Bad Customer Cervix

A couple of months ago, I headed to the OB/GYN for the dreaded annual exam. It's the same old shit every year, isn't it, ladies? I really like my doctor, though, so I always wear fun socks for my exams. After all, all he gets to see is my vagina and my socks so I figure I have to do my part to spice it up a bit. This year, as it was around Christmas, I wore blue and white striped socks with ice-skating reindeer. Nice, huh? He thanked me. He's a nice man. Anyway, all goes according to plan on the day of the exam. A week or so later I came home to a message on the machine from Dr. Feeney. "Nothing serious, just give me a call tomorrow around eleven." Nice. Love the suspense. So, the next day I called and he explained that my pap came back showing a type II abnormality. Apparently pap smears are graded type I through type V, type I being normal, type V being the 'Big C'. According to that scale, type II is no big deal, really. Dr. Feeney prescribed a medication designed to eradicate a very common cause of abnormal paps and asked me to come in for a follow-up pap in a couple of weeks.

If left untreated, 65% of abnormal paps in the type II or III range return to normal on their own. Thanks to the 35% party poopers, no gynecologist on earth will let an abnormality go, of course.

So I went back in for my second pap. This time I wore bright pink socks with neon green and silver sparkly Christmas trees. Again, Feeney gave me a perfect ten for presentation. This time he found a vascular spot on my cervix which he cauterized (much less dramatic than it sounds) and explained that the vascular tissue could certainly have caused an abnormal reading while being a totally benign issue. I left his office feeling pretty good. A few days later, I called for the results. Not good. The pap was still abnormal, still type II.

This past Monday I returned for a colposcopy, a giant vagina microscope. Fun, right? So I arrived, with my darling husband in toe, on Monday morning for the Great Vagina Experiment wearing snow white socks featuring dozens of brightly colored conversation hearts touting Valentine's messages. Appropriate? Probably not. Anyway, during the colposcopy Dr. Feeney found some fluid filled cysts on my cervix which are normal and harmless but, again, can cause abnormal results. Upon further inspection, however, he found two areas of white epithelium. That's bad news. White epithelium is a symptom of cervical dysplasia, the precursor for cervical cancer. He biopsied both areas, naturally, and I left the office with the same instructions; call on Thursday around eleven.

So today is Thursday. One of the two areas that were biopsied returned no evidence of disease. The other area, however, showed moderate to severe dysplasia which basically denotes very naughty cells. As there is no traditional 'Time Out' for naughty cervical cells, these guys have to be removed. How, you ask? Loop Electrosurgical Excision Procedure, or LEEP, as it is known to its close friends. The cervix is numbed with local anesthetic then, using a wire loop and a low level of electricity, the tissue is excised from the effected area and is sent off for further testing. The idea is to eliminate all the naughty cells so the well-behaved cells to go back to playing quietly together.

Very exciting, no?? So, in defiance of my faulty vagina, tonight I made gorgeous, silky, rich mashed potatoes with butter, evaporated milk, a dump-truck's load of salt, and scallions along side bone-in pork chops, dredged in seasoned white flour, then bathed in an egg wash WITH yolk, then forcibly pressed into seasoned white breadcrumbs and fresh grated parm, then FRIED IN BUTTER AND OIL. Take that, dysplasia!

I'm not sure how a high fat dinner is really sticking it to a bad pap but I surely felt better after I ate it......

Our bathing beauty.....

The Black and Blue Fury

I've never really been in to neighbors. Now, don't get me wrong. If you need to borrow a cup of sugar, I'd be happy to provide a comparable measure of agave nectar accompanied by a short speech about how the body metabolizes natural sugar sources more efficiently than processed, white cane sugar. But the idea of having your neighbors just drop by all the time isn't my idea of fun. That said, our current neighbors are the first neighbors I've really liked since we played Euchre with the boys from Floyd's Knob that lived across the hall from us in college. We have a lot in common with Scott and Lynn and have really grown to think of them as good friends. They breed chocolate, yellow, and black labs and ended up here in Irvington after living downtown for many years thanks to the much larger lots. Everyday around lunchtime, I run across the lawns to give the animals a midday reprieve. When I began taking care of them, the population exceeded a dozen, but now I'm down to Tori, Allie, Dewer, Tango, London, Rose, and Lola, and not to be forgotten, Henry the cat.

At the end of December Scott and Lynn woke up at four in the morning to a strange popping noise. They suspected Henry was knocking Christmas ornaments off the dining room table so Lynn went to investigate. Nothing was amiss throughout the house and on her way back to bed Lynn saw a glowing orange light coming from their back deck. Someone had placed a box of empty aerosol paint cans in a cardboard box under their deck, directly beneath their propane grill, and lit the whole mess on fire. With only minimal damage and slightly frazzled nerves, the fire department and police concluded that this was likely a matter of bored kids who desperately needed to return to the structure of school after a long winter recess. Scott installed some motion sensor flood lights and we all went back to business as usual.

