Reason #253 why I am in love with Dr. H

So, today was a fun day. Spent the first 20 minutes or so at work in the copy room, huddled over the shred bin, talking (read: sobbing) on the phone with Julie about Mark and Rachel, while random employees came in to make copies, and then returned with tissues.

I love my life.

Good thing I had Ativan at work, because I popped two at once around 10:00, which dried me out and I seemed to be doing fairly well until about 3:00.

Which was exactly when my phone rang.

My sweet little scheduling girl was calling to let me know there had been a problem with my insurance approval and we needed to reschedule my PET.

Insert deep, ugly, raspy sigh here...

Why? Why, I asked, did it not get approved? And how had it happened AGAIN that we didn't know until the day before the scan that the approval didn't come through? ... I told her that I knew she was just the one stuck making the call, and I wasn't mad at her, but I needed to know why/how this kept happening because this was not okay. That I am not okay, and I need this scan now.

Poor little thing. She was not expecting me to have a high-speed-come-apart. (Clearly.) She asked if she could put me on hold... and then came back about five minutes later to tell me she didn't want to keep me on hold, but she would do what she could to work it out to get me scheduled for a PET Friday morning, and a followup Friday afternoon.

Not best case scenario, but... it's better than waiting a week. So, whatever.

About 30 minutes later, my phone rang again. She was all apologies for the false alarm. My scan is back on for tomorrow morning. She talked to scheduling, and it was too late to make any phone calls. She wasn't sure what to do, so she walked back to Dr. Homsi's office and explained the situation to him. She said, "He picked up the phone and called the insurance company himself. He gave them hell... and they approved it."

As per the scheduler, I owe this appointment to my good doctor doing verbal battle with the insurance company. Again. (I hate that he has to call to get me approved for a routine scan, but I looooove that he does call and he does get me approved. Dr. Homsi is the man!) She gave all the credit for this getting worked out to Homsi, and said, "You'll have to give him a hug when you see him, because this was all him."

I said "Oh, I'd give that man a whole heck of a lot more than a hug... if he'd just let me near him." She laughed out loud. I may or may not have double dog dared her to tell him I said that. (She knows that I'm ridiculous flirty with him, and said she wished she could come in to the room and listen to our conversation.)

Friday's appointment should be fun. (Who's kidding who? They ALWAYS are!)

As for me and my house, we are just so (super, duper, incredibly) grateful that tomorrow is still scan day. I need this week to be over. I need this PET done, I need results. I need them this week.

The lack of sleep and general pain about my bellybutton is getting to be too much. Tonight, I went to a movie with a group of friends, and then spent a good 45 minutes after the movie, talking to a friend while I literally soaked his shirt with my tears. ... And wiped my own boogers off with my sweater. (I tried to keep the tears on his clothes and the boogies on mine - but I'm not sure if I was 100% successful.) I am tired of being tired. I am tired of wondering if this is only a hernia, or all kinds of bowels gone wrong. Or worse. I am tired of being on the verge of tears at all moments of every day. ... In short, I am tired.

And, thanks to my blessed Dr. H, because he is exactly the kind of doctor who'll pick up a phone and give an insurance company hell... the end is in sight. This is why I love him. (The dreamy accent and fabulous looks are some perks, to be sure, but at the end of the day... he is a doctor and I am his patient - and he makes sure I get what I need. And I love him for that more than I'll ever love him for looking good in a lab coat . .... Which, btw, he can rock like none other..)

So, tomorrow's the day that I get injected with radiation and they take colorful pics of my innards. Friday, I'll get the results. ... Be looking forward to that!

Testing positive

So, I heard from my doctor's office with the results on Henry. She said, and I quote, "We received your results. You test positive for a hernia."

Something about the way that news was delivered makes me laugh out loud. Who'd have ever thought one could "test positive" for a hernia? I love it!

Now, her original advice was to get the ultrasound done and then make an appointment with a general surgeon. That wouldn't be a problem, per se. I happen to have a general surgeon (the one she suggested, lo those many years ago when Darth Vader was discovered), but with it being this close to my PET... well, I'd rather wait and get the opinions of my swell docs at MD Anderson before I go scheduling any consults with other surgeons. So, I did what any self-respecting patient with an entire battery of doctors at her disposal... and I asked both SMIL and the doctor's office to send copies of the ultrasound to my beloved.

And then I scripted the following email to let him know it was coming:

Dear Dr. H,

I just wanted to give you a heads up that you should be getting a special delivery from SMIL this week. I'd had a cough for, oh... like a month (read: too dang long), so I went to my primary care doctor a couple weeks ago and walked out with both a prescription for a Z-pack and an order for an abdominal ultrasound. (I was pretty sure I was developing a hernia before I started coughing in October. But the coughing made it worse. So (SO!) much worse.)

