a motorcycle helmet ended up in my arms.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a voice barked, "Is all of that your stuff?" I jumped, peeked around the pile of items, and there he was again, one of the most powerful men in the country, President Clinton. I was going to say "No sir", but when I opened my mouth, somehow the word "Yes" came out. Oh shit, I just lied to the President! a voice inside my head screamed. "I'm not signing all of that stuff for an autograph hound!" he barked. The people behind me meekly stepped up and took all of their stuff back. In the meantime, 3 Secret Service guys (who were extremely hot, by the way) were standing around giving me the hairy eyeball. "Um, could you sign my campaign button please?" I managed to squeak out. He graciously agreed, I guess realizing that I wasn't an autograph hound after all.
After it was all over, I went back to my car and couldn't stop grinning. I had actually shook Bill Clinton's hand! And I had taken tons of pictures and even got his autograph! And he talked to me! Well, actually he yelled at me, and maybe I'm on some Secret Service watch list now, but it was sure worth it, and I would definitely do it again if I ever had the chance.
Oh, and President Clinton, if you're reading this, I forgive you for yelling at me. I still love you and think you would have been an awesome First Lady!
Let me say from the start that this is a true story. I have told some of you parts of this story, but I have never actually told the complete story to anyone, so here it is for the first time for you, my lucky reader.
It began one day when I heard that the former President was on the campaign trail for his wife Hillary when she was trying to obtain the Democratic nomination for President. I realized that Bill was going to be in my very own county that very day. Quickly I began plotting how I could make my escape from work and go see him. I realized it was probably a once in a lifetime chance for me to meet one of the people I most admired.
I managed to finagle my way out of work for a half day, debated about wearing my "Bill Clinton for First Lady" tee-shirt, and went straight to the Ag Center. I knew I would be early, but I was hoping that I could get a good viewing location. As it happened, I was one of the first people there and I got to stand in the FRONT ROW!
Eventually President Clinton came on to the stage and spoke. I was mesmerized. I was within spitting distance of one of my idols! I was certain that he was staring directly at me at times as he spoke. And then, he was done. He walked off the stage and started going around the front row shaking hands. He was getting closer, closer, and finally, he was right in front of me. I gave him my biggest smile and shook his hand. I was so star-struck that I couldn't think of anything to say.
When he finished greeting people, the Secret Service came around to gather items for Mr. C. to autograph. They explained that they would take the items backstage, he would sign it all, and then they would bring everything back to us. Since I was in the front row, a couple of people asked me to hand stuff to the Secret Service guys for them. "Sure," I said, being my usual courteous and kind self. So I had in my hands my Hillary for President campaign button, a book, and a tee-shirt. Before I knew what was happening, other people from the back of the crowd began piling stuff up into my arms . . . more books, a magazine, and even a motorcycle helmet ended up in my arms.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a voice barked, "Is all of that your stuff?" I jumped, peeked around the pile of items, and there he was again, one of the most powerful men in the country, President Clinton. I was going to say "No sir", but when I opened my mouth, somehow the word "Yes" came out. Oh shit, I just lied to the President! a voice inside my head screamed. "I'm not signing all of that stuff for an autograph hound!" he barked. The people behind me meekly stepped up and took all of their stuff back. In the meantime, 3 Secret Service guys (who were extremely hot, by the way) were standing around giving me the hairy eyeball. "Um, could you sign my campaign button please?" I managed to squeak out. He graciously agreed, I guess realizing that I wasn't an autograph hound after all.
After it was all over, I went back to my car and couldn't stop grinning. I had actually shook Bill Clinton's hand! And I had taken tons of pictures and even got his autograph! And he talked to me! Well, actually he yelled at me, and maybe I'm on some Secret Service watch list now, but it was sure worth it, and I would definitely do it again if I ever had the chance.
Oh, and President Clinton, if you're reading this, I forgive you for yelling at me. I still love you and think you would have been an awesome First Lady!
Saturday, June 25, 2011
The Man
So most of you know I have a man in my life. Byron and I have been together now for (pause . . . I have to count back . . .) 8 years? Is that right? I'm not really sure--I'll have to ask him and he'll probably know. Which, by the way, is one reason why I love him. He remembers stuff like that. I've actually known him almost all my life--which might be the topic of a blog entry one of these days.