Yesterday, after Maeve went down for her nap, I grabbed the baby monitor and my keys and headed next door to throw the ball for my favorite four-legged neighbors. We went through our usual routine; let the girls out, fill the outdoor bowls, back inside to fill the indoor water bowls, give Henry his treat and a good ear scratching, then back outside to scoop poop before playtime. As I rounded the far end of the yard near the deck with poop-scooper in hand, the charred marks on the grill and the fence from the fire caught my attention. Wait a minute. The fence. The fence?!?! The fence wasn't burned in the fire! Wait, what?? What?!?!? There's a giant hole in the fence. I suddenly realized I could smell the fence! And to my chagrin, these burn marks were still warm to the touch. Crap. Crap. Oh yeah, I still have dog crap on the scoop. Empty the scoop. Get the girls inside. Give everyone treats. Try not to panic. Run home. Call Scott. Leave a message. Call the cops. Call the firemen. Call Scott again. Call his receptionist. The firemen are here. Run outside. Explain the situation. Try not to make a fool out of myself in front of the hottest fireman I've ever seen. My word, is he hot. He's like fireman-calendar-hot. Wow. Back to task at hand.

The fire chief remembered the last incident and decided that it was time to call the arson department. This time the fire was set right up against the house. (I'll be adding this to my list of reasons why we only buy brick houses.) I finally got Scott on the phone who, needless to say, came home immediately. The arson investigator arrived along with the police. The policemen proceeded to do a 'sweep' of the home, guns drawn, even though I'd already been in the house. Yikes! Anyway, all the uniformed gentlemen where incredibly nice and attentive and reassuring. But when they all dispersed, I offered Scott a couple of Xanax or martinis if he or Lynn needed them. I was happy to play pharmacist or bartender. Hey, I'm a good neighbor.

So, last night as I'm laying in bed with Maeve for her compulsory fifteen minutes of nursing before bedtime, I got to thinking about the whole, dare I say, arson issue. What if there would've been someone in the house when I arrived? What if they start to target our house? What if they try something more aggressive on Scott and Lynn's place? By the time the clock read 8:10, I'd fairly well wound myself up good and tight. A while later, as Zack and I were watching TV in the basement (a show about Supermax prisons, no less), we hear a ruckus. From our vantage point downstairs, we can't determine if it's coming from upstairs or outside. Zack leaped off the couch, blankets flying and booked upstairs, as I sat, motionless, under my blanket with Reese. Moments later a blur of black and blue fury comes tumbling down the basement stairs and proceeded to whir round the coffee table a few times before zooming back up the stairs.

It wasn't an arsonist attempting to burn down our house. Maggie, our deranged black cat, had managed to get her head stuck through the handle of a powder blue gift bag and was tearing recklessly through the place trying to free herself from what we can only assume she thought to be impending death.

Surprisingly, with no help from the pharmacy and only minor assistance from the liquor cabinet, everyone slept very, very well.

A new beginning

After a considerable absence, I'm ready to begin blogging again. Contrary to what you may be thinking, it hasn't been a matter of having nothing to say. Hardly. Perhaps my disappearance from the Blogosphere can be attributed to the sheer lack of sleep I've been burdened with over the last couple of years which now, to our greatest delight, seems to be old news. Maeve has been sleeping nine or ten hours in her own bed as of late and I (almost) feel human again. Or perhaps I haven't written because I'm a lazy turd. Yeah, that's probably it. Regardless, here we go again......


Zack and I are each trying to drop a few pounds; I, a few more than him. Over the last couple of weeks I've been on a tireless quest to make the perfect unfried French fry. I have failed several times. Too crunchy, too soggy, too salty, too dry, too low-fatty. Today, I embarked on another attempt. My previous tries involved my fab new food processor Zack got me for Christmas, complete with french fry blade. The processor cranks out perfect, skinny little fries in seconds flat. Today, I decided to hand cut the fries, hoping that a bit more substance would alleviate some of the obstacles I'm trying to overcome. So with a compost bin brimming with potato peels, I gave it another go.
After trying a couple of different ways to season the fries, I decided to go with an egg white wash with good old Old Bay seasoning. Although I'm not a huge fan of pre-mixed spices, I do dig some Old Bay.












As best I can tell, the key to a good, unfried, french fry is constant babysitting and overall coddling throughout the process. After I put them in a 400 degree oven on a well-loved, lightly sprayed cookie sheet, I set one timer for 40 minutes and another for seven minutes. Then I went to blow dry my hair.... then stopped to change a poopy diaper and wash my hands..... back to drying..... timer goes off. Those little suckers were already starting to stick! I gently scraped them off the cookie sheet with a spatula and, for the first time on this journey, I didn't leave half the potato on the sheet pan. Closed the oven, set timer for seven minutes, back to the bathroom. After blow drying for a couple of minutes I had to stop to put on the television for Maeve who'd been happily playing with her Playmobil farm until this point. Back to drying... timer goes off.... and so it goes for the next 40 minutes, during which time I managed to get completely dressed and clean up the french fry prep mess I'd made.

I was fairly confident I'd cracked the secret code on these guys but I still had to put them to ultimate taste test.... the two year old critic, Maeve. Check out the footage.

That's right, I said "better than the ones I made last night." What can I say? I am simply not a quitter. I am determined and committed. If the fries were a failure at lunch today, you can bet your ass I would've tried again at dinner. I'm vigilant.

She seemed fairly pleased. Here's the before and after....