I had an ultrasound last Thursday, and had a call from my doctor's office to confirm I am "positive for a hernia" on Friday afternoon.

My doc is advising that I contact a general surgeon and schedule a consult for surgery to correct the hernia. Before I call my old general surgeon (love Dr. Hyde like I do), I would rather wait for the results of my PET scan, to make sure there's nothing else going on. I figure, if I need anything more than hernia repair, Gimbel is my man. (Also, since he is the last doc who opened me up, I'm not about to schedule a surgery with anyone else without his go-ahead.)

Oh, and I like to email you. ;-)

You may receive duplicates, from both SMIL and Dr. Gibson's office. (Because I am the queen of overkill - you may have noticed - I asked both offices to forward them to you.) ... I just wanted to let you know that they were coming your way, and why.

I hope you have a perfectly lovely Thanksgiving holiday this week. I'll see you on Dec 6th.

- Laurie


You can imagine my surprise and delight to receive the following response from my beloved H this afternoon:


I am letting Dr Gimbel know about this

Lets wait to see what your PET shows

i will see you on the 6th

Happy Thanksgiving to you too

JH


Did you see how he signed with his initials, instead of his whole (official) name? ... It's pretty intimate, right? ... Yeah, I thought so, too. (Esp since he took the time to spell out G's whole name.) I'm pretty sure we're getting serious.

Or he's trying to get me to break up with him, and that's why there's not one piece of punctuation in his entire email.

Tomato/tomahto. (He's gonna have to try harder than that if he wants to shake me. I happen to know that English is, like, his fifth language or something. If I'm gonna forgive anyone a lack of punctuation, it's gonna be H! Please.)

The Results

Because it's late (and I'm super tired - see multiple blog posts over the last couple weeks, detailing my inability to get a solid, decent night's sleep), this won't be long...

But for those of you who aren't on the immediate family phone tree, texting aficionados, or FB friends to have seen the news....

THE SCAN WAS CLEAN!

Wa-freakin-hoo!

I'm one week short of being a full year cancer-free, but I'm still counting it as a year.

I've been cancer-free for a year. ... That is all that I've wanted since, oh... about 2 seconds after I found out about my second tumor in February 2011. (Effective immediately: All I want is to be cancer-free for 18 months. Oh, and maybe some peanut butter/chocolate ice cream.)

When Dr. H gave me the news, he told me that I needed to shout it from the rooftops, so...

I AM CANCER-FREE!

Tomorrow, or maybe Sunday or Monday (once I've had some time to catch up on some sleep), I'll do more of an official update. (By which I mean: a full report of the conversation had between doctor and patient this afternoon. It was a doozy. Be looking forward to that.)

For now, this short little post with all manner of all-capped and fragmented sentences will have to convey my joy at the results of this scan, my gratitude towards doctors who tried a different approach - and saved my life - and the awesome people out there (the original 13 and beyond) who've cared enough to keep tabs on me.

I love my life. ... I always have. ... But knowing that my pants don't fit anymore because I've been eating too much cake? Oh, man... That's, like, a whole new level of loving my life!

Today has been a great day.

I am happy.

I am humbled.

I am grateful. So, so, grateful...

I am cancer-free.

In honor of my favorite Canadian's birthday...

42 Things That I Love About Nathan

The hair
He's age-appropriate
Have you seen the man smile?!
His mom's name is Cookie. (I heart cookies.)
His parents are English teachers.
He grammars.
He's a geek. ("Age of the geek, babay!")
6' 1 1/2"
He's funny. I mean, sure Castle and Mal are funny... but NATHAN is funny!
His tweets.
He can laugh at himself.
He co-founded a charity to help get books into the hands of needy children.
Malcolm Reynolds.
Malcolm Reynolds. (Not a typo. I love Mal enough to list him twice.)
He asks people to donate $$ to buy water for the underprivileged - as a birthday gift - to him.
The hair.
The smile.
The one-eyebrow up look.
His laugh.
His watch. (You think I'm kidding. I. Am. Not.)
He wanted to be a high school teacher.
Nathan Fillion is his REAL name!
Captain Hammer.
He ALSO blogs. (Or did, anyway. Back in the MySpace age.)
The hair.
Dude sings along with Jason Mraz.
He feeds into the love of the fans. I've seen the man autograph a pkg of Oreos, so he could give someone his signature. (Yeah. They were HIS Oreos. ... YouTube doesn't lie.)
He did singing telegrams when he was in college. (How cute is that?!)
He has a brother named Jeff. ... I've always wanted a brother-in-law named Jeff. (Coincidence? I think not.)
He's a lover of superheros and comics.
Rick Castle.
The hair.
He has a tattoo of an Egyptian glyph on his left hip. (Thank you, Mrs. Reynolds, for that episode.)
He, too, had a pet bird that he hated when he was a kid.
He mailed me a care package once.
He has nice penmanship. (I know, because he wrote "For Laurie" on said package. I swoon.)
He looks good in a white doctor coat. (Maybe not quite as good as Dr. H does. But still. ... Good.)
He was a karaoke DJ.
His middle name is Christopher. (Not sure why I enjoy that so much, but I do.)
He's a cat person. (Be still my beating heart!)
The man read the Harry Potter books. All seven of them. ... More than once.
He is siiiiiiingle! (My hope lives on. Always.)

