They were the best of times, they were the worst of times

Here are some of MY favorite blogs from the past. These were all originally written for MyCoupons.com, a site I used to blog for. I no longer work for them, or even visit the site, but I hear things have improved since they let go of the "writer" that took my place and a new President is in office. Many of you know the VH1 True Hollywood Story behind those days. Those who don't- just be glad you are ignorant and enjoy!!

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If you were being sent to deserted island and could only take one item and one person- I suggest you take 1000 eggs and me.

My skin is so greasy, that you could literally fry an egg on it. GROSS!!

I saw my dermatologist last week. I again complained about my oily skin.

I have tried no less than fifteen soaps, lotions, and creams.

No matter what I did, my skin always looked like I had slathered on olive oil.

After hearing my rant, my dermatologist asked which I wanted first, the good news or the bad news.

I never know how to answer this question! I mean, if I take the good news first, no matter how elated I am, I will still be feeling queasy, because I know the bad news is just around the corner.

On the other hand, if I take the bad news first, I’ll be so pre-occupied with the horror I just heard that I will not get to relish in the good news to follow.

I opted for the bad news first.

“There is really not much more you can do.”

Ok. So I have been sentenced to life as a grease face. There are worse things, I suppose.

And the good news?

“You won’t have wrinkles when you get old!”

Well slap my butt and call me Sally! You mean when I am ninety-six peeing in my pants and calling out to my cat that died three decades earlier, I’ll still have the face of a thirty year old? Albeit a greasy one?? Sign me up!

Not exactly good news to me.

I care what my skin looks like now. Will I care what my skin looks like 60 years from now? I doubt it. 60 years from now, the only thing I plan on caring about is whether I wake up every day.

“There is one last thing you can try.” Dr. Death told me. “St. Ives apricot scrub.”

I started wondering how to book a flight to St. Ives, wherever that was, and how I was going to get their scrubby apricots back through customs.

“You can get it at Wal-Mart.” He offered.

Wal-Mart?!?!

I have had prescriptions filled for creams that have removed the top layer of my skin, prescriptions for soap that contained more alcohol than my dorm room refrigerator, and a $200 non-insurance covered prescription for a lotion that I had to wear GLOVES to apply. And he is telling me the holy grail of face cleansers is sold at Wal-Mart???

Off I went. To Wal-Mart (Not St. Ives) I picked up a bottle for less than $5.

I took it home, and was impressed that I didn’t have to don protective hazmat gear to apply it. I wet my face with warm water and started scrubbing. The scrub is made from apricot pits, and is very dry and rough. Once I rinsed it off, I did not look greasy.

I went about my next task, and when I checked the mirror ten minutes later, I was still NOT greasy.

An hour later, no oil. For the rest of the day, I remained oil free!

That was last Monday. It has now been a week, and I can honestly say that I am NOT oily. I use the scrub twice a day- morning and night and I look SO much better.

I emailed my dermatologist this morning: (He is a life-long friend of my parents, so I can talk to him like this!)

Dear Dr. Death,
I wanted to thank you and let you know that the St.Ives apricot scrub is working! My face is not oily, and I am so happy to have found this wonder wash! My skin is as dry as a desert, and I love it. Seeing as how I am a ‘have my cake and eat it too’ kinda girl, I was wondering if I could still retain the right to have no wrinkles when I am old.

P.S. I think it only fair that you take me on the next drug company paid vacation you are treated to. Since I have been your guinea pig for the last ten years, while you used my face to sell expensive prescriptions, I think you owe me this.
Sincerely,
Cici

He replied this evening:

Dear Cici,
How does Barbados in the spring sound? And, sorry to burst your bubble, but you were going to get wrinkles anyway. I was just trying to make you feel better.
Love,
Dr. Death.

I’m going to wash my face!

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A world class jet-setter, I am not. I fly, on average three times a year. I never go to exotic destinations like London or Cape Town.
Nope. I go to Philadelphia, Denver, and Las Vegas.
On planes, like all other aspects of my life, I always get the shaft. I inevitably sit next to the smelliest, gassiest, largest person on the plane.

So, when I read of Rachel Collier being kicked off of a Continental Airline flight for COUGHING, I was a bit ticked.

What I wouldn’t give to sit next to someone that was coughing.

A cough, even a dry, hacking, put a pillow over her face cough has to be better than what I have experienced while suspended thirty-five thousand feet over our great country.

In 2000, my husband and I took a red-eye to Los Angeles. Of course, I was not seated next to my husband. I was 9 rows behind him. He fell asleep before take off.

