I'm fine, really.

Saturday morning I woke up to find about 75% of my body covered in hives. Itchy, angry hives. I've been tossing back the Benadryl like Skittles, but it barely takes the edge off the itch. By the time I saw the doctor this morning, I'd carved so many scratches into my flesh that I was very, very pretty. Pretty damn irritable.

My doctor looked me over, assured me it wasn't shingles (whew) and we discussed other possibilities like allergies. No, diet hasn't changed. Haven't been getting in anything resembling poison oak. No change in vitamins, skin care products, makeup, etc.

Then she asked what was going on in my life. I told her about dad (while scratching my arm) and the move to Utah (while scratching my stomach) and how UNBELIEVABLY STUBBORN AND UNREASONABLE he is (while scratching my thigh) and how the move was kind of the final goodbye to my mom even though she died an 1 1/2 ago (back to the other arm) because it was HER house. She'd picked out the rose carpeting, the pink Formica, and the burgundy-accented linoleum. She'd covered the piano bench in pink chintz and made valances out of the same fabric for all the windows. (In her defense I have this to say: Wait until your mother gets a new house when she's seventy-one years old and see what colors she picks out.) It was like a grown-up Barbie Dream House (scratching my neck) and seeing it completely empty and ready to be moved away was a surprise attack on my composure.

My doctor took notes, then told me to take some more Benadryl and give it another two weeks. (Long pause. The room is quiet except for the scratching sound of my fingernails on tender flesh.)

WHAT?!? I'm going INSANE here! You can't be serious! I have two jobs! I have commitments! Things to do! We have yet to begin cleanup on the tons of rotten lumber, rusted rebar, broken wood chippers, old bicycles, and other junk my dad was forced (yes, forced) to leave behind. We've got the house addition to begin in earnest and I have big plans for my business that need developing. I don't have time for this crap! There's a whole new side of life to enjoy now that my parents are no longer neighbors! Options, woman! I need more options! FIX ME!

"Michelle, I wish you felt more comfortable expressing how you feel. I'm always unsure of where it is you're coming from." She is staring at me with one eyebrow raised. Dammit! I hate how well she knows me.

She proceeds to tell me how, after graduating from medical school, her body did the very same thing--completely turned on her and broke out in one big rash. What we should both be grateful for, she says, is that our bodies were kind enough to wait until we got through our crisis' to cut loose. My body is pissed off and no longer willing to cooperate and I am a boiling cauldron of conflicting emotion. For the most part, my mom and dad are lost to me and I am a forty-three year old orphan. All of the benefits and drawbacks of this fact have left me overcome and defenseless. Only time will heal me. Time, and Benadryl.

I head off to Rite-Aid, trying not to scratch.

Like we needed two of them.

This just in: Dad has apparently decided that along with his new digs in Utah, he's going to assume a new identity. No longer will he be identified as "Dick" as he has for the last five decades at least. Instead, he's been greeting each new acquaintance with a hearty handshake and a chipper introduction: "Little Richard! Good ta meetcha!"

Little Richard.

Little Richard.

You're probably wondering why I'm not there helping out. Let me explain: Little Richard was alarmed and offended that I would even consider going, as who was going to watch over our cats? No, I absolutely needed to stay here and make sure they get their full eighteen hours of sleep. He wouldn't hear of both Michael and I being gone for a whole week. You can imagine how disappointed I've been to get left out of the fun.

As Little Richard's gotten older, he's become intensely sentimental over animals, especially cats. He was quite distraught that he was unable to catch the feral cats he's kept as outdoor pets. He'd been planning to catch and transport them to a completely unfamiliar environment where they'd no doubt make tasty treats for their new and unknown enemies. Fortunately, Bobtail Momma, Bobtail Tommy, Pretty Boy, and Pretty Girl were so freaked out from the moving truck and foot traffic that they didn't show up for the exodus and he had to leave them behind. It's a good thing--they're so fat from eating field mice that their bellies nearly drag on the ground. They'll be fine. Little Richard will be fine, too, as Little Misty (his indoor cat, whom he also calls Mitzy, Missa-Mitzy, Misty Mitsa Momma and other garbled variations) made the trip with no trouble.

Fear and Loathing in Salt Lake City...

Various text messages from Michael, currently earning extra-credit son-in-law points by accompanying my 85 year-old dad on his move to Middle-of-Nowhere, Utah:

"Just crossed Blue Mountain Pass. Did you know it's possible to shift gears while leaving the cruise control on? Your dad does."

"Rush hour. SLC. Stop and go 7 lanes wide. No brakes on trailer. Had energy drink to stay awake. Dick at the wheel. Cat peering out from the carrier, perched on a massive pile of crap in the back seat...so she can face the windshield. All traffic ahead STOPPED--see the red brake lights, Dick! Turn off the Cruise Control, Dick! Stop, Dick, STOP!

"It's like driving with Ricky Bobby's crazy grandpa. I keep wondering if the transmission will go before the clutch, or will it be the other way around? Did I mention the large can of Mocha Loco I consumed? I half expect to wake up with a lizard tail strapped to my ass."