Happy Birthday, Nathan! ... Even if you don't know I love you, the rest of the www does!

xoxo

In lieu of a comment section.

Ya'll have been cracking me up with the emails, texts and fb posts since I posted a pic of  my beloved Dr. H. It's breaking my heart that you can't all see what the others are saying (I swear, I don't know what's wrong with my comments set up!), so I thought I'd do a special post and share some of these with the group.

Enjoy!

"And that picture does not do him justice!" - Jo

"I just read your blog and saw your doc. Dreamy, indeed! I love that Jo invited him to Sunday dinner on your behalf. That's very 'Downton Abbey'! I feel a Mary/Matthew romance blossoming; although your doc looks a little more like the handsome, mysterious Pamuk who dazzled Mary in season one." - Kimmie


"He's very 'Demi, Demi don't leave me!'" - Katie

"I just read your blog and laughed my way through it. You. Are. Awesome. And I love you. And I would come to your wedding for sure." - Cousin Julie

"So is it a conflict of interest for him to date a patient? If not, what exactly is the hold up?" - My Lizzie

"OMG! I think a March wedding sounds wonderful! Just don't take next Monday. That's my anniversary, and I don't like people stealing my thunder. Even you!" - Laura


"Dr. H IS dreamy and I love, love love that he is going to be reading your blog and that you don't care! I love you!" - Cousin Becca

"I just looked up the photo of DreamDoc. HO.LEE. COW!" - Judy W.

"Cute doc!!! I'm crossing my fingers for you...selfishly, that would leave Nathan Fillion for me." - Les

"Wowzers, he IS good looking!!!" - Brea

"When you've got it, you've got it." - Mom (also, TMM)

There you have it, kids. Out of the mouths of ten or more witnesses; I have a hot doctor. I'm a lucky, lucky girl. You know... for a cancer patient. (Just cracked myself up. Eight months cancer-free and counting!)

The Big Reveal

Behold:

Dr. H.

It's a bit of a bummer that he isn't smiling. (Dude has a wicked smile.) But at least this gives you all an idea of what I'm talking about.

His hair's a little longer than this now, and it's sort of wavy. When he gets surprised (say, when a patient tells him that she's been blogging for years - and specifically, writing about how dreamy her single oncologist is for the last several  months - and then asks if she can put his picture on her blog so her followers can see what he looks like), his eyes get wide and his eyebrows go up. And then he laughs and says "Sure, you can put my picture online." Its pretty adorable.

His condition was that I link it to his match.com profile.

I'm sorry, but... WHAT does that man think he needs Match for?! Hello. No, that's not happening. And I told him so, in a rather screechy voice. (I've been told men love to be screeched at, so I'm sure that was enjoyable for him.)

In semi-related news, he did not say no to Sunday dinner. He didn't say yes, either, but he didn't say no. (Does anybody else see a pattern here?)

Jo had sent a formal invite by way of a text to my phone that I handed to him and made him read.

Dr. H,

I hope that you will give us the pleasure of your company by accepting our invitation to Sunday dinner. We would love to have you.

Sincerely,

Jo and family

He took my phone number, and is going to look at his schedule and let me know what Sunday will work for him. That's right, he had me write my phone number down for him.

Also, he had me write......

The blog address.

So he can read  my blog. 

A normal person would be mortified right now. I, of course, am not. In fact, I think it's kind of hilarious that he wants to read what I've written about him. (And you can be darn sure I told him to look up June 16, 2012. That is, after all, the post that went viral and let 2,500 people know that I had a crush on my oncologist. It seemed fitting. ... Plus, it's pretty much the best thing I've ever written.) I figure how much harm can it do for him to read the silliness about him that gets chronicled here, when he knows darn good and well that I think he's dreamy and have designs on his future? In fact, we got into what could lightly be called an argument today over whether or not he could afford to marry me and pay for my life. Effective Tuesday. ... He's willing to cover my scans. I say his insurance would cover my scans, and he can cover everything else. ... Don't worry, kids, we'll work that out. Probably not before Tuesday, though, so don't hold your breath.)

