Unacceptable Alternatives to Bathing Deuce (Or So My Husband Says)

1. Tying to metal pole in the middle of a thunder storm

2. Tossing into the washing machine with some Woolite on gentle cycle

3. Leashing to top of car and running through the touchless carwash

4. Sticking in the dishwasher with an extra dose of spot-free lemon scented Cascade

5. Spraying him liberally with Febreze

This is one of those instances where I wish this blog post was scratch and sniff. Because if you could smell Deuce right now you would totally be like A LITTLE FEBREZE WONT HURT HIM! GO ON PUT HIM IN THE WASHER, JUST LEAVE THE TOP OPEN.

I don't think its possible to overstate what we have termed "The Smell." Deuce is so disgusting that you don't want to touch him in order to actually bathe him. He smells like a homeless person vomited it on a pile of dog shit then rubbed it in their armpits and walked around like that for three days in the sweltering July sun. Imagine that person sitting next to you on a poorly ventilated crowded bus in Miami and he WONT STOP WAVING HIS ARMS IN THE AIR. That is what life with Stinky Deuce has been.

Much to our horror, we cannot seem to identify this mystery odor. The husband searched the backyard for mildewed skunk or a week-old cadaver but a really strong rainstorm last night (see option No. 1) seems to have washed away any malodorous evidence.

Oh, and did I mention that the storm knocked out our power which made it impossible for us to bathe him because it was so freaking dark and apparently we don't own one of those new fangled, modern wonders called a flashlight (see option No. 5). Which left us at the mercy of candles. Lets just say that we managed to not burn the house down. By the time the power was restored it was really late, we were all really hot and sweaty and Deuce went unbathed because his odor kind of just fit in.

I choose to see this as a valuable reminder that we would have made shitty pioneers. And to always pay our electricity bill on time.

Also? Pioneers didn't have the aid of persons in the service industry. Laura Ingles never had someone come over and shampoo the carpets. Thank god the cleaning lady came today because our Little House On The Prairie was starting to resemble Grey Gardens.

(Oh! Just had another splendid addition to my list: 6. Have cleaning lady run the carpet shampooer over Deuce a few times.)

450 Calories and 23 Grams of Fat Per Cookie Is Totally Worth It

Today I had the most delicious chocolate chip cookie I have ever had in my entire life. And trust me, there have been a lot of chocolate chip cookies in my 28 years of living. In fact, my husband and I are something of chocolate cookie connoisseurs. Cookie snobs, if you will. We have spent much time and effort into determining the absolutely best recipe, which bakeries have the absolute best variety.

There have been highs and lows in this journey. There has been tears and laughter. And surprises that were both good (Freebird Burritos' giant cookie) and bad (the Great American Cookie variety). Just ask us and we can tell you where to get the best chocolate chip cookies in these great United States of America (my father-in-law's kitchen), which pre-made brand is the best (Nestle) and tips for making your own recipe extra special (add Mexican vanilla).

Imagine my surprise when I bit into a chocolate chip cookie that my boss made and brought into the office found a little piece of Heaven on Earth. This cookie, I swear to you, was more like a religious experience than a snack. It was life altering.

Because I'm not a tease, I will be share with you the glorious recipe. There might be some things here that your brain says: NO, NO I DON'T WANT TO INCLUDE THAT PARTICULAR INCREDIENT. But you have to trust me on this. INCLUDE EVERYTHING IT SAYS, especially the sea salt. That may very well be the defining ingredient.

I plan on making these this week, freezing them and taking them to my sister and brother-in-law's graduation parties. Because I am cool like that. And lets be honest, who doesn't feel festive when eating a chocolate chip cookie?

JACQUES TORRES’ WINNING CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

(This is a modified version of a New York Times adaptation of a Jacques Torres recipe.)

2 cups minus 2 tablespoons (8 1/2 ounces) cake flour

1 2/3 cups (81⁄2 ounces) bread flour

1 1/4 teaspoons baking soda

1 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt

2 1/2 sticks (11⁄4 cups) unsalted butter

1 1/4 cups (10 ounces) light brown sugar

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons (8 ounces) granulated sugar

2 large eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla extract

1 1/4 pounds bittersweet or semisweet chocolate chips or chocolate disks

Sea salt, for sprinkling

Sift flours, baking soda, baking powder and 1 1/2 teaspoons coarse salt into a bowl. Set aside.

