Oh the Power of "O," and I Don't Mean Oprah

Not sure, but I think my mom has a crush on someone other than my dad:


She is a faithful Dr. Oz viewer.

I like Dr. Oz OK, but I do not record his shows.

My mom does. And then she tells me all about them. Sometimes I'm not a very enthusiastic Dr. Oz show re-tell receiver.

Today, for example, when I went to bring them a few groceries and meds, she asked me to watch a segment on preventing ovarian cancer. I confess I was not enthusiastic about this, since my friend Diane passed due to that killer. I pretty much hate the topic.

But a few months back, I made a remark something like this to my mom, "Since I'm through with menopause, if I could, I'd just have the ovaries removed. Then I would never have to worry that the silent killer was after me. I think that should be an optional surgery." Obviously, I was very emotional.

Ever since then, she has been afraid I will actually try to get a doc to take them out. I assured her I was just rambling. Even so, she brings up the topic quite a bit.

The segment today was about a diet that helps keep ovarian cancer at bay and may even eradicate the cancerous cells.

One of the diet staples is endive, which I do not think I have ever eaten.



Studies of more than 62,000 women in the Netherlands have found those who ate endive had a 75% reduction in the risk of ovarian cancer. That's a pretty substantial claim, wouldn't you say? Supposedly, all it takes is 2 half-cup servings per week to do the trick. You're supposed to eat it raw. Dr. Oz says it tastes a little like cabbage.

Well, I say it can't hurt to try it. Of course, I'll never know if it's really keeping the disease away.

But it will make my mom feel good, and that's worth it to me.

I wonder ... someday ... what would MY children do just for my sake--just to put my mind at ease? Only time will tell!

On Sneezing

You know it's bad when you sneeze so much that you blow the Post-It notes off of things they're attached to, like your monitor, phone, folders and framed pics. Come think of it, you know it's bad when you have Post-It notes stuck to every surface on your desk, flat or bumpy, because you can't remember anything.

Anyway, I'm on a roll. A sneezing jag, if you will.

My boss always has a certain number of sneezes he must get out of his system before his sneeze-a-thons end. I think it's four, and they're Texan sneezes, so look out.

Still, I don't think he has blown Post-Its around like a snowstorm.

Once, when I was in middle school band, I sneezed numerous times, too ridiculously many to count. The band director stared at me as if to say, "Finished?" But I just kept on, not even on tempo. Finally, with that swoopy conductor thing that band directors do, he silenced the band and sat in feigned awe, watching me sneeze. Of course, everyone laughed. Then I excused myself to his office, where I set all of his sheet music on fire and laughed while it burned.

Just kidding. I finished the jag.

I wonder if my sneezes blew any of his papers around on his desk?

That is all for today. For now.

Here's lookin A-choo, kid.

Eye'm A Mess

Notice I left it small, in case you are having breakfast while reading blogs. Sorry for the ugly.

The dreaded Rocky Balboa eyes are back. Double Benadryl, double coffee.

I get cortisone shots every once in a while to keep this at bay, but whatever it is that causes this (yes, I have been tested to no avail) is stronger today than my meds. Wouldn't be so bad except I'm planning a birthday dinner for Kristin tomorrow.

I hope I can see because I'm handicapped when it comes to cooking already without having limited vision.

The cake may read like something at Cake Wrecks: "Eppy Barthday Krispin."

Please Call Me "Princess," For I Have a Crown

I feel like a princess, a princess with a swollen, droopy face and pulsating gums. I had a tooth crowned today.

You know, it really irks me to have to report that. All of my life, I have had great teeth, only a couple of cavities very early on. The rest of my dental visits have been, "Wham, bam, floss it, Ma'am," and I'm outta there.

Apparently, my teeth, they are ... getting tired. In fact, one upper molar on my right side cracked under all the pressure of trying to stay as young as other teeth, and so I had to have a crown.

The process for getting a crown can be drilled down to 10 simple steps: (Ha. That's a little dental humor.)

1. Look at the assistant with an expression so full of terror that she strokes your shoulder gently as if you are four years old.

2. Get some giant, humongous injections that don't even look like they could be real but could only be a movie prop but turn out to be real.

3. Look at the assistant and make your eyes somehow cry, "Mommy."

4. Have 2 millimeters of your enamel drilled away until you have a stump left. Yes, they call it a "stump." This is not my mouth, but this is a good before and after shot.

5. Get some more shots because you are "burning off" your numbness by being so tense.

6. Get some thread shoved under the gum for some reason that they explain but you can't hear because you are nervously burning off your anesthesia.

7. Make some bite impressions on some material.

8. Get some touch up with the drill. ("Mommy.")

9. Get a temporary cap sealed on with temporary cement.

10. Have a single tear drop out of the outside corner of your eye and some water drip from your numb nose and mouth onto your paper bib, just for that touch of "insult to injury."

One of the most surreal moments was when the doc and assistant (I don't know what her official title is) were trying to decide what shade of fake enamel to order my real cap in. They were holding up little fake teeth to my molar, which of course necessitated pulling my jaw way back for quite a while as they debated which colors suited me best.

For a moment, I felt as though I were in the optometrist's chair: "Is 1 better, or 2?" "Two ... or 3? "Which is better, 2 or 1?" I had no say in this.

That went on for quite a while.

Then the dentist used a big ol' camera to take some pictures with the fake teeth held up next to my teeth. Coincidentally, guess what song was playing during the practice paparazzi test? Paul Simon's "Kodachrome."

Now, I think if I were a regular on a red carpet in Hollywood, I might have to worry about how my new tooth in the back of my mouth blended in with my other teeth because I might smile like Julia Roberts when she throws back her head and unlatches her jaw, but since I mainly stuff envelopes on an industrial grade brown carpet, there was really no need for the paparazzi test.

And although this isn't on the list, the next thing I did was go to work, attend a meeting with one side of my face trying to slide down to my shoulder and then try to answer the phone without sounding drunk, which is important when you answer the phone for a church.

Finally, I would like to say that both assistants and my dentist are awesome. Truly. And I'm not just saying that because one of them said she has read my blog.

But that did make me smile. In a swollen, droopy face-pulsating gum kind of way.