Speaking of Dr. H reading my blog, he asked if he would be able to comment. My gut is that he's gong to want to refute whatever it is that I say, but on the off chance that he wants to write something about how funny I am, what a great writer I am, how much he enjoys my visits, or that he's thought about it, and maybe he can fit me (and my bills) into the rest of his life, I am going to open comment functionality back up.

That's right, people. You will be allowed to comment once again.

And before you give me any crap about making special conditions for one person, let me just say... I would have done it for Nathan Fillion, if he'd asked. So there.

(Besides, this gives you all an open forum to discuss how dreamy he is. Oh, and did you know the man cures cancer? ... Ups the ante a bit, doesn't it?)

Also, my scan was clean. The Tootsie Roll looks very much the same, only more like scar tissue. Whatever that means. ... I'll take it!

This day gets gold stars, all the way around!

Yay or Nay?

Okay, kids. I'm gonna pull a Whitney Dibble and put up a survey.

Some of you want to see what Dr. H looks like. Some of you, apparently, do not want to see what he looks like, because you like the fantasy that comes of not knowing.

I talked to my mom this afternoon, and told her I'd woken up to an email from a friend saying she didn't want to see a pic of Dr. H, because she was afraid she'd be disappointed. My mom, bless her heart, said, "Did you write her back and say, 'You won't be!'?!" ... And then we laughed. Out loud.

It appears that the masses (all 19 of you) are divided.

So, I'm gonna give ya'll the right to choose.

See the survey at the top right corner of the blog? Just above the Cancer Girl Donation Center (speaking of which... it's scan week... in a new year, and that means I need to pay a whole new deductible and out-of-pocket max... so feel free to make a donation), there's a little Yes or No poll.

Click whichever way the spirit moves you.

Majority wins. (Assuming I can get his permission to show his pretty little face here in my corner of the www.)

Deadline to vote is 5:00 PM Friday.

Ready. Set. ... VOTE!

The upside of scan week...

I get a good 30 minutes with Dr. H on Friday. Maybe more, depending on whether he has someone scheduled after me. (When I saw him in November, I'm pretty sure I was his only patient all day. We talked for, like, an hour. It was a good time.)

That's right. On Thursday this week, I get to hang out in an isolation chamber, getting pumped full of radioactive materials, and then I get to bake in a tube for another 60-90 minutes. (Not my favorite day of the quarter. For sure.)

But on Friday? On Friday, I get to see the good doctor.

And just to clear any confusion up... (I've had more than one friend/family member ask in the last few weeks if he knows I have a crush on him).

Yes, yes he knows that I love him. I did, after all, ask the man to marry me the very first time we met. And then I took cookies to my second appointment, in hopes that their buttery goodness would win him over. And thus, a tradition was born.

Our "relationship" has been discussed every time I've ever seen the man. (Save the one appointment I had this summer when my mom came with, when I was recovering from surgery. He was really quiet that day. Withdrawn, even. ... Mom was pretty sure it was because he was nervous, meeting the in-laws for the first time. Ha!) Granted, it's always me bringing "the future" up. And then he sits there and laughs through the conversation while I make a case for there being a reason God led me straight to him. (You know, beyond his ability to cure cancer.)

Oh, he knows. He knows good and well. ... And I'm pretty sure he's okay with it.

The last time I saw him was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and we talked about our holiday plans. (He was going to TX, where he has a lot of friends. I was staying here, because I had to work the day after.) One thing led to another, and we ended up talking about our respective families. He's originally from Syria and doesn't have any family in the states. ... I may or may not have offered him five siblings and over 30 cousins if he married into mine. ... As always, he just laughed his way through me planning our lives together. We talked some more about the Tootsie Roll, made plans to get me in for an MRI, and he excused himself, saying he'd let PT know he was done with me and they could take me. As he was walking through the door, I called after him "Thanks for laughing at me... But you've got to know that as long as you're not saying 'No', I'm not giving up". A few seconds later - long enough for him to have gotten a good way down the hall and then have to came back - his head popped back into the room. With a wry, sideways grin, he said "I laugh, because I think you're funny". And then he was gone.

Be still, my beating heart.

At Christmas, I sent him a card in which I wrote "I love you (and not just in a 'I wish you'd give up, give in and agree to marry me already' sort of way)". True story. Those are the actual words I wrote in the card.

Yeah, he knows.

That being said, I have two points of business to discuss with him this Friday. Okay, three.

1) Has the Tootsie Roll grown, and is there anything else in there that might be contributing to my pants getting to be too tight?

