MRI of the Tiger: When Life Hands You Lemons, Make Lemon Cream Doughnuts

"It looks like a big doughnut," said the woman on the phone, in an attempt to answer my question about the workings of a closed MRI.  I said okay, and she signed me up.  And that was the end of that until my appointment.

You may be thinking: Back up!  Why are you talking about something as serious as an MRI, and why did you need one?  Did you get beaned in the head by one of your many shoeboxes?  Alas, no.  But I did have some bloodwork done, and my levels for one of the things they tested turned out to be high.  So, to make sure that nothing was growing in my head, my doctor ordered an MRI.

The thing that hopefully wasn't growing in my head was, of course, a brain tumor.

Now, when I first got this news from the overly-chipper-receptionist-who-turned-out-to-be-a-nurse-practitioner, I freaked out.  So much so that I hung up on her.  "Brain tumor," after all, is a pair of words that no one expects to hear outside Grey's Anatomy.  But after doing some online research (okay, after my mom did some online research; I was way too much of a wuss to do it myself) and grilling my doc, I learned that brain tumors very rarely develop in situations like mine and that on the off chance that I did have one, the chances of it killing me were even slimmer.  So, the MRI was just a precaution.  To me, hearing that was as good as already having had the test and getting a clean bill of health.  Now all I had to do was get through the test.

Everyone always talks about the horribly claustrophobic nature of an MRI.  I didn't know if the fear of small spaces thing would sink its teeth into me, but I have so many other neuroses that I erred on the side of caution and requested an open MRI.  I ended up having to go with the closed one, though (see, ahem, the opening paragraph), because the open one wouldn't image what they needed to see.  Which made me nervous.  Although admittedly not as nervous as getting bloodwork always makes me.  Go figure.

On the appointed day, the husband drove me to the office.  He waited in the car while I marched into the building in my LC Lauren Conrad sweat suit and bright pink Uggs.  The place was packed, and I couldn't help but wonder what personal crisis had brought each of those people there.

I didn't have to wait too long.  When they took me back, the tech, who was an older, no-nonsense woman, reiterated the same questions I'd answered at home on my computer.  Here's how that went:

Me: On the form, I marked that I don't have psoriasis.  But I do have pretty bad dandruff.  I don't know if that's something you need to know?

Tech: (Disgustedly) It is not.  Inserts IV for the contrast dye, which I wasn't expecting. 

Me: But I didn't fast!

Tech: (Just as disgustedly) So?  I'm not taking blood.

Right.  Keep it together, I counseled myself.  The tech (I can only imagine gratefully) left me to wait for the next one, who turned out to be a guy around my age.  I followed him into "the room."  Our conversation went something like this:

Tech: Do you want music?

Me: Yes.

Tech: What kind?

Me: Pop, rock, alternative, whatever.

Tech: How old are you?

Me: Forty.

Tech: (Gives a knowing grin.)  Okay.

And so into the doughnut I went.  Sure, the ceiling or whatever was awfully close to my head.  But I could see out the front of the doughnut, which was reassuring.  I closed my eyes and settled in for my very own close quarters concert featuring this spot-on playlist:

"Comedown" - Bush

"No Rain" - Blind Melon

"Lightning Crashes" - Live

"Drive" - Incubus

"Mary Jane's Last Dance" - Tom Petty

"Lithium" - Nirvana

"Bullet with Butterfly Wings" - Smashing Pumpkins

That's right; I listened to "despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage," while trapped inside a medical apparatus designed to examine my head.  I love a healthcare professional with a sense of humor, don't you?  

Which is to say that the experience wasn't bad.  It was more of a creepy, coming-of-age retrospective interrupted by what sounded like fighter jets.  Once it was over, the techs (there were three of them by then) said that I did "very well" and was "remarkably still," and the old honor roll student in me soared.

But the real relief came two days later when I got the call that my scan was completely normal!  It was one of those moments where I felt incredibly lucky and thankful and never wanted to complain about anything ever again.

As long as I don't start reading minds like Zoey in Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist, then everything will be just peachy.

Or perhaps I should say doughnuty.    

Little Boy Blue and a Grown Man Too: Empathy Never Gets Old

Thirty-six-year-old Will.  Twelve-year-old Marcus.  They seem to have nothing in common and meet only because Will joins SPAT (Single Parents Alone Together) to pick up chicks.  But a traumatic event in Marcus's life bonds and changes them forever.  Can a twelve-year-old outcast with a weird mother and an absentee father ever find peace?  And can a grown man who's never had a job or a real relationship find something to fill his life other than cool clothes, music, and TV?  Nick Hornby's About a Boy intends to find out.  Now, I know what you may be thinking.  Tote Trove Lady, didn't you already blog about this when you reviewed Hornby's High Fidelity and Juliet, Naked and also the non-Hornby but hauntingly similar The Wishbones by Tom Perrotta?  Well, yeah.  But the whole arrested development theme is one that's near and dear to my heart.  Furthermore, this book's about more than a manchild; it's also about a boy.  It says so in the title.

When we meet Will, he's disgusted by parenthood.  He hates the way colorful toys litter the once-hip home of his best mate and the way a squalling infant can turn otherwise intelligent people into idiots.  And perhaps, most importantly, he hates the way children chip away at one's individuality and freedom, usurping every ounce of time and energy until even listening to a favorite record becomes an act of sedition.  And so, at thirty-six, he's contentedly childless and single, living off the royalties from his father's smash hit "Santa's Super Sleigh."  Unlike everyone else he knows, he has no complications and feels like he's got the secret to life figured out.  If you're having trouble picturing such a man, then I invite you to envision Hugh Grant, who played Will in the 2002 movie.  You know, charming and hangdog and harmless.  Unlike the real Hugh Grant, i.e., the horndog who got caught with that prostitute. 

