Don't Mince Words

In my mailbox between the Bed, Bath & Beyond 20 percent off coupons, I sometimes get a great direct mail piece. I rarely open them up unless there’s a cleaver design I could copy for a future campaign at the office.

When I received classy invitation-stock from The Neptune Society, I felt compelled to see what was inside. Would I be saving dolphins? Is there a hospice for submariners opening up in my neighborhood?

I like the sea. How can I support it?

The Society believes it’s time for me to plan cremation in my final wishes. How the hell did they find out that I’ve had a yeast infection, gallstones, and a skin cancer freckle this year. Did someone alert them I’m turning 40 soon? Yeah, I guess they are right, it’s time for me to lock in at today’s prices. Tomorrow I may get a hang nail that kills me.

They say “cremation just makes sense” and they are right. That’s why I completed the business reply mail card with my brother’s information. He was a submariner for the Navy and has been more than six feet under. Time for an early birthday practical joke.

I don’t look like anybody I’VE ever met, but it seems people always know someone that looks like me. I’ve been told I look like Bette Midler, Minnie Driver as well as somebody’s cousin.

Today I was hit with a new celebrity look alike when some old guy told me I looked like Janis Joplin. I’m sure he meant well by it. I think. I certainly have the playfulness of “Pearl” with much, much better hair.

Pain for women is a relative thing. We tolerate a lot of crap. Until my recent back episode, I’d never really had pain that I couldn’t handle. Monday I found out that some unexplained occurrences in my life were actually gallstones.

Yes, gallstones, they aren’t for little old ladies anymore. When I received the test results, I checked with my primary care doctor, WebMD, who told me the symptoms. I did a little pain flashback and realized I’ve probably had gallstones for 15 years. The half dozen episodes I’ve had in my lifetime registers on the pain meter somewhere between monthly cramps and my marriage. That kind of pain is easy enough to ignore with a shot of Mylanta.

This week I reverted back to behavior I haven’t displayed since 9/11. We all went a little crazy afterwards with our “you only live once” escapades. Everything was explained with “if you don’t _____, the terrorists win.” Monday night I decided to see if having a couple of Double Barrell ales would break up the stones. Tuesday I tried sonic therapy and listened to The Ramones for hours. Wednesday I got tragically close to opening a $28 bottle of wine, but detoured to the fruit bowl and made a protein smoothie with overripe fruit which my colon paid dearly for today.

My week of denial has left me tired. The stones have won for sure and reminded me I’m closing in on 40. I’ll just drink a beer while I wait for the doctor to call me back. That could take a while with today’s health care. Maybe I should just order a keg.