Using a mixer fitted with a paddle attachment, cream butter and sugars together until very light, about 5 minutes. Add eggs one at a time, mixing well after each addition. Stir in the vanilla. Reduce speed to low, add dry ingredients and mix until just combined, 5 to 10 seconds. Drop chocolate pieces in and incorporate them without breaking them. Press plastic wrap against dough and refrigerate for 24 to 36 hours. Dough may be used in batches and can be refrigerated for up to 72 hours.

When ready to bake, preheat oven to 350 degrees. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a nonstick baking mat. Set aside.

Scoop 6 (3 1/2-ounce) mounds of dough (the size of generous golf balls) onto baking sheet, making sure to turn horizontal any chocolate pieces that are poking up; it will make for a more attractive cookie. (Editor’s note: For testing, we used a tablespoon cookie scoop and made smaller cookies, baking them a shorter length of time, about 10 minutes; they worked well.) Sprinkle cookies lightly with sea salt and bake until golden brown but still soft, 18 to 20 minutes. Transfer sheet to a wire rack for 10 minutes, then slip cookies onto another rack to cool a bit more. Repeat with remaining dough, or reserve dough, refrigerated, for baking remaining batches the next day. Eat warm, with a big napkin.

Makes 1 1/2 dozen (5-inch) cookies, each 450 calories (43.6 percent calories from fat), 23 g fat, 60 mg cholesterol, 350 mg sodium, 61 g carbohydrates, 3 g dietary fiber, 39 g sugar, 6 g protein

TIPS FOR MAKING THE PERFECT CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE

1. Use the best semisweet or bittersweet chocolate you can afford; milk chocolate chips are too sweet for the dough.

2. Have ingredients at room temperature.

3. Chocolate chips are designed to hold their shape so they don’t melt throughout the cookie. If you use other chocolate, it may melt more.

4. If you add nuts, toast them first (about 6 to 7 minutes in a 350-degree oven).

5. Salt plays an important role in cookies; don’t skimp on it. Sprinkle sea salt lightly on top for a wonderful flavor contrast.

6. Chill the dough before baking.

7. Use a scoop to portion cookies so they’re the same size.

8. Use a light-colored cookie sheet; line it with parchment paper. Make sure cookie sheets are at room temperature before baking subsequent batches.

9. Don’t overbake the cookies; they’re done when the edges are golden brown.

10. Cool the cookies on a wire rack.

Sonny's Future Is In Television News

If this were an pithy advertisement for an upcoming Will Ferrel comedy and I were Gene Shallot (he's the not dead one, right?) then I'd describe the artist behind http://www.nataliedee.com as "funny" and "smart." Then I'd bill viewing her site as a "must-see event." An effort not seen the likes of Caddyshack, Animal House and Shindler's List.

But since I'm just some asshole with a blog and a propensity for dick and fart jokes, then... Well, lets just let her work speak for itself:

Hilarious, no?

The Southern Bible

(This blog is a joint work by Momma Pug and The Aggie. We'd like to thank our Lord and Savior for the opportunity to compile it.)

"I'm comin' back for y'all, but ya ain't gonna know the day or hour, ya hear?"--Jesus

A couple of days ago, we were in an antique shop here in Pearland looking for buttons for Momma Pug's rag monsters when we ran across something interesting. It was a picture of Jesus, with a Bible verse below it. But what was striking was the painting of Christ--he wasn't kind and gentle-looking; he was stern and foreboding. He also looked an awful lot like Merle Haggard.

Both of us were kind of shocked. We thought, what the heck kind of house puts up a picture that puts up a picture of Jesus Christ that looks not unlike this:


Then we figured it out--it could only be in the home of a redneck. It is a household that has a Bible with characters looking like the following:

God, the Father, Ruler of Heaven and Earth:

The Blessed Virgin Mary:

Joseph, the worldly father of Jesus:

Mary Magdalene:

Satan, creator of all that is evil:

Adam and Eve, the first couple to inhabit Earth:

Abraham, the leader of the tribe of Israel:


Moses, who led his people out of the wilderness to the Holy Land:

John the Baptist, who came to make the way of the Lord:


The Three Wise Men:



The Good Shepherds:

The Blessed Apostles, also known as "Willie and Waylon and The Boys"

(yes, both of them)





(yes, all of them)

The Apostle Paul:

What does Heaven look like?
Like Branson, Missouri!

And hell?


