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The other night when my husband came home from his gig he was a tiny bit upset with me. Before going on stage he went to the bathroom and when he saw himself in the mirror he was shocked because his hair was a slight bit askew. “How could you let me leave the house like that?” he asked. “You knew I was going to be on stage in front of people.”
I couldn’t help but laugh when he told me. You see, honestly, just before he left the house I noticed that his hair was looking something like this…
…but he was running late. I meant to tell him, but in the mad rush of helping him carry his equipment to the car I forgot. Yes, I could’ve called him on his cell, but I didn’t. He plays the bass. Whose going to look at him during the performance…other bass players? Other bass players aren’t going to notice his hair. Heck, they probably all have the exact same hairdo.
So he was introduced to lots of people with his crazy hairdo. He hung out. He ate some food. Then he noticed it and I think he ended up wearing a wool hat during the performance. Every time I think about it I start laughing. Even now while writing this post, I’m laughing.
Are you on Pinterest? I’ve been avoiding joining it for a long time now. That’s just what I need, another social media site to keep track of, but a few days ago I succumb to the pressure and attempted to join.
You can’t just join Pinterest, you need to be invited to join. So I went to the site and clicked the little button that said get an invitation. Then I was taken to a screen that let me know that I was on a waiting list to receive an invitation and that I will receive an email when space becomes available. What’s that supposed to mean? It’s a social media site not an actually room. I’m sure they can fit us all on the site so what is the waiting for? Stuff like that just makes me feel annoyed. I made sure I let everyone know how annoyed I was too. How dare they make me wait!!
A few days later I got my invitation to join and suddenly I forgot all about my annoyance. Now I’m on Pinterest. I don’t know how long this will last for me though. I tend to have a very short attention space when it comes to social media.
Sometimes we like to treat ourselves to the finer things in life. That’s why we spent a few days in early February staying at a Travel Lodge. We didn’t pick just any Travel Lodge, we stayed at the Studio Way Travel Lodge in Borehamwood. That’s right, Studio Way…the place where you can see all the top stars. The Tesco we shopped in just down the street was next to the Elstree Studios George Lucas Stage. I bet George Lucas has stayed in the very same Travel Lodge we stayed in. Heck, he might’ve even stayed in the same room.
The Studio Way Travel Lodge is the ideal hangout for A-list celebrities. It features a lovely view out back of beer bottles strewn across the grass. My favorite feature was the stray pubic hairs in the bathtub when we checked in. Because they could’ve been the pubic hairs of an A-list celebrity like Danny DeVito or Fran Drescher, I kept them. They’re in a plastic baggy in my purse right now. Once I figure out which star they belong to I’m sure I can get good money for them on eBay.
I knew our room was significant the first day because housekeeping didn’t shut our door completely after cleaning it. They probably did that to give other guests in the hotel the opportunity to look around our room and see the bed that George Lucas, Danny DeVito and possible Fran Drescher had slept in…separately I hope.
As much as I loved the Borehamwood Studio Way Travel Lodge, I was happy to leave. Now we have our own place in the country. Don’t worry though. We can go to Borehamwood any time we have a hankering to see some movie stars.
Some Films Made in Borehamwood (this bit is just to clutter up your already cluttered brain with useless information)
I’m not big into playing sports. I’m actually one of the lest sporty people on the planet. I can’t get a basketball into a hoop. I can’t catch a football. I can’t hit a baseball with a bat.
When I was a kid sports meant gym class and gym class meant humiliation. I was the kid who always dropped the ball or more accurately ran away from the ball. I was the kid picked last for the kickball team. I never understood why they let kids pick teams in gym class. It’s so embarrassing for the people that no one wants to pick. The only time I excelled in an athletic activity in school was during a game of capture the flag. I managed to run unnoticed into the other teams territory. Unfortunately, I was being chased by a bee so I ran right past the flag and into the school.
