Melicious Details

When my husband was a ninja vampire.

At the dermatologist's urging, Clyde had a treatment using blue light to remove some pre-cancerous spots on his face. While the end result would be a less spotty face, immediately after the treatment he couldn't be in the daylight or be near a window where sunlight was coming in, or sit too close to fluorescent or incandescent lights for 48 hours.

The morning after the blue light special, I was awoken at dawn to this:

Me: What are you doing?
Clyde: I'm going to water the tomato plants before the sun comes up.
Me: Seriously??  I need to take a picture of you.
Clyde: Are you going to put it on Melicious Details?
Me: Absolutely.
Clyde: You don't need to take my picture.
Me: This would be hard to describe without a photo.
Silence
Me: So then are you going to spend the rest of the day laying under the house?
Clyde: First I have to go to the bank.

And then you asked: Does it come with a bottle of drool?

My friend Professor Steve alerted me to this photo. I told him he should put it on his blog, but Professor Steve doesn't have a blog and doesn't want one.  He says he never will and I can take that to the banque. Steve lives close to Canada, which must be why he spells banque that way.

But enough about Steve.  Here's the conversation I am imagining you and I would be having right now:

You:  What's with the lady and the dog?
Me:   The lovely jacket worn by that lady is made entirely of fur from her Newfoundland!
You:  Shut. Up. 
Me:  Really.
You:  Eeeeeeewww.  Is the jacket really really bulky or is her head just small?
Me:  Um. I'm not sure.
You:  Is that a gold brooch on the lapel? Is she accessorizing her dog fur jacket??
Me:  Hmm.  Maybe.
You:  Do you think she takes the jacket to the groomer when it gets dirty? Like when other dogs lift their leg on her??
Me:  Possibly.
You:  That jacket could not be more unattractive. Who would actually wear something like that? She looks ridiculous.
Me:  You are so mean.

If Someone Offers You a Morphine Pump, Say Yes.

I had surgery a couple of weeks ago.  Because, for one thing of many things, having surgery meant I could avoid having to take a drug for five years (yes, FIVE YEARS) that has a long list of creepy side effects like it might cause you to grow a third eye.  OK, maybe not a third eye.  But still, potentially unattractive side effects are possible with that drug.  Which will remain nameless.  Thus, the surgery.

One of the first things I remember when I woke up from the anesthesia was the nurse handing me a small cylindrical thingy and saying:  Here is your morphine pump.  And me thinking:  she is out of her mind!  I am not using a morphine pump.

Because I don't do drugs.  I've never taken prescription meds for longer than 2 weeks.  I barely know if there is a difference between Advil and Tylenol.  Is there?  I can never remember.

The nurse leaves, visitors arrive, and so does the aching and the throbbing and a kind of searing burning pain that gets worse when I breathe. That's when I realized what I really really really needed was a morphine pump and THANK GOD I has holding one in my left hand.

Those people who invented the morphine pump?  Very clever.  They made it so you only get a teeny tiny little dose every 10 minutes if you push the pump.  When you push the pump successfully it makes a delightful little dinging sound.  If you push it before 10 minutes is up, it makes an obnoxious, let's tell the whole world you are a drug addict BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! sound.

I learned three things happen when you use a morphine pump.
#1. The pains stops screaming at you right away.
#2. You believe you are completely lucid at all times despite the fact that you are injecting a narcotic directly into your vein.
#3. You lose the ability to tell time.

At 2:19 p.m. I am becoming a morphine pump expert.  I make a mental note that in 10 minutes it will be 2:29.  I push the pump.  Ding.  I am blissful.  Did I just have surgery?  I can't believe I don't have any pain.

At 2:23 I look at the clock and realize hey! it's time for more morphine!  I push the pump again.  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Something must be wrong. I address all of my visitors, but specifically Clyde because it is his job to fix things.

Me:  This isn't working.

To prove my point, I push the pump again. BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Clyde:  You just did it a few minutes ago.

Me:  I did not.

Clyde:  Yes you did.  It hasn't been 10 minutes yet.

Me:  Yes it has.

I push the pump again, because it has definitely been 10 minutes by now.  BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Me:  See?? It's NOT WORKING.

I am told this conversation was repeated five or six times an hour for the next 12 hours.  Thankfully, I don't remember any of that.