2) Can I put his picture up on my blog? (I've had a lot of people ask me if I'll put his face here, and while he sure is listed on the www -- he has, after all, been published over 30 times in medical journals (I swoon) -- I don't feel like I could/should put his face on my blog without his permission.)

3) Will he come to Sunday dinner at Jo's? (If my sugar cookies didn't make him love me, my mashed potatoes will. I can just about guarantee it.)

I shall return and report the findings of all three questions, come Friday. Be watching for that.

July 21

It's been a month.

One month ago, I had the surgery to (hopefully) end all surgeries.

I'm a far cry from where I was six weeks ago, as far as being able to function on my own. But I'm also a far cry from where I was a month ago, when all I could do was lie in a hospital bed and try to breathe really, really shallow breaths, so the pain of just being alive wouldn't send me through the roof.

This morning, I walked about a third of my walk without my walker. Just me, hands held out for balance, toddling along the sidewalk on May.

This afternoon, I took a 5 1/2 hour nap that culminated in my trying to lie on my side. (I am, by nature, a side sleeper. Surgery interrupts my sleep cycles in about 179 different ways, not the least of which is that it FORCES me to sleep flat on my back. This is not natural to me.) I am pleased to report that I am now able to lie on my right hip, as long as my torso is turned and my upper body is still on my back. .... I know that doesn't sound like anything even remotely comfortable for most of you, that, in fact, it sounds like a contortionist position that you'd never EVER want to put yourself in. But for me, it is an option. A different way to lie in bed. This will give my tailbone a break, if only for a half an hour at a time.

It's been a month since I was able to lie on my side. Exactly a month. In fact, my last memory of lying on my side was in the hospital, in the prep room, as the anesthesiologists started their work before I could go into surgery.

It's been a month. An incredibly difficult, indescribably painful, often downright scary, doozy of a month. But I like to think that (most of) the truly difficult things are behind me. I like to think that in another month, the physical therapist will have my right arm moving in all the directions that the good Lord intended it to, that I'll be able to stand up in one fluid motion, without having to physically hold my stomach so there are no shooting pains associated with the movement. In one month, I'll hopefully be driving again. Here's hoping that the walker can be permanently retired to storage. I look forward to the day that my lungs can expand fully, so a yawn or the hiccups don't send me into orbit.

It takes time to get better. I know this. ... I am getting better. I know this, too. I'm grateful for the experience of having had prior surgeries, in that they have given me the knowledge that my body WILL heal. Our bodies are amazing, miraculous things. (Even the really crummy ones, like mine, can do totally awesome stuff.)

It's amazing to me, all the change that one month's time can bring about. I look forward to seeing where I'll be a month from now. .... In my mind, Nathan Fillion will just show up a week from Tuesday, take one look at me (I'll try not to have my hair in a bun that day) and want to whisk me away with him and take care of me - and my medical bills - for the rest of my life. (I know, I'm ridiculous. But you've got to admit, that would be a much more fun and exciting month to report than this last one has been... Hope springs eternal.)

May 11

Yesterday, I noticed that one of my FB friends had posted something about having bought Jester'Z tickets for a fundraiser that's happening in Snowflake next month. My first thought...

GENIUS!

Hello, who's in need (or will be in need, shortly, if my current medical costs keep up) of a fundraiser? ... Me.

And who loves Jester'Z? ... Again, me.

I mean, I love Navajo Tacos as much as (or even more than) the next girl. And I do hail from a great and wonderful part of the state that is known to throw a mean Navajo Taco fundraiser for hometown folks in need. ... But JESTER'Z?! That would be an even better (as in, more personal and suited to me) fundraiser than fried bread would be. (Not that I am dissing the fried bread. We all know that I am a big fan of the You Fry It, I Like It food category. ... I'm just saying that I prefer funny men to beans on bread. Amen.)

Tonight was my friend Christian's birthday party at... drumroll... Jester'Z. (My friends know how to party.) After the show, I talked to Jef (yeah, with one F) and asked how, exactly, their fundraiser thing works. He couldn't give me a lot of details, because he doesn't manage that part of the business, but he gave me a basic rundown of how it works (they take enough money to cover the cost of putting on the show, roughly $400-$600), and anything over that is profit. He explained that the amount of money made varies by advertising, the cause, etc...

Good thing I happen to be the CEO of Cancer Girl Enterprises and a few of my friends have been known to call me "PR Girl" instead of my actual name. Advertising shouldn't be a problem. Between Facebook, my blog, my connections at the printer, the contacts in my phone and my complete and utter lack of shame when it comes to asking people to donate to what I consider to be a good cause, I should be able to make a go of this.

