I have 3 announcements today.
1. The list of finalists for the Share the Love blog awards has been posted and sadly, my humble blog is not among them. Shed a tear if you must, but then head on over and vote for my friends Scribbit, Owlhaven, and What on Earth is that Smell who are still in the running.
2. After yesterday’s post, I feel the need to clarify something. I wasn’t really adopted. (I know this because sometimes I glimpse in the mirror and think, “Hey what is my mother doing in my bathroom!”) I love my weird family. I aspire to their level of weirdness. And the fact that the Shopping List is now (and I hope forever) in my possession tells you I cherish our memories of weirdosity.
Oh, and also, while my sisters and I didn’t always get along, the only hair pulling I honestly remember was between me and my brother Steve. I just didn’t think that would be nice to mention, it being his birthday and all.
3. I have a goiter.
It doesn’t look like this (link not for the squeamish) but it does feel like a huge golf ball in my neck. It is probably just a swollen lymph node and I get this from time to time. But last night when I got home from class and was already feeling sorry for myself because I looked like Rubens’ painting of Marie de Medici (see image at right), I sat down to read some blogs and wound up reading some old posts written by a good friend about her experience with radiation therapy for a tumor in her throat. (I am so sorry Sandra. I had no idea you went through all that).
Then I panicked. Ken is used to me going all hypochondriac on him, so when I put my Humanities degrees to good use, did some online research and diagnosed myself with a list of new and frightening ailments, he tactfully suggested I was unlikely to die of Tuberculosis, Sarcoidosis, Toxoplasmosis, Secondary Syphilis, Yaws or Cat Scratch Fever.
Thus it must be a goiter. I am resigned to my fate.
Ken remains unconcerned. I feel the need to steal a line from my Great Great Great Grandmother Dixon - the line she apparently said so frequently to her children that they carved it on her tombstone:
“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”