Rest in Peace, Andrew

Today is the memorial service and funeral for Andrew E., an 18 year old child who took his own life this past weekend. He and his family have been members of my temple for years, way longer than I have. I didn't know Andrew, but I taught Sunday School to his youngest brother a few years ago. Our temple is a small community though, and while I don't feel like my place is with the family, I am still affected.

When I told some of my other friends about the news, since I was so shocked and saddened by it, they too felt the sorrow of a loss of a boy they also had never met, at the loss of life so young, at his own hand. They expressed concern for the family, the aftermath of such a senseless act, dismay at a child not getting help, or not able to be helped. And as I am torn with my own feelings, I am amazed at how one boy who had no idea of his impact on the world could affect so many people who never knew him, merely by one event that none of us can fathom.

The service is today, and right now hundreds of people, parents, family, friends, both local and from far away, are preparing to go and show their love for Andrew, their support for his parents and brothers and each other. They are putting on dress shoes, straightening ties, tucking tissues into pockets, dreading the whole event knowing how difficult and sorrowful it will be, perhaps not remembering that a memorial is not for mourning the loss of a life but for honoring the life that was lived. For some in attendance, this is their first memorial service, the first person they knew who died. I wish I could tell them it never gets easier. It will stay with them for the rest of their lives, the same way that I can remember the first funeral I attended, also for a high school friend.

There will be discussions of suicide in many homes for days to come, and then we will have the holidays to keep us occupied, and time will march on, as time is wont to do. Andrew's parents and brothers and friends will go through the motions, and it will either get easier or it won't. What I wish for them is what I wish for Andrew, that they can find peace.

Fire in the Hole

Okay, brace yourselves, I am about to share yet another too personal situation with you.

I am in the middle of a raging yeast infection, and I am not happy. Things down there are, shall we say, brewing, and I am trying desperately to clear up my situation without having to haul my breadbox to the local gyno for a little lookie-loo.

My friend LH had to do that recently, although for a different and significantly less common issue. She is going to kill me for this, I am sure, but since it could be any LH, you don't know who I am talking about, do you? Plus, I changed her initials to protect her womanhood. Anyway, LH is an avid exercise aficionado who was experiencing some chafing in her labial area (which I lovingly refer to as her mudflaps) due to too much friction producing activity of the clothed variety. She attempted to manage her mudflap failure at home, but over a few weeks, her mild discomfort bordered on disfigurement, so she dragged her beef curtains to the doctor. She was on the exam table, all business on the top half, the bottom half hiding demurely under her paper table cloth, when the doctor walked in. He was not her usual physican, since she couldn't get an appointment with hers on such short notice. He asked her the reason for her visit and LH told him her "stuff was broken" and she needed him to "fix her stuff." LH, for the record, was one dissertation away from a PhD, so obviously she is very articulate. He took one look down there before leaving the room to write a prescription for some strong puss cream and most likely to retch.

Anyway, I didn't feel like reliving her magic moment at the doctor's office, and besides, it's yeast, not a flat tire. Yeast, collectively, is the same critter that makes magical things like bread and beer. On my crotch, however, its magic is more of the dark arts variety, which includes redness, itching, burning, not to mention some other stuff that I really don't want to mention.After digging around in the medicine cabinet, I found a recently expired Diflucan. I popped that, and now I am waiting impatiently for it to kick in. Until then, I must suffer.

I itch. Bad. If I were a dog, I would scoot across the carpet right now, the rougher the pile, the better. I want to go outside and rub myself on a pine tree. I want to scrub myself with a Silkwood wire brush. Or even a toilet brush. I'm no prima donna. Hell, I would settle for a pumice stone at this point. I want something to rub myself raw, to scrape all that nasty yeast off, even though I am sure it will hurt even worse after all the scrubbing than it does now.

Yeast infections are not just a "women's health" problem. Think about it. Men scratch their balls all the time. Not only is it not frowned upon, it is expected. Only they give it a manly name, jock itch, which allows them to scratch their balls more openly than normal while sounding athletic at the same time. When women have issues, it's called crotch rot and no one wants to get near them, like it was small pox.

But I digress. I am scared to scratch myself now, since how much rawer could I be down there? Instead, I tried one of my favorite home remedies: yogurt. When it comes to yogurt, you have a choice of eating it or wearing it. Those little live cultures will do their job either way. Eating yogurt gives me heartburn, so I went with wearing it. I grabbed a container of plain nonfat yogurt, stripped down, laid out a towel on the floor, and frosted up my cupcake. I felt a bit like the cover of Herb Alpert's Whipped Cream and Other Delights album, only a lot less sexy. And as I lay on my crappy towel, enjoying the cool dairy goodness on my angry snatch, I remembered the most important detail. I forgot to lock the cats out of the bathroom. Let me assure you that no abomination to the lord occurred on my bathroom floor. But I did have to do a fair amount of shooing, kicking, and yelling before giving up and hopping in the shower. My two cats were circling me like turkey vultures.

I hope to find some improvement in a day or two. I am still not ready to show my junk to a professional, but I have also declared a moratorium on all Internet research. And wearing dairy products. If things don't improve, I plan on opening a microbrewery in my panties. Who doesn't want a frothy mug of fire crotch?

Lame...DUCK!!!

How many times have you seen President Bush duck that Iraqi reporter's flying shoe? Are you tired of it yet? Me neither. I am waiting for a good YouTube musical montage of it, with lots of fast replays followed by the slow mo version. Too bad that reporter's aim wasn't better, or W's reflexes a little slower. What a great way to end his second term.

Think for a moment about his father's presidency. What comes to mind? For me, it was that shining moment when Papa Bush threw up on the Japanese prime minister before collapsing.

Aahhh, good times. Feel free to post your own favorite Bush shoe videos in the comments. I promise I will enjoy them.