I’m older and wiser now, but I’m not any more coordinated than I used to be as a child. I still suck at sports. Because I’m not good at it I don’t like it. The other day I encountered a sport that I enjoyed. It’s called disc golf. Have you ever played it? It’s like golf but there are no holes, clubs, tees, sand traps, or balls. Doesn’t that sound just like golf?
Instead of holes, there are baskets, and instead of balls, there are Frisbees. I’m not sure if anything that involves a Frisbee can really be classified as a sport, but I’m sure it can be called fun. Here’s a picture of someone playing disc golf:
He doesn’t look like he’s having fun, but that’s because even though he’s supposed to be a professional he’s obviously doing it wrong. He should get a few lessons from me. While I do approved of the raised leg technique, I definitely don’t approve of the frown.
When I get back to the UK I’m going to make my own disc golf course. I think I can make the baskets out of twigs and yarn. I’m also pretty sure I can use a dinner plate as Frisbee. That should work just fine. Right?
Since my father turns 80 this week my mother thought it would be fun for us all to run a 5K race together. Here the term run loosely means walk at a slow to moderate pace. The race started at 8 in the morning which was a struggle for us because my husband and I don’t get up until 9:30.
When my sister called the day before the race to find out what time it started she was shocked by the early hour and asked to speak to me on the phone. “When I agreed to this no one told me that I’d have to get up that early on a Saturday,” she said.
She was ready bright and early the next day though. We put on our matching race t-shirts, pinned paper numbers to our stomachs and headed for the start line. The runners all got to the front of the group and the walkers were to the back. When the starter’s pistol fired everyone took off running. “Why is everyone running? You told me we could walk,” my sister said. We almost got trampled by a herd of middle-aged people in running shorts and Nikes.
Once the stampede cleared we were free to have a peaceful walk at the back of the pack. Luckily, my sister’s iPhone was not cooperating with her so she had to talk to us instead of listening to music. My sister is a public defender so she has a lot of scary stories about the adventures of her clients. Outrageous tales of robbery, drug dealing and assault can be so entertaining that the first mile just flew by.
At the half-way point people cheered us on and gave us cups of water. “Why isn’t this coffee? At this hour they should be handing out coffee,” my sister said.
Despite stopping to pick up flyers from houses that were for sale along the route and taking pictures of cats in trees we weren’t the last people to finish the race. There was actually a group of people behind us. My mother was hoping my father would win for his age group just because he would be the only person in the 80 and over group. Unfortunately, a group of buff 80 year-olds showed up in short shorts and sweat bands and they ran the whole race.
My husband who is incredibly competitive would probably want me to tell you that he ran the race. Then he came back to cross the finish line with us even though he’d already finished the race. Anyway, here’s the photo of me completing my first leisurely 5K.
When we started running toward the finish line, my sister said, “What’s with this running? You told me I wouldn’t have to run.”
“We always run over the finish line,” my mother said. So we ran and we finished. Than we ate a not very good breakfast at a restaurant near the finish line.
I put my glasses back on last night. I decided that even though everything tends to look better in soft focus–here soft focus really means blurry–being able to see is a bit more practical than not being able to see. I think my insistance on not wearing my glasses was getting on my family’s nerves anyway.
They were getting tired of my need to stand directly in front of the television in order to see anything that was happening on screen. My husband was also getting tired of hearing me say, “I can’t drive because I’m not wearing my glasses.”
Lifetime movies are much easier to figure out if you can actually see the various characters and make out what they are doing. Apparently, being able to see the screen is an important aspect of movie watching…surprise, surprise.
Even though my grandmother has had success using eye exercises to have good vision in her nineties, my vision is already shot. It’s probably too late for me. I’ve decided to put my sights on more obtainable goals like building a robotic housekeeper that cooks delicious ethnic food and cleans the bathroom–not at the same time of course. My robotic housekeeper would clean the other rooms in the house too of course, but the bathroom is the room I hate cleaning the most.