Now, I just need to find some time in my hectic life to make some phone calls, do some research and start getting this put into motion. (Because I am leaning towards broke just paying for my routine medical costs... If and when I have surgery and have to be out of work for a minimum of two months (without any kind of disability pay coming in), the financial status around here is gonna go straight from unseemly to downright hideous.)

Wish me luck, folks. I'm crossing my fingers that I can play the cancer card (we all know that I like to) and get my own personal Jester'Z dream team to perform at the fundraiser. (What can I say? I dream big.)

March 18

Today, I dreamed a dream that I was at a restaurant (like, somewhere fancy, at an outside table... a la an Italian bistro - as in, in Italy) and a ridiculously good looking man of Middle Eastern descent - who was also a doctor - was totally hitting on me.

It was a good dream.

I woke up and laughed to myself that I am now officially dreaming about doctors trying to pick me up. Also, I thought to myself, "What is up with my recent obsession with men of Middle Eastern descent?".

And then I remembered.

Uhhhh.... Maybe I've mentioned this guy before:



Oh, right. Him, too:



So, maybe my crushing on dark and mysterious men (who have accents) isn't such a new thing, after all. But hey, at least my new Middle Eastern boyfriends aren't torturers or mutants. (Not that I minded that Sayid had been a torturer. It was soooo part of his charm, actually.)

Now, to figure out a way to get myself to an outdoor table in Italy so I can meet that dreamy doctor. Or maybe I should start milking this cancer for all it's worth and schedule a follow-up with Dr. H. ... Tomato/tomahto.

Hottest. Dad. Ever.

"What I do have are a very particular set of skills."

I shudder. (And not necessarily in a bad way.) I tell you what... Hottest. Dad. EVER!

If you haven't seen Taken, you must! It's an adrenalin rush and a half. I've seen it a good 10-15 times (easily) and even now, I'm exhausted when it's over. This movie is fan-freaking-tastic, in a kick-ass dad, don't-mess-with-my-kid-or-I'll-hunt-you-down-and-make-you-pay sort of way. (Also, it made me decide that I never want to go to Europe alone. Even if I am a paunchy woman in her mid-late 30's and am therefore not the type who's gonna bring a good price on the black market, I think it's just too big a risk to take.)

Call me crazy for likening movies a little bit too much to my own life, but I can tell you right now that I feel a lot safer since I made the decision to stay away from kidnappers in foreign lands. ... Just imagine how safe I'd feel if I had a man in my life who had those same special skills that Liam has. (He's delicious!)

I love this movie!

(But who's kidding who? I love Liam. Almost without fail.)

For real, if you haven't seen it - you must. Call me. I'll bring my dvd and the popcorn. It'll be a good time!

Why I'm not married

There are a lot of theories out there for why I’m not married. Some that I’ve heard:

I am selfish. (This from Jeff West, my mother and most recently some General Authorities of the church in the April 2011 GC address. I’m pretty sure my mom’s mocking Jeff when she says it, I’m not sure about the GA’s.)

I look for offense rather than love. (This from Bryan with a Y (not to be confused with Brian I, Brian II and/or Brian III) – the crazy man who spiraled quickly and violently when I was unable to respond to a series of texts he sent after 10:30 PM (I was asleep when they came in) and he cited this quality as the reason I’d die alone in two texts and one voicemail … Yeah, the second date was quickly and brutally broken the following morning when I woke up to umpteen texts, 7 missed calls and 5 semi-hysterical voice mails from the man. Bless him.)

I don’t want to get married and/or have children. (This from a couple sweet sisters from my current and past wards. How adorable are they for assuming the only reason in the world I wouldn’t have gotten married at the ripe old age of 21 was because I didn’t want a family? … Not the reason, folks, but thanks for thinking that I’d be married if I just wanted to be.)

I don’t wash my face at night before I go to bed. (I heard this for the first time almost 15 years ago. You’d think by now I’d be all about washing my face, just in case that turned the tides, but no.)

I'm too good for what's out there. (This from both Rhonda Hancock and Liz Roberts. ... Out of the mouths of two or more witnesses, or however that goes, is what I have to say about this theory.)

I always have candy. (This from my nephews, ages 5 and 7. I don’t really get the correlation between being the super cool aunt with the ever-present candy bowl and not having a husband, but for some reason I am “The one with the candy – the one who’s not married” to them.)

I’ve never loved any man as much as I love my independence. (This from Clint Horn. What can I say? Too bad that relationship didn’t go long term (or end well, frankly), because - on a lot of levels - that man really got me.)

All interesting (if not downright creative) reasons for why I’m still not married at 36. And all of them, on some level and at some point, probably have some truth to them. But I don’t think any one of those reasons can cover the blanket reason for why I think I’m still single.

What do I think is the blanket reason, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you.