Have I mentioned that I adore this man? I adore this man.

Breaking up is hard to do...

My friend is breaking up with her boyfriend. Slowly. Painfully. Wishy-washily. One day he completes her, the next day he's disrespecting her. One day she's moved out, the next day she's lugging her bags back to the house. One day they're calling each other 'Stubbles' and 'Bubbles' (for real--I could not have made that up) and the next--you get the point. Finally, I confront her:

"This is about the make-up sex, isn't it?"

She gives me wide-eyed innocence. "Hmmmm?"

"The sex. The awesome make-up sex you have after a big fight, right? That's why you're taking so long to dump him."

Pained expression. I have offended her delicate sensibilities. Then, "Well...(sigh, eye roll)...yeah. It's just so...passionate."

"Yes. Passionately dysfunctional. Don't forget the dysfunctional part." Call me Debbie Downer, but she needs a reality check. In about a week she gets one, but not from me.

"He hucked a BURRITO at me!" My friend is indignant and incredulous at her boyfriend's behavior the night before, and has decided to ignore my last remark and confide in me once again. "A BIG BOY burrito--he freakin' HUCKED it at me and it HIT ME IN THE CHEST." She points sharply at her chest as though my gross anatomy skills are not up to par.

I attempt to respond with the appropriate level of shock and awe: "Shut. Up. No he did not!"

"Yuh-huh! And HE GOT IT ON MY COAT." My friend excels in capital letter speak. Not everyone can get away with this, but for her, it's a gift.

Let me explain why this burrito hucking is a big deal: A successful restaurant chain here in town offers "fresh and healthy" Mexican food. Fresh, absolutely, and healthy, maybe if the portions were a quarter of their actual size. To be hit in the chest with a Big Boy burrito is to have the wind knocked from your lungs. Still she wavers on whether or not to call it quits. He must be an incredible maker-upper.

He starts staying out all night, hitting the clubs (or what passes for clubs in our tiny metropolis) and coming home after she's left for the day. He spits on her windshield and offers bitter commentary on her aloof behavior. Most remarks resemble bad rap lyrics: "Man, you must think you aiight. You must think you soooo tight." Jay-Z, watch out--Stubbles is a star on the rise.

Today I asked her how it is that she is still taking this crap. She looks sheepish, and says she's actually carried out her own brand of revenge. Really? What's she done? Has she gone Carrie Underwood and dug her key into the side of his pretty little souped-up 4 wheel drive? Carved her name into his leather seats?

"Worse!" she says with a proud smile.

Did she pawn his bling? Have all his pants altered to fit nicely at the hip instead of barely clinging to the widest part of his ass?

"Worse!" she covers her face with her hands.

"WHAD'U DO?!?" Now she's got me speaking in capital letters.

"I...I swirled his toothbrush in the TOILET!"

She looks so pleased and vindicated; so full of clever ingenuity. She's a sweetheart, and will hopefully be done with this loser any day now. For some reason I decide I won't mention that I may or may not have done the very same thing to a deserving boy when I was her age, or that maybe I went a baby step farther and scrubbed the inside of the bowl with it just a little. Maybe.

And the award goes to...

On February 25th of this year, I went in for my annual. My doctor found something that disturbed her, and she tossed this to me:

"Michelle, this is cancer until proven otherwise."

Wha...?!?!? Me? Cancer? If I have a tumor, how big is it? How fast is it growing? I flashed on a memory of a show I watched on the Discovery channel about a woman with a hundred-pound tumor, and then suddenly I was sure I could feel the thing growing inside me, the cells dividing and multiplying as fast as their little cell selves could manage. If we didn't move on this fast, the tumor would soon overtake me: Death by tumor smothering. At my funeral viewing, I would look like Mrs. Potato-head, and the undertakers would have to sit and bounce on the casket lid to get it to lock, just like I have to sit on my luggage when I'm packing for a trip. Hurry! Quick! We've gotta move on this!

Oh, no. After I left the office in a daze, it took until last Monday to get my results. That's thirty-five days. It was a tough month, especially for a person with such a vivid imagination.

Prior to the test, I'd asked around about it, and everyone who'd experienced one said they were completely painless, that I wouldn't feel or remember a thing. Uh-huh. Perhaps the specialist I chose is saving money by cutting back on pain or amnesia medication, because I remember every second. I was sure I was in the wrong room and this person was mistakenly harvesting my organs for donation. If a) I hadn't had my back to her, and b) I'd had a shiv handy, there would've been big trouble in Surgery #3. Maybe she's saving up to buy another reaming device; one that doesn't feel like the machine that dug the chunnel from England to France.

Turns out, I'm fine. Nothing to worry about. Hallelujah, I am not turning into a pod person. Even my cholesterol and blood pressure levels are lower than the recommended number. Huge relief.

Today my friend Sarah H. came down from Portland for lunch, and presented me with an award for my troubles. Behold, The Golden Polyp:


I'm honored, really. I didn't even prepare a speech. I'd like to thank my doctor, the sadomasochistic specialist and her assistant, and the Demoral for what little relief it did provide. I'll never forget this moment. Thank you SO MUCH.