I know I said the other day that we were as organized as tadpoles, but that’s not really the case. We did have plans originally. We were going to make a million dollars and move back to the States for a while. I bought the special paper and loaded up on colored ink for the making a million dollars part–I figure if governments can randomly print currency, why can’t I–but the moving to the States part just isn’t happening.
A couple of months ago when we were making our final moving plans we found out that I have a prolactinoma. A prolactin-what? Don’t worry, I thought the same thing when the endocrinologist told me. A prolactinoma is a benign tumor on your pituitary gland. The pituitary gland is the orange thing in this picture.
Tumors on the pituitary gland are usually not such a big deal considering that roughly 25 percent of the population has small growths on their pituitary glands that cause no problems at all. Most don’t even know that they have them. Occasionally these tumors will secrete hormones and that can cause problems.
My tumor secretes prolactin. Prolactin is a hormone associated with pregnancy that causes lactation. The good news is that I may have a future as a wet nurse. I wonder how much they get paid.
Though I can be quite obsessed with the idea of being ill, when I actually find out I have something wrong with me my first instinct is to do nothing. Ignore it and it will go away is my philosophy. Well with this that kind of isn’t an option. If left untreated increased amounts of prolactin causes early menopause and osteoporosis. There is also the minor issue of the tumor possibly continuing to grow and causing blindness to consider too.
These tumors can usually be treated with medication. Sometimes surgery is necessary to remove them though. Right now I’m taking a medication called cabergoline to shrink my tumor. It made me feel lousy for the first few weeks of taking it, but I read somewhere that if you take it before going to bed at night the side effects are less severe. That seems to be working so that’s great.
This affects our move to the States because of health insurance. I now have a pre-existing condition that needs monitoring. There’s nothing health insurance companies hate more than pre-existing conditions and monitoring. Drats!! Those health insurance companies are a real pain in the back side.
Anyway, that’s where things stand at the moment. I’m largely unfazed. It’s kind of a waiting game for now.
Guess what came through my mail slot this morning?
No, not an envelope stuffed with cash.
Okay, I’ll tell you. I got a picture of a sad kitten named Stevie.
Doesn’t that just tug at your heartstrings?
Oh yeah. I almost forgot to mention that I also got my British passport!!!
I am now an official member of the two passport Bettison crew. We roll like that…with double the passport renewal fees and two expiration dates to keep track of.
I finally got my pet fox. Her name is Penny and she’s taken up residence in our upstairs neighbor’s neglected garden. She likes to sit in the sun on the patio.
I was convinced that Penny was rabid. Foxes are nocturnal and though she was doing a lot of lounging, she was still active during the day. After doing a lot of worrying about it, I decided to send my husband out to find out. My theory was that if Penny was indeed a normal fox she would run away as he approached the back gate. If she was rabid she would run toward him, knocking him to the ground, and tearing the flesh from his neck. I thought this experiment was best done during the day when the doctor’s office up the street was open.
Penny passed the test. She ran away just like a normal fox should. The only problem is that she hasn’t come back since. Too bad, I was looking forward to having a pet. I’ll just have to make due with the fat willowy legged spider under the bathroom sink. I named her Pumpkin and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have rabies.
During the Florida hurricane season, I used to spend much of my time tracking incoming hurricanes. I would stare at the weather channel all day and hope the approaching storm would veer off path or die out before hitting St. Pete. I’d make sure my 72 hour kit was complete, get cash from my bank account and start using the phrase “hunker down.” I was serious about hurricane preparation.
The riots across the UK have had much the same effect on me. I don’t have a television, but I’ve read every article and seen every online video about it. I don’t think I’ve ever used the word riot so often in my life.
Last night at dinner I was talking about the riots and my husband started laughing.
Me: What’s so funny?
My husband: You keep saying the word riot. I’ve been trying not to mention it, but it’s getting ridiculous.
So what if I’ve said the word riot 927 times during the past few days. Someone’s got to say it.