Some of the people you'll see on the streets of Heaven include Stonewall Jackson, Reba McEntire, Ronald Reagan, Vince Gill, George Strait, Garth Brooks, Trisha Yearwood, George Jones and Tammy Wynette.

Now y'all praise the Lord.

Don't Neglect The Beaver

Five years ago, in a dark bar in Albany, Georgia, one of the most beautiful, talented news anchors in the world uttered those four words to me.

I was a dumpy, frizzy-haired newspaper reporter and if I hadn't been three sheets to the wind, then sitting next to the six-foot tall blond goddess might have been intimidating. Ah but for the glories of gin and tonic I was completely unselfconscious. It also didn't hurt that she'd had a crap day and was matching me drink for drink.

I can recall really bad kareoke music blaring in the bar and not really feeling up to sharing my rendition of "I Will Survive" so we moved to more secluded end of the bar and began playing one of those electronic poker machine type games. This particular variety required you to select the difference in two very similar images. In this case, the photos were of naked women in compromising poses. The more I drank the harder it became to tell if nipples were pointing different directions.

Well, the night wore on and we'd been playing for hours. Not only had we been engaged in marathon gaming, but TV girl was also smoking my shit. Finally, after 200 rounds of kicking my ass, she turned to me and offered some invaluable advice. Pointing to the naked woman's lady bits, TV girl began to explain to me why she was so good at the game.

"Don't neglect the beaver," she said. Then pointed out that the difference in the photos was little more than the 'hair cut' the models were sporting. "See!" she said. "You can't win if you neglect the beaver! Don't neglect the beaver!"

Words to live by, people.

I hadn't thought about that night in years. So much has changed since that experience in a sketchy Georgia bar. Not only am I married and out of the newspaper business, but I also find it physically impossible to go out drinking during on a week night.

Yet today something happened that made me recall that night with remarkable clarity. You see, the husband and I have stumbled onto a bit of a mystery and I need your help figuring it out.

Here's the deal Internet, I beseech you to tell me how and why there is a giant, dead beaver in the middle of the major road that cuts through the center of town.

Seriously.

There is a dead beaver lying close to the center line of the westbound lane of Highway 518 just before the road intersects with Highway 288 in Pearland, Texas. We discovered this while running to the store after work. And for the last three hours, the Husband and I have been trying to figure this shit out. Yet nothing makes sense!

Did the beaver walk several miles from an area lake and got hit by a car? Was he a stowaway on some fisherman's truck and fell to his death? Did he drop from the heavens?

Please, help us solve this roadkill Rubik's cube. I have to know who neglected the Beaver.

First Class

Monday I flew back from Mississippi where I was visiting my family and new nephew, JR.

For a nominal amount of money, I had the opportunity to upgrade to a first class ticket. Since I’d never flown in the fancy ass first class I decided to go for it.

Here’s the part where I wish I could tell you it was a total waste of money and that I regretted doing it.

But that would be a lie because it was the best money I ever spent.

Not only are the seats spacious, but the booze is free! That saying, “The best tasting beer is FREE beer,” is true times a bajillion when you’re on an airplane. I drank white wine until I was sweating Chardonnay and had to stop reading my book because the words on the page were dancing.

The only drawback from this little scenario came about 10 minutes after we landed. The first thing I did was a bathroom to break the seal in. Then I set out to meet the Husband at the appointed location. Now, I knew I was a touch inebriated because the level of concentration on using the motor skills it required to balance all my crap in the bathroom stall was extremely elevated. Plus I was sweating like I was in a sauna. The gravity, however, of my impairment wasn’t fully realized until I tried to mount the movable walkway that takes you toward baggage claim.

You see, I’m not one to dillydally in airports. I put my nose down, forearm up and go to it. Apparently, I also use a death grip on my luggage. Or so I learned when I stepped onto the moving walkway and the escalator teeth latched onto my baggage, ripping it from my grasp and sending me down to my knees.

As I tried to steady myself and get back onto my feet, I saw that my entire luggage --including my purse -- was now hung up at the entrance to the moving walkway. The travelers behind me, no doubt surprised at such a spectacle, were jumping over my shit so as not to be thrown down too.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been drunk and found yourself on your hands and knees on a moving walkway. But only those who have can fully appreciate how disorienting nature of this position. The only thing I can compare it to is trying to hang on to one of those old-school merry-go-rounds powered by 15 of your fellow second graders. That’s kind of the same sensation.