I, on the other hand was seated next to Don Juan himself. He started with small talk, I explained I was on my honeymoon. He then told me his life story. By the time we were somewhere over Arizona, he had had too much drink and was crying like a baby. He then asked if I was a member of the ‘club.’ (The mile high one) When I told him no, he inquired if I wanted to become one.

Believe it or not, that was mild considering what I have experienced while in the friendly skies. I have been vomited on, cried upon, and once spent six grueling hours sitting at the gate in Philadelphia while the plane was de-iced. They wouldn’t let us get off the plane, heck, they wouldn’t even let us stand up.

That is truly the closest I have ever come to going completely and totally shitzo. And to add insult to injury, I was sitting next to a woman who was experiencing minor gastrointestinal distress. She made no excuses, or even attempts to mask her malady. She did, however, apologize.

At least I had that going for me.

But of all flying stories I have, by far the one that goes down in history is the time I was en route to Las Vegas. The weather was horrible, the turbulence was abundant, and I was sitting next to a man who was convinced we were going down.

To ease his fear, he drank himself into a comfortably numb state. I was relieved when he fell asleep, even though his head was on my shoulder. I was reading my book when he woke up, turned to me and said “Are we in Denver yet?”

Confused, I explained we were not going to Denver, we were going to Las Vegas.
He laughed at me and said “Funny.”

It hit me that he was not only extremely drunk, but very confused.

He fell back asleep and when we touched down, I stood up to get my bag from the overhead bin. He was still fast asleep and snoring. As I exited the plane, I told the flight attendant that the guy in row 12, seat B was still sleeping.
She glanced back at him, then said “Oh, that’s one of our Captains. He just got off an international flight and we are giving him a ride back home.”

Nice.

Needless to say, every single time I board a plane now, I look at the Captain.

If I ever see Captain Morgan sitting at the controls, I am going to stage the biggest coughing fit I can muster.

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I'm sick.

Again.

My daughter is a walking magnet for germs. She is in pre-school and picks up every sniffle, sneeze and cough that comes into the school. Being my daughter, she is a giver. So, she shares with me. We have been sick about 14 times since September.

Yesterday, I felt the twinge in my throat. That dry feeling when I swallowed. You know the feeling. Don't you? Your throat goes dry and your inner voice says "Uh oh- I'm getting sick." Try all you want, it's coming at you like a train, and you are helpless. You cannot stop it, and you just KNOW you are going to wake up tomorrow feeling worse. Mentally, you think about the next week, and fret about the plans you have, and how the timing of this couldn't be worse.

I was talking to my friend Sara (Of car shopping fame) last night, and told her our weekend plans of fun and sun may be put on hold due to my untimely illness.

"Go get some Zicam!" She insisted. "It really works."

Now, as much as I love Sara, she is what some might refer to as..um.. different. At any given time, you can find herbal remedies in her purse, and she always smells like incense.

"Sara, I really don't believe in that alternative medicine stuff." I told her.

"Cici! Just try it. It really works, and it's safe. I mean, I'm not a doctor, but I know it works." She droned.

"Really?!?! You're NOT a doctor??? All along, I thought for sure you were performing cardiothoracic surgery when you said you were at yoga class! What a shocker!" I said.

"FINE! Be that way. And be sick! See if I care!" She said as she hung up on me abruptly. I assume she was paged to a GSW/MVA, complete with a chem 7, type and cross and a lavage. (I watch ER too much)

I spent the night coughing and sneezing, and feeling like I got run over by a truck. When the morning light came in my windows, I got out of bed, pulled back the curtains, and prayed that I would see fourteen feet of snow on the ground; so I'd have an excuse to stay in bed all day. There was no snow. I live in Florida. Darn global warming.

So I pulled myself out of bed, and went to CVS, to find some medicine to make me feel better. As I was reaching for a bottle of 'green death' (Nyquil) I saw Zicam.

Studying the wide array of choices, I felt sicker than before. Zicam comes in many forms. I could choose to spray it up my nose, or stick a cotton swab in my shnauz. As I guffawed at the thought, a woman next to me said "I use that! It really works!"

Do you know Dr. Sara Morgan, the world renowned cardiodthoracic surgeon? I wanted to ask.

Fine. I bought it. After much careful thought, I decided that sticking cotton swabs up my nose was not the route I wanted to go. I settled on the nasal mist.

Once I got home, I read the directions. Twice. The directions instructed me to place the bottle in my nose, and gently spray the fine mist into my nostril. DO NOT BLOW YOUR NOSE FOR 30 SECONDS! It warned me.