Mistaken Identity

At first I thought he had somehow gotten the step stool out and climbed up and opened the knife drawer (a real accomplishment without opposable thumbs) but then I realized:  Oh. They are not referring to MY Trio.

 

Tomato Time

It's tomato planting season at our house, where we research the best, sweetest varieties of tomato plants to buy, we head off to the nursery to purchase them, we weed out the tomato planters we built last year, we turn over the soil with a shovel and bring in a few wheelbarrows of mulch, and then we put each little plant in the dirt.  And by we, I mean Clyde.

Last year, no one loved our home grown tomatoes more than Trio.  Cue the True Blood theme song:

Numerophobia

I downloaded a handy new iPhone app called Tipulator (not to be confused with the tipping practice known as The Service Was So Bad I'll Tip You LATER).  I used it for the first time when having dinner with my sister wives, Susan, Lindsay and Desiree.  If you do not watch the HBO series Big Love, you are no doubt saying to yourself what the hell does she mean with the sister wives?  If you do watch Big Love, you know exactly how funny this is, and I cannot take any credit, it was completely Desiree's idea.

As a side note, have you noticed how many references this blog makes to HBO?  It's not like they are paying me or anything.

I used Tipulator to calculate our dinner bill, putting in the amount, adding an 18% tip (because how could you ever figure out 18% without a calculator anyway) and dividing by four.  No long division on the tablecloth, no trying to decide if we should round up or round down.  I am in love with Tipulator. We decided to spare our server the agony of dealing with four credit cards for one check and just had her split it on two cards, mine and Desiree's.

Me:  OK, Des, we each owe $72.57.  Total.
Des:  So how much is the tip?
Me:  I already included it.  The total is $72.57.
Des:  So I have to subtract the tip? 
Me:  The total tip amount is $22.14.  So use half of that.
Des:  I'll just sign my credit card receipt and give it to you to fill out.  That way I don't have to look at any numbers.

All Ears

If you are a person talking on your cellphone in public and I can hear you, I will be eavesdropping.  Because I'm just nosy that way. 

I catch people lying all the time. Like the woman at JFK in the bookstore with me.  We'd checked in for the same flight, and now had lots of time to kill.  Which explains why we were both standing around reading magazines we had no intention of buying.  She answered her phone and started talking about nothing very interesting.  But then she says, "OK, I gotta go, my flight is boarding now."  And I look at her like seriously?  It's not boarding for 45 more minutes.  If we're lucky. 

Or the guy sitting by me outside of Peet's.  He was slumped in a chair, his head back, staring at the sky while he talked on his cell.

Guy:  I already told you.
pause
Guy:  NOTHING HAPPENED WITH HER.
pause
Guy:  Well, she's lying.
pause
Guy:  (sighs loudly) I don't know.
pause
Guy:  I have to go.  My battery is running out.
pause
Guy:  My battery is RUNNING OUT. I'll call you later. Bye.

He then dials another number and talks to his buddy about sports for the next 15 minutes.

Speaking of eavesdropping, my best one ever was a few years ago at a swanky restaurant.  A man and a woman were sitting at a table close by. They started out having a romantic dinner but it began to death spiral during the entree.  I was straining to hear because oh my god, it was obviously so juicy but they were whispering through clenched teeth, which is especially hard to decipher.  Finally, the woman pushed back her chair and said, with exceptional clarity, "John, you're the one who came home with the disease!" and walked out of the restaurant. 

It's easier to pronounce than it looks.

When I was about 12, I realized that I would be able to - if I wanted to! - change my last name when I got married.  I never liked the last name I was born with because it didn't seem special or memorable, two things I desperately wanted to be.  For sure having a new name was going to make that happen.

I hated that my maiden name was always stuck smack in the boring middle of any alphabetical listing.  And it never, ever begged the question "how do you pronounce that?"  I wanted an interesting combination of letters, and something that was fun to write when I was practicing my autograph.

So did I hit the jackpot or what when I married Mr. Dyrdahl? 

Really I did not have a terrible last name before I got married. Nichols might be plain and common, but it wasn't embarrassing.  It wasn't bad at all, compared to a guy I worked with whose last name rhymed with dildo. Or some of the other unfortunate surnames I've come across like Peeps, Snakeshaft, or Clutterbuck.  Good God, living with any of those would be brutal. 

I've now been Melissa Dyrdahl for over half my life.  I've spelled my last name out loud a million times and have had the pronunciation butchered in countries all over the world, although Americans are the worst. Brain paralysis sets in when they're faced with an unusual combination of letters like D-Y-R. 