Anyway, if it hasn’t been for my inebriation, I think I could have gotten my shit together and retrieved my belongings. But, alas, that wasn’t the case. As I crawled backwards toward the entrance, the same folks who had just jumped over my luggage were now stumbling over me.

I’m sure it was only a few seconds of this, but it felt like forever. Immediately, I realized I wasn’t really progressing toward my trapped baggage. I was just a hamster running on a stationary wheel.

So I gave up and just sat down in the middle of the moving isle and decided when I got to the end of walkway I’d just try and roll out of the way, hopefully avoid getting trampled. Screw my purse and luggage.

And that’s when I saw my rescuer – a young man talking on his cell phone and carrying his own baggage. Without putting down his phone, he scooped my luggage and purse up and walked to quickly to where I sat. He placed my luggage beside me, then pulled me up off the moving belt.
ALL WITHOUT INTERUPTING HIS PHONE CONVERSATION.

When got to the end of the moving walkway, he pulled my luggage off, placed it in my hand and offered a smile and a gentle nod. I thanked him profusely, but he waved it off, smiled again and kept on trucking toward his destination. AND TALKING ON THAT PHONE. Never once missing a beat.

When I finally reached my husband and relayed to him the story, he asked what the man looked like so he could thank him for helping me. I couldn’t recall much of his description, just that he was wearing a Texas A&M t-shirt.

“Oh! He was an Aggie,” I said.

“OF COURSE, he was,” my husband said, as if I had said something so obvious that a retarded monkey would have shook his head at me and thought: DUH ,LADY.

We didn’t manage to bump into my savior again before leaving the airport, but I know that somewhere there is a very nice young Aggie telling all his drinking buddies about this drunk woman sitting on the moving walkway at the airport and how he pulled her to safety.

Thank god for Aggie honor.

Of course.

Gig 'Em

My little nephew wearing his t-shirt for his uncle, the Aggie, and myself. Yes, I am sweating gallons, am in my night gown and not wearing makeup. Yet, that kiddo makes up for it. Don't ya think?

I Need A Brow Wax And That Made Me Think Of This

My very first blog post!

Happy Easter weekend, y'all!

Originally posted on Sept. 14, 2007

Madge, Momma Pug and the Magic Eyebrow Lady

Last weekend, my oldest friend Madge and I went shopping. We started off our grand shopping adventure at a ghetto Avenue store where we were afraid to take our eyes off Madge's 4-year-old daughter, Madgette, for fear she'd be inducted into a gang.

And because Madgette managed to behave marginally well among the plus sized sistas shopping in the ghetto store with us AND because earlier in the day she'd accidentally pitched forward down a flight of stairs nearly knocking the nose off her face, Madge had promised her we'd go to Build-A-Bear in the mall.

For those of you without immediate access to a hip and happening 4-year-old, allow me to explain: Simply put, Build-A-Bears are the shit.

The process goes something like this: You pick an unstuffed animal carcass, fill it with fuzz, plop a cloth heart inside, then pick out expensive clothing for your new creation.

On this particular day, with a $5-off coupon, Madgette's Build-A-Bear cost $37. And it should be noted that ONLY because I managed to muster a great amount of self-restraint did I not build my own Build-A-Bear. Yes, it really does look that fun, and yes, I really do still like playing with doll clothes.

But I digress.

After two hours in the Build-A-Bear store, Madge and I were officially running out of time. The husbands were calling and threatening to eat without us. Being serious foodies, Madge and I didn't want to miss that opportunity.

It was under the great duress of missing dinner that Madge and I made the ill-fated stop at the Magic Eyebrow Lady's kiosk.

The Magic Eyebrow Lady, MEL for short, was using a spool of string to pluck hairs away. Yes, a spool of string! She held it between her fingers in such as way as the string doubled over and grabbed hair, ripping it from the follicle. We watched her magically transform a bushy slew of other young ladies before reaching deep into our pockets for the $10 it cost for our very own perfect eyebrows.

Admittedly, I'd been plucking my own brows lately, resulting in a jumbled mess of wayward hair. It wasn't a pretty site to begin with. Madge, on the other hand, was just a bit overgrown, and need a tidy maintenance pluck.

I sat in the chair first. Two major rips and a few minor pulls and she's done.

Madge sits. One rip and she jumps wildly. MEL takes a step back, unsure of what to do. Madge apologizes for the scream and leans back. Three more rips and she's done. We pay our $10 and head to the minivan.