Here is my dilemma: when you are in your mid-40's and are with a guy, what do you call him? We are not engaged, so he's not my fiance, and we're definitely not married (unless that happened in one of my fugue states--just kidding!). Do I call him my boyfriend? That seems so juvenile. My significant other? There's something about that phrase that is annoying to me. My lover? No--too personal. Domestic partner? I don't know about that either. So what do I call him? Anyone have any suggestions? I'd love to hear them.
Here is my dilemma: when you are in your mid-40's and are with a guy, what do you call him? We are not engaged, so he's not my fiance, and we're definitely not married (unless that happened in one of my fugue states--just kidding!). Do I call him my boyfriend? That seems so juvenile. My significant other? There's something about that phrase that is annoying to me. My lover? No--too personal. Domestic partner? I don't know about that either. So what do I call him? Anyone have any suggestions? I'd love to hear them.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Buying a Bra
I, like most women, love to shop. However, there is one item that I HATE shopping for: the dreaded bra. Does anyone else feel this way? Seriously, I would rather go to the dentist than go bra shopping. But it has to be done. I had put it off as long as I could, but today I just had to go get it done.
First, I had a dilemma about the correct size. Did you know approximately 70 - 80 percent of women wear the wrong bra size? No wonder! You have to be practically a genius to figure out the appropriate size. Not wanting to be in that 70 - 80 percent, I thought I'd be smart and use a bra calculator on the Internet to help me. Trust me--there is such a thing. I got out the handy dandy measuring tape, put my measurements into the bra calculator, and voila! There was my supposed size. Okay! I was good to go, or so I thought.
I got to the store, went to the lingerie department, and started looking. Rack after rack of bras beckoned me in. Padded bra? No. Wonderbra? Hell no. Push up bra? No thanks. Strapless? Sports? No wire? You get the idea. Finally, I reached the racks for ladies with, shall we say, ample bosom.
5 bras in hand of the appropriate size as recommended by the internet bra calculator, I headed to the dressing room. Wait--what?? These weren't right. Something is definitely wrong with that bra calculator. Back to the racks.
5 more bras in another size and back to the dressing room. Uh-oh. Those weren't right either.
Back to the big girl racks. 5 more . . . by then I was just tired and sick of the damn 3 way mirror. Finally, this time, I think I've found a few that I like. Well, maybe like is too harsh of a word. I guess "tolerate" would be a better word. These will do, I convinced myself.
With the size tags flashing like neon (I swear I thought everyone in the store was thinking "Really? She really wears THAT size?"), I went to the cash register. Thank GOD my check-out clerk was a woman. $75 and 2 hours later, I was on my way home. I sincerely hope I like these new bras and they last a while, because I really don't want to go on another bra shopping trip any time soon.
First, I had a dilemma about the correct size. Did you know approximately 70 - 80 percent of women wear the wrong bra size? No wonder! You have to be practically a genius to figure out the appropriate size. Not wanting to be in that 70 - 80 percent, I thought I'd be smart and use a bra calculator on the Internet to help me. Trust me--there is such a thing. I got out the handy dandy measuring tape, put my measurements into the bra calculator, and voila! There was my supposed size. Okay! I was good to go, or so I thought.
I got to the store, went to the lingerie department, and started looking. Rack after rack of bras beckoned me in. Padded bra? No. Wonderbra? Hell no. Push up bra? No thanks. Strapless? Sports? No wire? You get the idea. Finally, I reached the racks for ladies with, shall we say, ample bosom.
5 bras in hand of the appropriate size as recommended by the internet bra calculator, I headed to the dressing room. Wait--what?? These weren't right. Something is definitely wrong with that bra calculator. Back to the racks.
5 more bras in another size and back to the dressing room. Uh-oh. Those weren't right either.
Back to the big girl racks. 5 more . . . by then I was just tired and sick of the damn 3 way mirror. Finally, this time, I think I've found a few that I like. Well, maybe like is too harsh of a word. I guess "tolerate" would be a better word. These will do, I convinced myself.
With the size tags flashing like neon (I swear I thought everyone in the store was thinking "Really? She really wears THAT size?"), I went to the cash register. Thank GOD my check-out clerk was a woman. $75 and 2 hours later, I was on my way home. I sincerely hope I like these new bras and they last a while, because I really don't want to go on another bra shopping trip any time soon.
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