Ok. Here we go. I put the nozzle in my nose, and after 5 minutes of nerves, I accidentally squeezed too hard and sprayed it. OH. MY. GOD. What a horrible feeling that was! I had never used a nasal spray before. I swear I felt in my brain. Immediately, my eyes began to water, and my mouth tasted like I just ate a handful of pennies.

My nose started to run like a track star, and my first instinct was to grab a nearby paper towel and blow it. Then I quickly remembered the warning to NOT blow my nose. What would happen? Would my eyes pop out? Would my brain leak? Panic set in as I began to get lightheaded. I thought I was going to faint.

Instead of blowing my nose, I breathed out hard, with my mouth closed- like a raging bull. That only made it worse. After 30 seconds passed, I blew my nose for about three minutes. I also brushed my teeth and washed my face. There was NO WAY I was about to attempt that stunt with nostril number two. The Zicam went into the garbage.

Does it work? I don't know. Obviously the manufacturer intended for it to be used on BOTH nasal passages, every four hours. One nasal passage was enough for me, thank you very much.

Do I feel better? No. I feel worse. As I write this, my 'normal adult dosage', (plus a little extra for mommy) of Nyquil is kicking in. I should be asleep within the next ten minutes.

Sara can have her homeopathic spray of death. I'll stick to my green coma inducing juice. Talk to you next week when I wake up.

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I am still sick. In fact, I am worse than I was last night. I think that in addition to my cold, the Zicam burned off my nasal hairs and taste buds. I cannot smell or taste anything! I had an apple earlier, and it tasted like a potato. Of course, I am hungrier today than a bear waking up from hibernation. But what's the point in eating if you can't taste? It's like jumping into a hot pool on an August day.

As if the cough, chest congestion, runny nose and fever were not enough, I also have an eye infection. It's quite attractive. I took a nap earlier this evening, and when I woke up, I had the special treat of having to wash my eye with a wet washcloth just to open it. So, I did what every sane person does when they realize they are afflicted with a new malady.

I googled my symptoms.

It would appear by all accounts that I have the third strain of a Lebanese virus. There is no known cure. I am doomed.

Of course, considering that I have self-diagnosed myself with every disease and affliction out there, this new diagnosis is no surprise. My primary care physician may have graduated suma-cum-something from Harvard; but her medical knowledge and access to my personal history is no match for the resources on the web.

Last year, I had a headache for four days in a row. What started out as a tension headache, suddenly turned into spinal meningitis. I stopped short of performing a self spinal tap, but I was tempted. According to the email I get daily, I COULD earn my medical degree in my spare time. Hey! Sara and I can be co-workers!!

When I told my friend, Ginger about my new disease- she laughed me off. Until she called two days later to inquire if spinal meningitis was contagious. She had a headache, and it wouldn't go away. Miraculously, we both were cured.

According to my calculations, in addition to the meningitis, I have had cancer of every possible organ. I have also had pre-menopause, post partum depression, hangnail infections, and roaches living in my ears. My teeth itch, my hair hurts, and my leg throbs when it's going to rain.

Last week, my husband, updating our computers firewall, and no doubt googling his own symptoms, incredulously demanded to know "Why are you looking up EYELID cancer?!?"

I had a bump on my eyelid. There was no way it was anything BUT eyelid cancer.

Basically, I am an internet made hypochondriac.

If not for the internet, I would assume a headache was just a headache. Because of the internet, I now assume a headache is a pre-cursor to imminent brain explosion.

My doctor has stopped telling me things. I saw her a few weeks ago for my annual physical. She ordered some blood work, but instead of giving me the lab form, she said she would fax it to the lab for me. I offered to take it with me, but she refused.

"Oh No! You'll go home and look up every test I ordered. Then you'll wonder why I ordered the test, and assume it's because I see something in your eyes that tells me you have some strange disease. I know you too well, Cici."

Touche.

I have an appointment tomorrow night to go over the results of my labs. I am breaking out in a cold sweat at the thought of what she will tell me. In reality, I am a young woman, in moderately good health. My family history is pretty clean, and my lifestyle, while not perfect, is not horrible either. I should have no reason to worry- but according to Web MD- I have every disease known to man.

I am thinking of putting a net nanny type of software on my computer- to keep me from searching for medical information. Of course, this would hinder my progress in tracking my bird flu symptoms.

My friend, Stacey, a nurse, brushes me off when I tell her all of my problems. She said "You know, Cici, one day, many years from now, I'll be sitting at your funeral. I'm going to turn to the person next to me and say 'She was FINALLY right'."

The Nyquil is kicking into overdrive, and I think my fingertips are numb.