Okay, I'll show you (that's probably easier):



That’s right, Atticus Finch.

Atticus Finch is the reason I’m still single. He’s tall. He’s dreamy (esp when played by Gregory Peck, and in my mind’s eye, he always is!). He’s super smart. He’s the best shot in the county, but he’ll only pick up a gun when there’s a mad dog threatening his kids. He’s principled. He’s honest. He is kind. He is good. He is fair. He’s a good neighbor (an incredible neighbor, really, to everyone on his street, but esp to Mrs. Dubose and Boo). He’s a lawyer and a single father and pretty darn good at both.

I love him.

And there you have it – the reason I’m not married, according to me. It’s the thought of Atticus Finch. So what if he’s a fictional character? For me, he represents all that is good and honorable – and until I find someone who reminds me of Atticus on at least 6 different character points, I’ll stay single, thanks.

People, my prayers have been answered!

What was the best part of going to the doctor on Friday? ... Okay, besides the whole "cancer-free" thing, which totally rocked. ... I will tell you:

The hot Indian doctor.

I'll be more specific, the hot Indian doctor who was not wearing a wedding ring. Let me just say there are some men who make me want to pick up and move to India.

This man:



And the hot doctor who was standing in for my usual sweet old-man oncologist who was on vacation last week. (Seriously, I debated whether or not it would be inappropriate to take my phone out and fake text someone so I could snap his picture. ... The importance of staring at him and maintaining eye contact during our conversation won out over my need to finagle a reason/way to get my phone out, in case you were wondering.)

He. Was. Delicious.

An oncologist, mid-late 30's, taller than me, not wearing a wedding ring... (Also, he asked if I was in a relationship. When I stated I wasn't married, nor did I have children - he'd asked specific questions about a husband and children - he probed a little further with asking whether I was dating someone. I'm not gonna lie, this was as good as a proposal to me.) Score!

Aunt Marie to the rescue!

It's 9:00 PM on a Friday night.

This is what I want for dinner. (Yeah, it's 9:00 and I'm just eating dinner. So what?)

That's right. Olive Garden's Steak Gorgonzola Alfredo. Be still my beating heart (and clogged arteries). I love it so!


This is what I'm eating for dinner.


+



Yeah, Aunt Marie's frozen fettuccine + a 1/3 carton of blue cheese is so totally not the same thing. But at least there's some goopy high-calorie sauce. ... And a lot of blue cheese. (A winning combination, if you ask me!)

I do love frozen food. ... Don't get me wrong, I like restaurant food WAY BETTER, but at 9:00 on a Friday night, after working a 40 hour week, there's something incredibly satisfying about sitting down with a bowl of pasta and Dr. Cal Lightman that I can't quite put my finger on. (Oh, wait. Yes, I can. It's carbs, covered in cheese + a super smart scientist guy with a British accent. This is way better than any of my recent dates in my real life!)

Here's to Aunt Marie and Netflix! They make me a happy girl. :-)

Heh heh heh...

I love Batman.

The End.

She's my favorite. (Also, I heart Jim Rockford.)

As any frequent reader of my blog will know, my mom rocks.

I mean it. Seriously, she rocks!

For a lot of reasons, not the least of which is that she's come every single time I've had surgery in the last year (which was a lot of times - three) and has taken care of me (and the shopping, and the driving, and the vacuuming, and the laundry and the dish-washing ... you get the picture) while I'm down for the count.

I love her. Like, totally. (In a different way than how I love Nathan. ... But more.)

Not only is she super nice, but she's fun (and funny), a great little alterer of dresses and skirts and shirts, and we have very much the same taste in entertainment - which makes for a good time. This last time she was here, we watched a lot of classic TV. Our favorite? Hands down, The Rockford Files. Mom's favorite part of the show? The answering machine messages at the beginning of the episode. Per Mom, and I quote, "We should have something like that at church. If we did, no one would be late. ... I sure never wanted to be late to watch The Rockford Files, because I knew I'd miss the answering machine!"

This is for you, Mom. Enjoy! ... Well, enjoy the messages. Don't look at the pictures. They're a little grody, esp the pizza. (These slides were - obviously - not chosen by me.) You know what they should have shown as images for the 3 or so minutes of play time? James Garner, that's what. Over and over again. And then again. (Too bad no one ever asks my opinion before they make and upload a youtube video, right?)



Mom and I had a blast fast-forwarding through the car-chase and/or driving scenes in Rockford, so we could get right back to enjoying the witty dialogue and circa 1974 cars and wardrobe.

Seriously, Rockford's a good time.

Just like Ude. (Well, not just like her. In a different way than her. ... Kind of like how I love her, and how I love Nathan, but differently. You know what I mean.)