That said, here are some of my favorite parts:      

This is a Will thought that's funny and (although I have a job) relatable:

". . . he had reached a stage where he wondered how his friends could juggle life and a job.  Life took up so much time, so how could one work and, say, take a bath on the same day?  He suspected that one or two people he knew were making some pretty unsavory shortcuts." (81)

Then again, Will also thinks this:

"That was the point of fashion, as far as Will was concerned; it meant that you were with the cool and the powerful, and against the alienated and the weak, just where Will wanted to be, and he'd successfully avoided being bullied by bullying furiously and enthusiastically." (141)  

It seems that Will isn't so harmless after all.  As an ex-bully and emotional drifter, not to mention a clotheshorse for all the wrong reasons, he's unequivocally part of the problem.  That's why he needs to learn from Marcus, a boy bullied so mercilessly that he gets a crush on his older protector, Ellie.  It's Ellie who introduces Marcus to Nirvana; she wears a Kurt Cobain sweatshirt every day.  (Did I mention that this book takes place in 1993 and 1994?).  At first, Will finds any correlation between Cobain and Marcus odd (he too is a Nirvana fan) but later realizes that it makes a strange sort of sense.  When Cobain's suicide spurs Ellie and Marcus on an ill-advised adventure, Will makes this observation:

"It was hard to imagine two less kindred spirits than Marcus and Kurt Cobain, and yet they had both managed to pull off the same trick: Marcus forced unlikely connections in cars and police stations and Kurt Cobain did the same thing on international television." (287)

Marcus and Cobain make people feel, even people who don't know them -- or themselves.  And that's just what Will needs in his life.  Just as Marcus needs Will's confidence, however misguided. 

So, what happens to Will at the end of this heart-warming if offbeat and sometimes sad story?  For once I'm not going to tell you.  I'll just say that About a Boy isn't about having a kid or being a kid or even growing up, but learning to look at things differently.

While still making time for clothes and TV and, of course, communing with Kurt.

Hey Dude Ranch and Baby (Tee) Makes Three

Skirt: So, Kohl's

Bag: Dolls Kill

Shirt: So, Kohl's

Belt: Izod; Pink bangle: Target; Ring: Gifted; Barrettes: Dolls Kill; Green bangle: B Fabulous

Boots: Penny Loves Kenny, Amazon

Orange bangle: B Fabulous; Yellow and pink bangles: Silver Linings, Ocean City; Striped bangle: ZAD, Zulily; Bag: Apt. 9, Kohl's; Ring: Mixit, JCPenney

Skirt: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Belt: Sheplers

Blouse: Marshalls

Skirt: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's

Bangles: B Fabulous; Ring: Delia's; Bag: LC Lauren Conrad, Kohl's; Headband: A Self Portrait, Etsy

To anyone who read this title and thought, Hey, is she . . . ?, no, I'm not pregnant.  Except for maybe with emotion -- for this post!  And also for cheesesteaks (don't judge; I have one on the way 😃).

So, today we've got one baby tee and three outfits.  Maybe the tee isn't an entirely faithful rendering of the classic shrunken, lettuce-edged wardrobe staple that launched a thousand Nirvana covers in the '90s.  But it's close enough to make me nostalgic.  And don a flannel, which, ironically, I never wore then and swore I'd never wear ever.  What's next, a skull-print jumpsuit!? 

Tee: So, Kohl's

Authentic-looking or not, this baby tee is quite the chameleon.  Its basic black and cream floral print make it easy to style for a '90s-inspired outfit as well as ensembles that are more western (I heart big belt buckles!) and Lolita (polka dots and ruffles and balloons, oh my!).  It's also fab on its own, or over or under a blouse.  Okay, enough.  I feel like a commercial!

Still, it's outfit number one that has captured my heart (even if, of the trio, it includes the least amount of arterial-themed adornments).  Its '90s candy grunge vibe makes me want to stream Hey Dude and suck down a Fruit Roll-Up.

And then, of course, hit Claire's for scrunchies.

World on a Ring: Bonbon Baubles

Collecting stuff -- clothes, shoes, bags, jewelry, hair accessories, books, CDs, stationery, faux cacti -- is one of my jams.  (I'm also pretty partial to actual jam, although I haven't started hoarding it.  Yet.)  So today I'm sharing my collection of PinkBopp rings!  As you may know, PinkBopp is the Etsy shop of my fellow blogger and artist, the very creative and talented Samantha.  I've been collecting her rings for a couple of years and have half a dozen.  They're so bright and happy and are, ahem, hands down the coolest rings I own.  Also, I love the way they look nestled in this old Russell Stover Valentine's box, which is where they live (minus the pompoms).  Each super cute and girly creation is sweeter than the next.  They're a fitting tribute to the strawberry creams that once hung out with Russ's ruffles. 

Speaking of which, when I look at this first pic, it makes me think of two things, 1) Nirvana's "Heart Shaped Box," and 2) Le Vian chocolate diamonds.  "Huh?" you may be thinking.  "Isn't "Heart Shaped Box" the song where Kurt screams, "Hey!  Wait!  I've got a new complaint." with all the rage in his angst-ridden soul?"  Well, yeah.  Which means that it isn't at all in keeping with the cotton-candy-light tone of this post.  Still, it's a song I respect -- and one I'd rock out to while hitting the highway.  But I can't see myself ever purchasing a diamond, Le Vian or otherwise.  Even my engagement ring is a garnet (my birthstone), orbited by a rainbow of smaller sparklers.  What can I say?  I prefer my baubles kawaii-a-rific.  And preferably plastic.   

So thanks, PinkBopp, for making my quest for one-of-a-kind digit decoration even more exciting and colorful.

Le Vian ain't got nothing on you.