User's Manual

I am a person who follows the directions. I read the book that comes with the hairdryer, the mower, toys, etc. I love the ridiculous warnings: Don't use the hairdryer in the shower, Never use while sleeping. I mostly just want to how to use whatever it is properly. I got an iPhone on Saturday. Never before have I felt so strongly that this thing in my hand is soooo not my generation. It came with a manual. A very small "getting started" kind of manual. It assumes that you will go online and learn it all there, if, of course, you are such an imbecile that you would not already know how to use it.

When I was pregnant with my first, the test stick wasn't even dry before I had subscriptions to every "Mom" magazine. I also bought the baby user manuals. Many, many books. I read them all. I even put post-it notes in them for the sections my husband should read. He didn't, but that's another post. You know these books. You also know the magazines. The screaming headlines: "How to know if your baby is autistic!" "Get your baby to sleep in three easy steps!" The headlines that you can read between the lines are: "What you are doing wrong!" "Your baby is the only one who cries all night", and "Feel guilty because you're doing it wrong!"

Today, I got a commercial in the mail for "Cookie" magazine. It claims that it is the only magazine that brings together both of your worlds: the "mom" part and the "woman" part. Do we really need to keep these separate? Are they separate, and I just don't know it? How does being a mom make you forget you're a woman? Isn't being a "woman" just a euphamism for "sexual"? Being a father doesn't make a man less sexually appealling. It makes him more appealing in my own eyes. Maybe it's because the dads rarely have (someone else's) boogers on their boobs and dried spit-up down their backs. Maybe it's my genetic programming. I guess that I get it. I just don't feel the need to separate out my life into the various roles that I play. And I really don't need a heap of printed commercials telling me that I'm doing it wrong. No matter what that it might be.

Paging Dr. Freud

Since I mentioned Dr. Freud in my last post, it seems that the universe has stacked itself against me, and now Freudian things are happening to me. These two websites have made their way into my lexicon: www.thingsthatlooklikecocknballs.com and www.wehavebananas.blogspot.com
Boner, please! I get it! I don't need to be slapped in the face with it every time I turn around. Consider this my official surrender.

But, really, these two websites are worth the click. (I couldn't figure out how to format them correctly, so you'll have to cut and paste)

Oh, and I had to talk to the AT&T robot yesterday. It's a HE, and he's as creepy as Renee, the Sears robot. His name is Vic, short for Victor, but I just call him Robot.

Freudian Slip

My mower's name is Sheila.  Yes, my lawnmower.  I call her Sheila.  I thought that by naming her, she would be more likely to behave, i.e. run.   Sheila was purchased last year after our old mower died a natural death.  Well, his wheels rusted off, if you call that natural.  He didn't have a name, but that mower was definitely male.  Sheila never did like to start, at least not on the first try, and she's got a key!  I abandoned the key start early in the relationship.  I have changed her oil, air filter, and I even cleaned the carburetor, but she has been nothing but a bitch all season.  Finally, she refused to stay running for more than three minutes at a time.  I had to take her to the Service Center.  Long story longer, she needed several adjustments (after only one season)!  I just brought her home yesterday, and attempted our first mow today.   Before I began, I had a little bargaining session with Sheila.  "Sheila," I said.  "I know that we got off to a rocky start, but now that I know that you had some issues, I'd like to start over." She seemed to agree.  

I fired her up, and she started on the first pull!  "Good girl," I exclaimed.  She plodded along for five minutes, and sputtered out.  This happened two more times.  I went inside, and endured about 30 minutes of Freudian Hell with the SEARS ROBOT.  *cue psycho knife music*

A little backstory:  when I was in college, I took a class that required me to read "The Uncanny" by Sigmund Freud.  (no, smart ass, it wasn't a psychology class)  It basically says that people get the creeps from three things:  Castration (duh, this is FREUD here), the Doppelganger, and Automatons.  This is a gross simplification, but trust me here.  So castration; well, doesn't that freak everyone out?  Doppelganger... I have always been creeped out by twins who dress alike. The Wrigley twins always have those toothy, sinister, eerily identical grins.  I'm still on board. And then there's the automaton.  The robot android person thingy.  I am not creeped out by say, C3PO, but those Japanese "teacher robots" that look just slightly more human than a blowup doll are kinda weird.

So back to the Sears Robot.  You know the one.  That phone robot who talks like she's folks and even hesitates and draws out her words.  The one that you have to TALK TO...   I don't know if Freud had this in mind, but I sure do.  Her name is Renee, but I call her Robot.

Robot:  Welcome to Sears Service Center, what do you need help with?

Me:  My Mower doesn't...

Robot:  (cutting me off)  mmmm Okay, you want store hours?  Is this correct?

Me:  No.

Robot: mmmm I'm sorry, I didn't get that.  Is this correct?

Me: NO!

Robot:  uuuuuh Okay, what can I help you with?

Me:  (cottoning on--I need to talk like Tonto) LAWNMOWER BROKEN!

Robot:  mmm Okay, Lawnmower repair.  Is this correct?

Me:  YES!

Robot:  uuuuh, Let me connect you.

Of course, the last one had a tone to it, like, "was that so hard, bitch?"  I hate that robot.  

She's creepy.  Whoever thought it was good idea to add all of the hemming and hawing is a straight up moron.  It only serves to make me a raving lunatic.   Maybe I need to see Dr. Freud.  

I had to talk to several people and in between I would get transferred back to the robot.  After all that, Sheila seemed to work after I gave her the side eye and threatened her with another trip to the mower doctor.  I've got my fingers crossed.   She's in the shed dreaming of having a voice and maybe legs.

All Clear, except for the thread

I am happy to say that my repeat mammogram got the all clear.  They couldn't find the "mass" again with additional x-rays and ultrasound.  So official diagnosis was "probably a cyst".  They apparently "come and go".  This, I'm guessing, is why they call it "practicing" medicine.  I'm sure all of this is going to cost "lots" of money as well.

However, I have to say that the week of terror leading up to this repeat testing shook me to my very soul.  I was in a state of blind panic, and my vivid imagination had me trying to figure out who would make a good mother figure in my children's lives once I was dead of cancer.  seriously.  By the time I was getting the testing done, I was physically shaking.  It was humbling.  I thought I was made of stronger stuff than that.  It was a relief to know it was all okay, at least for another year.  The better part was telling the friends who were sending me good vibes, and hearing their genuine relief.  

On an unrelated yet related note, a 13 year old boy from a nearby suburb died after a soccer game this weekend.  He asked to leave the game feeling bad, and collapsed.  He was taken to a hospital, transferred to a bigger one, and died of heart failure.  My daughter played in this tournament over the weekend.  We were there.  We didn't know about it or have any indication of this--even at the Sunday game after it happened.  I remember seeing the flags at half mast and wondering why.

We all know that we're hanging by a thread.  It's up there, over our heads, invisible.  I know it's there, but most of the time I forget about it.  It just hangs there unseen and forgotten.  Over the past two weeks, I have seen that thread.  I've held it in my hand.  It's red.  I hate that.