It is only after silently walking through the parking lot, licking our wounded brows, and are back in the safety of Madge's automobile, that we realize the magnitude of what has happened.

"She TOOK my eyebrow!" Madge wails.

Surely not, I'm thinking, as I lean over into her seat for a closer look.

Madge is right. Half of her left eyebrow seems to be missing. But knowing better than to admit to her that she's half a brow short, I opt for encouragement.

"No," I say confidently. "You just need to brush them down. You're blonde and they're hard to see."

I am lying. Half of her eyebrow is GONE.

"Really?" she asks.

"Yeah, it'll be fine, just need to fill them in a bit with a brow pencil," I say. "You're hairs light. It'll add definition."

Madge knows I'm lying. She always knows when I'm lying. It’s part of being friends with someone for so long – you know when they're bullshitting you.

Plus, I was a little too eager to pull down the mirror on my visor and have a look at my own brows.

As I look in the mirror, in my mind I'm thinking:

First impression -- my brows are okay. I'm okay. Whew. The Magic Eyebrow Lady didn't take one of mine as a trophy. Dodged a bullet there. Okay. Everything is O-K-A-Y. Wait. Wait a god damned minute. Why do I look surprised? I'm not surprised. Or Asian. But my freaking eyebrows look like they'd belong to a surprised Asian. Crap. Didn't dodge a bullet after all. Mother fu….

Our husbands are less than polite about the brows. They made fun of us. Horrible, horrible fun of us. Before you send Aggie-Texican (my hubby) and Razor Back (her hubby) hate mail, let me just say this: They NEVER make fun of us or judge our fashion flaps. NEVER. They are great husbands. So this is a strong indication of how bad/funny our eyebrows were.

Thankfully, I am a wiz with the brow pencil and I've turned my "surprised Asian" brows into a perfectly sculpted creation. I haven't seen Madge since the fiasco, but I suspect she too has been liberally using an eyebrow pencil.

Yeah, I know it's vain of me to care so much. But when you're a frizzy-haired, glasses-wearing fatty, you have to do the best with what you've got – and you certainly don't need anything else going wrong, such as bad eyebrows.

At the end of the day you just have to go on, botched brows and all. But I can't help but wonder why the Magic Eyebrow Lady hated us so much. I mean, she turned out a bunch of really great brows right in front of us. Why on Earth choose us to practice the black magic on me and Madge?

You win, Magic Eyebrow Lady. You are worthy enemy and you win – for now.

My Sonny

UPDATE NO. 1

Sonny has returned from the vets. All signs point to a severe bladder infection and NOT cancer! The Aggie and I have never been so happy to hear one of the dog's is just sick.

More test results pending. Should know more soon.

---

ORIGINAL POST

The Aggie is at the vet's right now with Sonny the Pug. It doesn't look good. They did an ultrasound of his bladder and it appears there is a mass. We've been told to brace ourselves for the worst. It's likely our little puggy has bladder cancer.

More to come when we hear an update.

I'm A SAP

So there is a site that I love to visit... its called Southern Area Paranormal Society (SAPS) and the group examines haunted places around Mississippi and Louisiana. Sometimes they don't find anything except a good legend. Other times they come across spooky shit. Occasionally they accidentally scare themselves.

I really would appreciate it if you would go to their blog, poke around a bit and leave some terrific comments. Were you like me and grew up in a haunted house? Did you just have a creepy feeling in a certain place before, but didn't actually see anything? Are you a skeptic and think we're nutbags? Go forth and read! Then let them know what you think!

Proud

My oldest and dearest friend in the entire world -- you may know her as Madge -- has just gotten some great news. She is 29 years old and has just gotten a new job as Vice Principal, which makes her the YOUNGEST person to ever secure this position in their school district.

I'm so proud of her that I want to send certified letters to all those assholes we grew up with who dared to insinuate we wouldn't be something one day.

It would read:

To whom it may annoy,

Wow, been a long time since we talked. So long, in fact, you might not remember me too well. If you're struggling to place who I am, let me help you out. I was that fat kid with curly hair and glasses. You know, the one you were a total dick to. My friend was that uber-skinny kid with the super short hair and glasses. You were a dick to her too.