And funny stuff like this happens all the time. I bought tickets over the phone and the person I spoke to told me I could pick up them up at Will Call, but I would have to have an ID and the credit card I was buying the tickets with, or under no circumstances would I be given the tickets.  So, when I get to Will Call, I have this conversation.

Me:  I'm here to pick up my tickets.
Woman At Will Call:  What's your name?
Me:  Melissa Dyrdahl
WAWC:  What?
Me:  Melissa.  Dyrdahl.  D-Y-R-D-A-H-L.
WAWC:  I don't see anything under that name.
Me:  Try looking under D-R-Y.
WAWC:  Oh. Here they are. How do you pronounce that?
Me:  Deer-doll.
WAWC:  Hmm.  (She hands me the tickets).
Me:  Don't you need to see my ID and credit card?
WAWC:  No...
Me:  You don't ?
WAWC:  Honey, there is no way you could make that up.

For Nausea or Racquet Sports

I went on a sailing vacation in the British Virgin Islands last week which is really surprising considering that I don't sail and also considering that I get motion sickness.  Since me barfing can ruin my entire day, before I left on the trip I bought something called Sea-Bands which claim to prevent nausea and vomiting.  And right now the marketer in me is imagining the product naming meeting where there was a big debate as to why they couldn't be called NauSea-Bands.  But I digress.

Sea-Bands are knitted, elasticated (that is the manufacturer's word choice, not mine, and it does not pass the spell check by the way) wrist bands you wear on each wrist.  Once you have accessorized your swimsuit or other boating attire with your Sea-Bands, you look like you are all ready for a sporting activity that requires you stop the sweat from getting on your hands.  I have never even actually sweat so much to consider getting a paper towel, but from what I hear, preventing sweat from dripping down past your wrists is crucial to winning a title. 

I can tell you from my personal experience on a boat in 25 mph winds and seven foot swells that Sea-Bands are anti-barfing magic.  When I I had them on, the idea of barfing never entered my mind, which is a good thing, because you know what happens...once you start thinking about barfing, tragedy ensues.  After an especially turbulent night of non-stop pitching and rolling (I am referring to the boat, not to any other activity you may be presuming I was indulging in) I am certain I would have hurled if not for my Sea-Bands.

If you are wondering what makes Sea-Bands work, it's the white plastic stud (as shown on my own personal arm in the photo) that applies pressure to the nei kuan acupressure point on each wrist.  (Our friends at wikipedia provide a long, complex answer to your questions about what and where is a nei kuan pressure point.  Trust me, it is more than you want to know, but I like to be a full service blogger and give you the sources for the level of detail you need to feel fulfilled.) I actually have another theory about how Sea-Bands work:  if you leave them on long enough, the plastic stud presses into your nei kuan to such an extent that alarming indentations form on your inner wrists, which causes pain - on a scale of 1 to 10 - of about a 7.  You cannot possibly be distracted by vomiting when your wrists are turning purple and your hands are going numb.

And then a vampire joined the meeting.

I think Alan Ball is a brilliantly creative writer and director. His HBO show Six Feet Under was one of my favorite series of all time and for many years the ring tone on my phone was the show's theme song.  His newest and even more fabulous HBO series, True Blood, is about vampires who co-exist with humans in small-town Louisiana.  The theme song is riveting, and is now my new ring tone. 

Enough of the backstory. The true story I was going to tell is this:  last week my business partner and I were at a very important meeting.  We were trying to make a good impression, and attempting to be all cool and professional. I've discovered that being both cool and professional are hard for me to do at the same time.  In this case, Being Professional means you make sure your phone does not ring during an important meeting.  It means you take the time to double-check your phone before you go into the meeting to make sure it is turned off.  And then you check it one more time.  But I was too busy being cool and forgot to turn my phone off.  See?  Clearly I can't multi-task.

The meeting was going pretty well and the person we were meeting with was in mid-sentence when the True Blood theme song suddenly gushed from my purse. Everyone froze, and there was a shimmer of tension in the room while two pairs of eyes looked at me like "can't you learn how to be both cool and professional and turn your effing phone off when you're in an important meeting??" But before I could exhale, the guy we were meeting with started to smile and says "Hey, isn't that the theme from True Blood?" 

Sometimes being professional is way overrated.