Monthly Archives: April 2012

Angry Ears

I don’t like my ears. There I said it. It’s official. They are particularly tiny, very unhelpful, are prone to hellacious ear infections, and now they are “angry.” That’s right – My doctor said they are angry.

The odious journey with my ears has been a life-long one. When I was in pre-school I took part in the ancient custom of hiring someone to violently shoot needles into my young and princess-wannabe earlobes, so I may also adorn my ears with sparkly items of my choice. This would have been a great and a wonderful way to usher myself into societal acceptance, yet I have what the piercing pagoda’s staff call “soft earlobes.” That’s right, my ears cannot even hold a nice stud correctly. Within a few months of the ordeal, the Snow White apple earrings were found on my bed having worked their way out of my ear. (Apparently my ears may only serve as vacation homes for Snow White-themed jewels.)

The only good thing my ears do well is act cute. They are tiny — noticeably minuscule, so many an individual has exclaimed their size in cute-filled delight. This would be awesome, except I also have tiny INNER-ears – that’s right. I get horrific ear infections, all the time. Babies get ear infections. You grow out of them when your ear canals grow. NOT MY EARS! Acting as the naive Peter Pans of the aural world, they insist on being slain to the ground at least twice a year. This then leads to hours of google searches reading about babies and how to treat their ears so The Man can help me out – his 22 year old fiancee. This does not help me feel mature.

So I finally had it, and a few years ago I tried to mask my dissatisfaction and overall ill-will towards my moody organs of auditory perception. I decided to get a fancy piercing to at least make the upper cartilage sparkle. Maybe if I was proud of my accessorizing capability, the fact that my ears and I are not friends would dissipate!

Almost three years later, I began to notice that fashionable cartilage was tender. A month or so later I noticed a bump. Not a tiny, cute bump but a nasty LOOK-AT-ME monstrosity that looked quite upset about having to exist at all. I pondered removing the piercing on my own, but I began to wonder what would happen if I decided to take these matters into my own hands.

I could have bled out alone and embarrassed. I could have ripped my ear off New Testament style. But in all reality… it would probably hurt like a herd of mother hippopotamus were running at full speed into my head.

So I sucked up my pride and went to the doctor yesterday. I explained my life-long quarrels with my ears, and the doctor explained that something recently had made my ears angry. They got bumped, and acting just like snotty teenage girlfriends they decided to flip out. Compensating their angst with extra bumps forming, I am stuck with my nasty looking bump until further notice.

After we reenacted my worst fear of the herd of hippos and she removed the piercing, I asked her if she could simply eliminate the bump mob style……..She explained that if she would to cut off the bump, a newer and angrier bump would take over. My only option is surgery.

Alas, my ears have won the battle for now. Hopefully I come out on top for the next one!


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The Year of the Cicadas

The Dad has a talent for explaining life in the weirdest ways.

Once he explained to me the mystery of facial hair. I had been particularly curious as a young, beardless child to a man with a full beard and inquired as to the process. This was for future knowledge if I were to ever decide that I, too, wanted a beard. He told me that men were only able to grow beards if they held the hair in their mouth. They weren’t allowed to speak for months then because if they did all the hair would fall out. I believed him.

I also found myself hopeless baffled during a few years stint when The Dad had to commute a fair distance to work and was gone several days a week. I asked him what he was doing at this job, and I got this elaborate story complete with a top-knotch Spy School and missions that would yield the common man to his knees in fear.

After a certain point, The Dad could have said things that were clearly true such as a comment on the blue nature of the sky, and I wouldn’t believe him. Most comments led to a dramatic turn on my part to The Mom and an exasperated inquiry as to whether or not the aforementioned statement was true or not. This led to many moments of hilarity and further gullible moments.

I should have expected ludicrousness when I decided to ask what The Year of the Cicadas was, as I had been hearing about it in school and on TV, but I asked anyway. The Dad launched into this brilliant story of a Cicada’s life and purpose.

Every few years these nasty looking bugs call Cicadas hatch and crawl out of the ground.

They then crawl up the trees and meet other nasty looking bugs. They find boy bugs and girl bugs that are very nice, and then they get married.

After they get married they have little Cicada babies, and then those babies fall down to the ground for the next few years. It’s a cycle of life and love. It’s the Year of the Cicadas.

I guess that story wasn’t entirely wrong…

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