Anyway, its been a while since we were in touch so I thought I would take a moment to catch you up on things. Last I heard, you were raising your babies in your trailer in Mama's backyard, so I think I'm up-to-date on how things went for you. To this day I can clearly recall that you were voted "Most Likely To Succeed." I guess its a good thing they didn't specify what exactly you were to "succeed" at.

But I digress, this isn't about your "success." This is about Madge.

You see, things didn't turn out for Madge and I how we'd planned. She's not a renowned child counselor and I'm not a world famous journalist. We're both married and have families, though. We wound up with better personal lives than we ever could have imagined. We live in one of the largest cities in the country and are doing very well in the fields we ended up in.

Now, I could go on and on about how awesome our lives are, but I thought, "Nah, why say it when you can show it!"

So check this out...

HA, losers! See what a success she is! SUCK IT!

All that teasing we endured as kids for being dorks? WAS TOTALLY WORTH IT. We will be seeing you at the 20 year reunion, bitches.

XXXOOOS,
Momma Pug

Oh how sweet life can be at times. Madge, I am so proud of you! You done good kid!

PLAY BALL!

His eyes are saying: "I have lost my will to fight back against her shameless attempts to dress me up. At least this isn't something gender ambiguous. Fucking tutus."

Oh poor Sonny The Pug, having to dress up because his Momma thinks its cute or hilarious or both. Through out the years this poor old dog has worn everything from Mardi Gras beads to a giant pink tutu. He did not approve of those things, but a little biting never stopped me from getting my picture.

Since this is the first day of baseball season I thought that I'd share a photo that my husband took, 1) because its a cute/funny and 2) to prove I'm not the only at our house that dresses our dogs up. (Sidenote: Deuce likes drag. Bows in his hair -- the whole nine yards.)


So in the time honored tradition of climbing to the top of really scary stadiums, drinking $7 beer and having a stale hotdogm I thought we'd share with you Sonny on his first day of baseball season. GO 'STROS!

To be clear, I believe in the right to choose...

but this woman offends me. See who she is and what the Aggie does to her argument here.

Cross To Bear

Took this photo from our front porch this afternoon.


I know it's not the usual dick joke that you guys have come to expect from my site, but there was something about this that spoke to me.

Playing Doctor

This afternoon, I am getting my eyes checked for the first time in nearly three years. I'm putting my money on the optometrist giving me a lecture on "eye health" and trying to convince me it is time to purchase bifocals. I will ignore the first part of the sermon because everyone knows optometrists aren't real "doctors." The second part of the speech wont be so easily dismissed because it will offend my southern senses. I mean it's CLEARLY inappropriate for some faux-doctor to suggest that my vision woes may be caused in some way small way my advancing age. Pfft.

I suppose this all goes back to my hating going to the doctor. Firstly, because they always tell me I'm fat. Spare me. This I know. Secondly, because they like to take your clothes away from you and despite my case of The Crazies, I do not like taking my underwear off for anyone but the Aggie. This is why I push going to the bajingo-ologist (ob/gyn) back as far as possible on my calendar. Usually I only agree to make the appointment to have my bajingo examined after 1) my mother guilts me or 2) I see something scary on television about bajingo-ravaging cancer and decide that its better to address any issues before my lady bits dissolve into cancerous fury.

So, as you can guess, its pretty hard to get me to any form of medical office unless I'm running out of Crazy Pills or am convinced I have the bird flu. In both cases I will attempt to bribe the receptionist into giving me someone else's long-scheduled appointment. And if that doesn't work, I start to cry. Usually that gets me in with the doctor ASAP. And I've found that if you are hysterical enough they don't hesitate in writing you a prescription for the Crazy Pills AND as an added bonus they skip the whole you-are-obese lecture.

But you know what? Never once has an eye doctor called me fat. An optometrist has never said: "Okay, read that top line for me… Is ONE better or TWO? Which is clearer ONE or TWO?... And by the way, you are over weight and we need to work on that."

Nor have they ever said: "Okay, here's a tiny paper gown. Please strip down to just your socks. While you wait in this tiny cold room, naked for the next hour while the doctor checks their email and dicks around on the Web, you should maybe do some breathing exercises and mentally prepare to be raped by medical equipment with names you cannot pronounce."

I guarantee you that those are words that will never ever be uttered in the optometrist's office, which is why they are pretty much the only exception to my doctor phobia.

That and because I do not view having my vision checked as a true medical procedure, but rather an excuse to purchase new accessories. Picture of me in my new eye gear are sure to follow.