I Do Things So You Don’t Have To

Hey, little sister, shot gun!

Yes, in my version of a Polish wedding, I get to marry Gabriel Byrne while Claire Danes looks on in confusion.

But this wasn’t my wedding.  Hell, we didn’t even GO to the wedding, because the deal was: wedding at 11:30, reception at 6:30, at a venue far, far away in another galaxy. We would have had to find something to do in between the wedding and the reception because, as Dave so poignantly said, “If we go home after the wedding, I’m not going back.”

So we chose the reception, but only after we were promised rare Meats of the East(ern Europe) and a House of Food.

Listen bubs, if you’re planning on attending a Polish wedding reception, the best advice I can give you is to bring a notebook. I used the Notepad app on my iPod to type a few notes, and this is what happened:

• Polisg reception
• Splanx
• Tying on old clothes
• Backup underwear
• T and h already married …. Wars the cockles
• Applying biofreeaze in car changing underwear
• Photo of purse that doesn’t zipin car taking notes told Dave “has anything happened yet “

Translation: I tried on some old clothes, tugged on a pair of Spanx, being sure to tuck a pair of backup underwear in my purse that I realized too late doesn’t zip close. Cockles of heart warmed by the groom (T) and bride (h), who, yes, were already married in a small civil ceremony but who wanted to do it right, this time with 400 guests and head cheese.

The Spanx didn’t even make it into the reception hall. They lasted about as long as it took to pull out of our driveway. Thank god for backup underwear. Thank god, also, for Biofreeze, which I applied liberally in the car, managing to get the jelly-like substance all over my skirt (and backup underwear).

And as I typed frantically away, Dave noted  that “nothing has happened yet.” Oh, Dave. How little you understand the blog of JD.

ANYway, the bride was gorgeous, the groom was handsome, everyone was happy, blah, blah, blah and now onto the FOOD!

First, there were candy bars and mini champagne bottles on every other plate. I selected a candy bar plate!

There was also a platter of mysterious cheeses. Don’t be scared! JD tried each one so you don’t have to, and found them to be not only mysterious but delicious.

A bottle of vodka on every table.

The “House of Food”! Except it was more like a House of Scary Meats and Questionable Cheeses. Mmmm — is that a rib cage I see?

See that big round white thing? A cheese.

The meats of Poland!

Is head cheese a meat or a cheese? It really doesn’t matter, because who in their right mind would eat that?

As we started our delicious dinner (no photos), I anxiously eyed the dessert table. Surely after we ate, there would be a mad run on desserts. What if they ran out? I hate waiting in line! I want my desserts now!

My plate of desserts, which sat on the table, untouched, then traveled home with me on a paper plate covered in napkins, then sat in the fridge overnight, after which I promptly forgot about them.

As we watched the happy bride and groom on the dance floor, I sighed to Dave, “I wanna get married again.” “OK!” he said, more enthusiastically than I would’ve imagined. I continued excitedly, “We can renew our vows on the beach!”

“Oh, I thought you meant you wanted to marry someone else.”

“. . .”

I’m more than a little disturbed by that enthusiastic “OK!” I bet Gabriel Byrne wouldn’t let me marry anyone else.

_______________________

Polish wedding DVD came from here

Su-su-sushi don’t you cry
Take you to the sushi bar and buy you some
Fillet and claw
Clam and tuna
Gonna eat it raw

So then there was that time I was covered in tar.

The end.

Oh, you want details. Well, you would.

Listen, y’all can get covered in tar all by yourselves. You don’t need me to do it! Here’s how it works:

• Park your car 8 blocks from the sushi place because you’re always afraid you won’t find a closer parking space and you’ll end up circling endlessly while your sushi sits there getting stale.
• Walk 7 blocks in broiling heat.
• Encounter a large tar patch that has NO signs or blockades or whatever to keep you from walking on it.
• Look around nervously. There is literally no way to avoid that tar.
• Place one flip-flopped foot (yes, those adorable pink Paul Frank flip-flops that you wear 24/7 [YES, in bed!] even though you’re supposed to be wearing orthotics, but dang, it’s hot and your feet sweat) gingerly on the tarred surface.
• Pay close attention to that sinking feeling. It’s telling you that you should’ve found a detour because this tar is NOT DRY. Your flip-flops are sticking. It’s the freaking La Brea Tar Pit all up in here and YOU’RE WALKING IN IT DUMBASS!
• But what else can you do? There are no signs!
• Grimly, you pull each foot up and with it, about a pound of tar. You feel large chunks of it hit the back of your legs as you walk.
• The name “flip-flop” begins to take on a darker meaning.
• Reach down to flick off those bits of tar from your leg. Realize tar doesn’t flick so much as stick.
• Try flinging former leg tar off of hand. It won’t fling either.
• For god’s sakes, don’t . . . DON’T. Oh, man. You did. You’re going to have to cut off that piece of hair, you know.
• Your face will now begin to itch. Whatever you do . . . boy, you just don’t listen, do you?
• Enter sushi place and ignore the fact that everyone is staring in horror at this tar-encrusted monster who is flinging and flicking and shaking and scratching.
• Pay for sushi with tar-covered money from your tar-filled purse and take your sorry tarry ass home.