Besides watching TV, Mom and I:

altered many pieces of clothing
watched Jane, and The Pie Maker and Dan (amongst other things)
baked to our little hearts' content
ate fudgecicles, Chinese food, raspberries, chocolate cake and fried chicken (listen - I have cravings, severe cravings - don't judge)

Of course, we also went to the doctors a lot of times and she listened to me whine about the gauze in my bum and my broken tooth. So, it's not like it was all a party.

But, in retrospect, it was mostly a party. Why? Because she's my favorite, and when I weigh the hard/bad things against the good ... with her, the good always outweighs the bad. I'm so lucky that she's my mom and my friend. (And that she likes fried chicken and chocolate cake as much as I do.)

Happy Birthday, Canada!

She's 144 today, folks. (How do I know? Because I am a good girlfriend and I follow Nathan Fillion on Twitter.)

So, this one goes out to my two favorite Canadians...

My one true celebrity love, of course.

And my Lizzie. (Do you know how hard it is to find a picture of your friend alone, when she is a wife and a mother of three? Impossible. That's how hard it is. So, I finally gave up and am posting this one of her and Baby Drew, even if he was born on American soil.)



Happy Canada Day!

Be still, my beating heart.

We all know that sometimes I'm a dirty old lady. I'm pretty sure I've told the world, more than once, about my love of one Zac Effron.



(Seriously. The eyes. Are ya kidding me with how blue they are? I swoon.)

Anyhoo... So, I'm a dirty old lady sometimes. Get over it.

But here's the thing... This time, I am really in love. Like, for reals. With three Italian teenagers who sing unlike any American men I've ever heard.

Be still, my beating heart.



Holy moly, am I in love with these kids. So much so that I want to dust off my passport and head to Italy... uh... tomorrow. (I figure if Italian boys can sing like that, who knows what Italian men could do.)

My stars. I am in love!

Logic, according to me.

Most of you have met my boyfriend, Jane.

I so love Patrick Jane, of The Mentalist fame. I mean, I soooooo love him!

That being said... when I was surfing through my Netflix TV on DVD options and saw an ad for The Guardian, which ran from 2001-2003, you know I had to put it in my queue. Why? Because it's like the younger years with Jane. Also, it's a show about lawyers. And if my recent stint of watching The Good Wife, Season One, in less than a week is any indicator... I have a bit of a fascination with the law right now. (Listen, these people have good vocabularies and like to verbally mix it up and prove their point for a living. For reasons that I can't adequately explain, this fascinates and intrigues me. Not to mention... all the men are in suits and ties, all the time? It's like my own personal version of heaven.)

Anyhoo... The Guardian. It's a good time. I mean, it's not the best written show ever. The character development is all over the map. You love them, then you hate them. It's a little weird, in that there's no clear protagonist, but hey... They're all in suits and ties, and Simon Baker's leading the cast. What's not to love?

But I digress. The purpose of this post was to give you a little insight into the way my scary little brain works. (And, no, I'm not talking about the suit and tie thing. Anyone who knows anything about me knows that I love a man all dressed up.)

So, here's a pic of three of the leading men. Of course, Nick Fallin is front and center (delicious, no?), with his father to the left and his legal aid boss to the right of him.

Behold:



As I was watching an episode last night, there was a pretty intense father/son scene. They were kind of getting into it, and I was thinking "Gosh, they did a good job casting this show. I mean, it's totally believable that Nick is Burton's son!". Why did I think they could be related? I'll show you.

You may recognize, in this this circa 1982 shot, the man who plays Burton Fallin:



Yeah, that's Simon & Simon. Burton was previously known as Rick, the cowboy Simon brother.

Now, the question is why did I think they'd cast The Guardian so well? Because A.J. Simon was a blond. Thus, Nick Fallin being a blond made perfect sense. Like, A.J. Simon and Nick Fallin being blond was some kind of genetic link in Nick being Burton Fallin's (fake, tvland) son. For about 2 minutes, I thought it was pure casting genius to cast an attractive blond man as the son of an aging/balding gentleman who'd had a blond brother back in the 80's.

What the heck?

Yeah, I know. I amaze even myself. (And yes, I actually thought this through for a few minutes before I realized I was being nutty and they're just the cast of a TV show.) Egads. Sometimes, the way my brain works scares me. Other times, I'm just grateful for TV on DVD and I don't give anything other than the power suits and ties a second thought. (Okay, truth be told, that's most of the time. I do heart an expensive suit.)

Okay, enough of that. Disc 1 of Season Two came in the mail this afternoon, and I have something to do other than write blog posts. You know, really important stuff, like dissecting the DNA links in the cast. (I do love me a good science experiment. Heh heh heh.)