My second confirmed silver hair appeared on my head about a week ago, and I've been letting it enjoy its time in the sun. But, methinks it will soon be plucked!

So I'm not sure what I was expecting when they told me I would be wearing a heart monitor today, but it certainly wasn't this.
So here's how it went down -- a nurse led me into an exam room and told me to remove my shirt and bra and then she stood there and stared at me until I understood she wanted me to actually remove my clothing in front of her, which, fine, whatever. If nothing else, this experience has made me a little less modest in front of strangers, but I'm not sure if that's actually a bonus?
Anyway, then she took a piece of sand paper (or something really similar) and scratched the crap out of my chest and my rib cage and then slapped electrode thingies on me and fastened them down with some horrible tape I just know is going to hurt like hell when she rips it off tomorrow.
Each electrode is a different color, and a different colored wire runs from each to a box about the size of a canteen, which I'm wearing on a belt around my waist. I've been forbidden from swimming and showering and told to be careful when venturing into public because all of the wires and whatnot could be mistaken for a bomb. The nurse told me this in complete seriousness.
I am to wear this to bed and to come in again tomorrow morning to be "disconnected."
I am to record all of my activities throughout the day, including (according to the little brochure I have here) bowel movements and sexual activity. Well, there's really nothing that turns me on more than looking like a robot!! I'm sure Hubs feels the same way.
Well, I did take a photo of this madness so I could post it on here, but it's taking a while to reach my mail so I'll stick it in here later.
Ta for now!

I'm ready to send up the white flag of surrender and tell the docs I was just kidding! haha! I feel fine!
These last two weeks have revealed to me why some cancer patients decide to forgo chemotherapy -- they're tired of doctors and they'd rather croak than have to spend another minute in a hospital with a needle in their arm!
No I don't have cancer and I honestly have no right to be whining about anything. But I've been undergoing a steady stream of tests in an effort to figure out why I'm having difficulty breathing and my heart sometimes beats too hard. Sounds like anxiety attacks, I know. And that's still kind of what I think it is. But since my new GP thinks it could be any number of things, I've completed a battery of exams and it's not quite over.
Yesterday ten vials of blood were drawn from my now bruised and sore arm. I also had an EKG and was told by a cardiologist to lose weight, stop eating salt, cut out caffeine and, oh yeah, chocolate. Excuse me?!
Today I had an ultrasound on my thyroid and that's when I almost lost it. As the technician is performing the ultrasound, I'm trying not to swallow, breathe or talk, and I'm looking at these indiscernible blobs on the screen and she's making these little marks in certain areas and I'm just thinking, what's THAT?
Then I get my chest X-ray and then I'm allowed to leave.
Tomorrow, and this is great and sort of funny, really -- tomorrow I'm going to be wearing a heart monitor that will record every beat for 24 hours. And then Thursday I'll go back to my GP and she can interpret all of the results for me and send me on another tour of medical offices. She's already promised I'll get to have a papsmear -- oh joy! -- and have my eyes checked. My echocardiogram is scheduled for later next month and should be, like, 14 times more exciting than the thyroid ultrasound.
So here's my prediction -- she's going to tell me there's nothing wrong with me and I should take a vacation and try to chill out.
That, or I'm dying. It's simple, really. :-)

In case any of you missed Heather's blog on The Beehive about the spiders in her living room, you really must read this one, titled "Shalom's Web":

http://www.fresnobeehive.com/archives/2007/08/shaloms_web.html#more

I just read Laurie Notaro's "There's a (slight) chance I might be going to Hell" and I've decided I like it. Sometimes her work strikes me as self-indulgent, but in a rare moment of clarity I realized that most writing is. I am not exempt from that. Actually, sometimes when I read my old entries my own self indulgence makes me gag.
Anyway I think I figured out I really liked her book the other night when I was reading in bed and Brendan was asleep and she was describing an incident in which the main character was having difficulty removing a sweater, and I was laughing because it was so funny, but trying not to laugh out loud or shake too much so I wouldn't wake Brendan up, which made it funnier.

Ever since an amazing experience at a San Francisco Starbucks during which I ordered, paid for and received my latte in about 30 seconds, despite more than 20 people being in line, I am severely and quite haughtily disappointed with all other Starbucks and the time it takes for me to receive my hot, tasty, caffeinated beverage.

I've really become quite a snob.

A sign that one probably frequents take-out Chinese and pizza a bit too often -- one has the phone numbers for said restaurants programmed into one's cell phone.

Beer seems to remove the constricting feeling I get in my throat whilst attempting to compile next year's budgets at work.

There are a plethora of intriguing news stories floating out in cyberspace today, in case you're interested. Visit my favorite, sfgate.com, for the full reports, but a little breakdown includes:
-a man with no arms and one leg who's doing time for taking cops on a high speed chase and kicking a highway patrol officer. I mean, kicking? Seriously? He's got one complete appendage left and he's hitting someone with it? I love this.
-a family that just had its 17th child and every single one's name start with the letter "J." Few things irritate me more than alliteration of that sort. And the dad's name is Jim Bob and they live in Arkansas. Which is just great.

In other awesome news, my car is supposedly ready to pick up, although the feeling in the pit of my stomach is telling me there is going to be something visibly wrong with it when I get there to pick it up and I'm going to be stuck driving the murder-mobile for another week. At one point, I dropped the car key in the crack between the center console and the passenger seat and was forced to wedge my hand in the crack to get it out and when I pulled my hand out it was covered in unknown, sticky goo. I gagged.