Once you’re in the safety of your locked bedroom, consult the experts on tar removal:

These experts will not help you so much as make fun of you, but there’s healing to be found in being mocked and humiliated.

Eat your sushi and quit complaining.

*        *        *

Hey, speaking of tar, remember that guest post on skin tag removal? Guess who wrote that?

GUESS, I said.

It was our friend Junk Drawer Kathy!

Yup. She didn’t want to say “hooha” at her place, so she dragged her triumphant but gag-inducing story of skin tags and lady parts over here, where all manner of grossness is welcome and treated with the respect it deserves.

Thank you, Kathy! (AKA: “Some Lady.”)

Better watch out for the skin tag

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WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO WEE-OOO

FIRST-EVER GUEST POST AT I DO THINGS!

My policy on guest posts has always been a big selfish NO! because it’s my blog and get your own blog. But then this poor soul reached out to me and said, “Wise JD, your readers — and by extension, the world — need to know how to remove a skin tag.”

Well, guess what? I am never going to remove a skin tag in my life, so why not let “Some Lady” tell us how?

Enjoy!

Tag — You’re It!

OK, so you know how you’re on approach to the Big 5-0 and you keep getting zits?

You are stunned no one told you that you’d get them far past your teens, but you accept it. Zits are relatively easy to get rid of. A little time, a little stringent. You cope.

Besides, if you could pick anything from the family of gross skin disorders, zits win because there are far worse alternatives.

So you’re motorin’ along, dealing with your 40-something zits, but then along comes zit’s idiot brother who crashes parties and everyone hates because he’s an ugly drunk.

That brother is a skin tag. A gnarly, flip-flappy piece of skin that shows up uninvited and never leaves, even when you ask nicely and try to send it off with a six-pack.

I had a skin tag for a few weeks in a very unfortunate place. Right on the county line that runs between East Thigh-Butt and North Hooha.

That’s right. There.

I allow it to camp out undisturbed until one day the tag caught on my underwear and hurt like a mother. The time had come to kick it to the curb. I didn’t want to see a dermatologist because I wasn’t too keen on showing anyone where it was. Isn’t it enough you have to go to the gynecologist and show him all your junk under a flood light? One crotch visit a year is plenty, thank you.

So thus began my venture into Googleland for “how to remove a skin tag at home.”

Ready? Here are the choices:

1. Each night, coat the skin tag with clear nail polish and let it dry. Apply a bandaid. In the morning, use nail polish remover to wipe off the polish and apply a new coat.
2. Disinfect a pair of scissors or nail clippers and CUT IT OFF. You will bleed. A lot and forever.
3. Tie a string, fishing line, or dental floss around the base of the tag and pull tight enough that it cuts off blood flow to the tag. It will balloon, dry up, turn black and fall off.
4. Cover it with duct tape. Yes, duct tape, the staple of handyman toolkits and medical science alike.

The bleeding option was out and so were the bandaid and duct tape methods because I don’t want anything adhesive next to my goodies.

That left only the choke-to-death method.

And so I tie sewing thread in a little noose, hike my leg up on the bathroom sink, and bend over in a position suitable only for advanced yoga enthusiasts.

I pull up on my thigh, hold the string around the tag and pull tight. I miss, try again – pull tight – I miss, try again – pull tight – success!

I choke my skin tag for a few hours then take a shower, where my expertly tied noose is flung off. It is now stuck to the shower curtain, still tied and laughing at me. Amateur.

I make a new noose.

This time, I try sturdier dental floss, mint flavor. Waxed dental floss is sticky and doesn’t tie smoothly. But I try over and over until I sufficiently choke the tag and we all feel minty fresh.

Two days later, the noose falls off again in the shower.

Frack it all.

I think it’s never coming off and I’m going to have to bite the bullet and let a doctor have at it.

But then . . .

Today.

During a review of the situation, I discover that the noose must have worked well enough because now I have what looks like a mushroom growing down there.

A little stem with a dark bulbous cap on top.

I have murdered my skin tag.

I want to yank that sucker off, but I’m afraid of pain.

But afraider still of showing this thing to my gynecologist, who I have to see in a few days. What if it doesn’t fall off in time?

And so I hold my breath, squeeze my eyes shut and pull hard and fast.

The mushroom cap pops right off! I’m standing in the ladies room holding my dead skin tag, feeling triumphant and now finally free of zit’s idiot brother.

So there you have it. How to get rid of a skin tag while keeping absolutely none of your dignity.

You’re welcome.

_________________

Mushroom came from here

There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship’s smoke on the horizon

The battle against chronic pain continues!

And I WILL win. But not without a few casualties.

Those casualties, unfortunately, will be me. Only in singular. Casualty.

Last week my doctor sat at her computer with her handy book, What Pills HASN’T JD Taken? at her side. She came up with a duo of pharmaceuticals that would beat my back and hip pain into submission.

She shook her tiny clenched fists in the air.

“This is going to work!”

But then she paused and added darkly, “But at what cost?”

Um . . .

The cost, according to her book, of taking a muscle relaxer called something like Tizidizidin (“Tizanidine” — Ed.) was dizziness.

Excellent. Dizzy is fun! Who doesn’t love to spin around until they puke? ME! I mean, me? What I don’t want is drowsy. Drowsy is no good. I mean, it’s fine if I’m just planning to lie on the sofa all day and watch a marathon of Hell’s Kitchen (DO NOT JUDGE), but I wanted to get some things done this weekend. Nevertheless, I waited until Saturday afternoon, after I’d run my errands, to take my first Tizidizidin.

The first thing I felt was a distinct lack of pain. Oh, my gaw. I never believed it would really work. I am not in pain. I am moving and things are not hurting. BIZARRE!

The second thing I felt was a distinct slowing down of motor skills, followed by vicious dry mouth and lack of will to live. Nevertheless, I proceeded with my planned activities.

Dear Makers of Tizidizidin: In addition to the usual warnings of “don’t drive, don’t operate heavy machinery,” etc., I suggest you include the following:

• Don’t Nair your legs
• Don’t take a shower, especially in a tub where you’ve rinsed Nair off your legs and created a slippery surface even a sober person would have trouble navigating
• Don’t eat crackers and tuna salad, as this will be reduced to a paste the likes of which will take you approximately a month to swallow
• Don’t sort through the mail. You will throw out the checks and try to stick the bills under the refrigerator.
• Don’t get dressed. Those leg holes will be the death of you.
• Don’t brush your hair. What is hair? It doesn’t exist. It’s only a concept.
• Don’t talk on the phone. Those voices are trying to make you go into the scary attic.
• Don’t try to breathe. You don’t need to breathe. You are a starfish!

After standing and staring into space for about an hour, I made a move. For my camera.

I may or may not have been naked when I took this photo.

Finally I fell onto the bed. Every now and then I surfaced enough to form a thought: I am taking the most excellent nap! But I wasn’t really asleep so much as I was dead-ish.

Later — MUCH later, I read the directions:

Symptoms of overdose may include:

• drowsiness
• extreme tiredness
• confusion
• slow heartbeat
• fainting
• dizziness
• slow or shallow breathing
• loss of consciousness

Bingo-How-Fun! All of the above, I think. It’s hard to remember what with all the loss of consciousness.

Soooo . . . will I be taking Tizidizidin again?

Aw, HELL, yeah! It’s a killer appetite suppressant!

*        *        *

So what’s YOUR favorite muscle relaxer? Have you ever tried Tizidizidin? Please don’t tell me if it made you die. I need to fit into that dress I bought.

Always got a mouthful of such sweet things to say
Chewy’s full of sugar and I love her that way

This post was supposed to be about that mythical unicorn of the Sandwich World:

The Candwich!

It’s a sandwich . . . in a can! And I’m sorry to tell you that one of the flavors is BBQ Chicken.

My peeps, you KNOW ol’ JD would eat a Candwich so you don’t have to, but there’s one problem (apart from the fact that I don’t feel like throwing up today): The Candwich is not available for public consumption.

So why is everyone from Stephen Colbert to Gizmodo to D-Listed screaming at us about a product that we can’t even eat yet???

Who cares.

Because today I am pleased and horrified (plorrified?) to introduce:

The Strandwich

Remember how grossed out you were when, after months of nagging your mom, she finally gave in and let you try a Fluffernutter sandwich? Those commercials made it look so good, but the combination of peanut butter and Marshmallow Fluff turned out to be the most heinous flavor duet since diced peppers and corn (AKA: Mexicorn!)

I’m'a give you one more second to enjoy the ignorance of youth, because what you didn’t know then?

You now must acknowledge. There is a Strawberry Fluff. It’s here. It’s real. It’s not backing down.

And it is a key ingredient in the newest sensation of the Sandwich World: The Strandwich.

Now, I don’t have the soft white bread of my childhood, but I do have these stale diet hot dog buns.

Mmmm. What you can’t see from this photo is that the bottom of the bun is all soggy. That’s what makes it so diet-y! (i.e., one bite, and you’re done).

I cautiously open the jar of Strawberry Fluff and see . . .

. . . this.

It smells like Mr. Bubble and looks like hardened Pepto-Bismol. And what is that disturbing residue along the rim?

Maybe it just needs a good stirring . . .

. . . errr

The texture is like nothing I’ve ever encountered on this planet. It could definitely be used as a fixative of some sort. Surely it isn’t edible? But, no, there on the label it says, “Now With More Edible!” Oookay.

Fluff meet bun:

YOU GUYS! You’re not going to make me eat that, are you? It’s pink cement! On a stale wet diet bun! I needed two spoons to get it from the jar to the bun! Oh, but wait. I forgot the peanut butter. The peanut butter is the key ingredient that will pull together these two seemingly mismatched components:

Or not.

Seriously, I’m not eating that. Would you? Would anyone?

PRUDENCE! (Click to view action tongue)

Didn’t I just say I don’t feel like throwing up today?

Well, look. I’m not a quitter. I’m going to eat a damn Strandwich if I have to have Dave knock me out and stuff it down my gullet.

Thanks to my can(wich)-do attitude, I remember those stale diet graham crackers.

MUCH more palatable (and with just a hint of sogginess). This looks almost edible. I could be on to something here. My Strandwich will conquer first the Sandwich World and then the Real World! It will be chomped on by all!

No.

I blacked out shortly after taking that one brave bite, but oh, my children. The taste lingers. IT LINGERS!

I have a well-rounded vocabulary. I’ve always thought I was pretty good at expressing myself. I only resort to expletives when it’s absolutely necessary. But I simply can’t find the words to describe the horror of The Strandwich.

Did you know pink has a flavor? It tastes like nightmares and ear-aches and the killer under your bed. Don’t be deceived by its innocent color.

I have created a monster.

A monster that no one will eat.

Except maybe . . .

PRUDENCE!

*        *        *

What’s your most hated sandwich?

________________

Candwich came from here

Time
After time
I sit and I wayyyyyyy-t for your call

It all started with some querulous old lady calling me and rambling on about a music festival and Dom Delmonico.

Or, it was just my lovely mom, politely asking if I’d like to accompany her to a concert at Frontier Days, Arlington Heights’ Fourth of July festival.

Either way, it involved Dennis DeYoung.*

OF STYX!

(*Also known as Dom Delmonico, apparently.)

Why would my mom want to see Dennis DeYoung? Well, some years ago he put out an album of Broadway hits, and the combination of aggressive vibrato and perky mullet were just too much for her to resist.

Hey, before you go making fun of some querulous old lady, I used to think he was kind of cute too, way back in the 70s.

In fact, you could say that Tommy Shaw and Dennis DeYoung were sort of a stepping-stone to what would be my most intense rawk-and-roll-related obsession.

Tommy Shaw looks pretty good these days and is obviously still rawking.

Dennis DeYoung is . . .

Anyway.

The Frontier Days flyer promised “Dennis DeYoung Featuring the Music of Styx.” Not “Dennis DeYoung Sings Broadway Standards.” And nothing about Dom Delmonico.

My mom was fine with that. Dave and I figured we’d humor an old lady, eat some funnel cake, and enjoy watching all the freaks.

Dennis DeYoung? Meh. Whatevs. Dave wanted to hear “Come Sail Away,” and I was curious to see if he’d do “Mr. Roboto.” Other than that? Freak watching.

But then it happened.

“WELCOME TO THE GRAND ILLUSIONNNNNNNN!”

I was on my feet!

“LAY-DAY! FROM THE MOMENT I SAW YOU!”

I was waving my arms in the air!

“OH MAMA I’M IN FEAR FOR MY LIFE FROM THE LONG ARM OF THE LAW!”

I was devil-horning in the general direction of the stage!

“DOMO ARIGATO, MR. ROBOTO!”

I was scream-singing along!

Dave wasn’t quite as into it (nor was my mom, for that matter), but he did express disappointment at every slow song.

Except:

“Lame . . . Oh, wait! This is Babe-I-Love-You — ILOVETHISONE!”

They played most of the hits, including “Suite Madame Blue,” which I’d forgotten all about and also “Lorelei” and “Too Much Time on My Hands” and “Fooling Yourself” and Dennis Delmonico sounded GREAT and the band RAWKED, and, and, and . . .

I LOVE STYX!

And finally, they did “Come Sail Away,” and weeks later, I am STILL having to listen to Dave’s impression:

Zzz’ iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii’ve GOT TO be freeeeeeeeeeee!

And my mom? I think she went home and played a certain album. And maybe did her own impression.

Has the moon lost her memoreeeeeeeeeeee?
She is smiling alooooooooooooooooooone

*        *        *

Who’s your rawk-and-roll obsession? What’s your favorite Styx song? And most important, who the hell is Dom Delmonico?

______________________
Kilroy and DeYoung came from here
Broadway DeYoung came from here
Styx came from here
Plant and Page came from here
Tommy Shaw came from here
Old DeYoung came from here