Oh for fuck's sake:

The Senate majority leader said today Congress was inviting the severely brain-damaged woman at the heart of a heated debate to testify at an inquiry into her case.

Y'all, get your medical proxies in order. By the time they're through with this painful Terri Schiavo situation, none of us will be able to make any decisions whatsoever for our loved ones anymore.

I emailed DH the pictures. He replied:

• broken bones heal
• chicks dig scars
• the US has the highest doctor to daredevil ration in the world

It's his oldest and most visible scar

They're almost a badge of honor now -- no one gets it done the old-fashioned way anymore, from what I hear.

But...what does that mean?

t /never took Latin

But...what does that mean?

Pain is fleeting, glory is forever, chicks dig scars.

My biggest scar is on my right knee, and it looks kind of like a big puffy scab made of skin. I asked a doctor once about getting it removed or reduced, and he said it would be hard because it's on the joint and rounded -- trying to cut it down might make it worse.

I got it when I was 20. I was walking home after midnight, and I heard loud male voices, fight or flight took over, and I tumbled down a flight of concrete stairs. It would be a better story if they had been rapists or muggers, but I think they were just drunk and loud.

I don't have any scars big enough or with interesting enough origins to be cool, unfortunately.

I have a scar on the corner of my lip from falling against the corner of a table when I was 4. I have a scar on my leg from an incident with a bus and a knife I had for art class. I have a scar on my arm from the same knife, later, and clumsy wood cutting. I have a scar on my ear from my little brother backhanding me with a pyrex bowl full of chocolate chips.

I have a scar on my side from a plastic bag that wrapped partly around my side when I was sleeping on the waterbed and wound up rubbing a very bad blister there.

I think that covers all the bad scars that are there through unintentional injury. No, wait. There are also the various scars on my hands, including some from when I slipped, fell, and managed to embed the bathtub's upside-down drain catcher into my palm, the one from when I sliced my other palm open trying to slice the end of a long-stemmed rose, and the one where I cut my thumb down to the knuckle while attempting to open a can of freeze dried blueberries with a butcher knife.

and the one where I cut my thumb down to the knuckle while attempting to open a can of freeze dried blueberries with a butcher knife.

You need to buy yourself a can opener.

All sorts of scars on the geography of me.

Razor gauges, biking accidents, having my wedding ring finger nearly severed by an antique ring (oy)...but the most fun is my stingray scar.

Please dog, none of you should ever be attacked by a sting ray. It's the worstest...yess it is. Nerve toxin that basically makes you feel like death would be a sweet blessing. Getting goose flesh just thinking about it and that was 15 years ago!

In the interest of truth saying, I should probably modify the word 'attacked' to read, 'it was probably sick or old and I prolly stepped on it and shouldn'ta been in the water at high tide anyway...and hey, did you know the stingray horn is at the base of its tail and is wicked serated for a slash and tear affect?

Ugh.

As I lay on the beach, stuffing towels in my mouth to stem the screaming, I tried some lamaze-like breathing. Barney effing Fife, the local constabulary leans over me and says, "So. What are you some kinda Shaolin priest.

Please. Lean. A. Bit. Closer...

I have a scar on my butt because, when I was 12, I was goofing around in the shower and hanging off the towel rod, and it and the surrounding tile weren't attached to the wall as securely as one might like. I fell down hard and begged my mom not to take me to the hospital, because it was embarassing enough to have to show her and letting strangers see me naked would be, like, way too gross.

Now, of course, I'm spreadiing the story all over the Internet. Autre temps, autre mores.

(And before I decide to make a post about each scar: the others are a chin scar from running my bike into a tree, a palm scar from an exacto knife, a burn scar on a forefinger, and scars on my knees and elbows caused by random klutziness. Oh, and a chicken pox scar on my collarbone.)

When I was a wee baby, I rolled off of my parents bed and caught my lip on a corner of their headboard/nightstand thing. THe fols in the ER were suspicious that my parents might be abusive and questioned them closely. No scar, though.

When I was in 2nd grade I tried to make my own instant oatmeal, though I was not allowed to handle the hot kettle. I got a steam burn on my arm, andwhen the doctor asked how it happened, I didn't want to tell him, because I wasn't supposed to pick up the hot kettle. Deeply suspicious. I still have that scar.

Most of my other scars are popcorn oil related injuries on my hands. Everything else eventually fades.

Donut + 10 seconds in the microwve=heaven. Why have I never tried this before?

Googling my last name gets a lot of hits for cousin's medical practice and research papers, a goodly amount for my parents creek restoration stuff, my brotehr getting quoted in his local paper, another cousin who is apprently a journalist, I don't show up until page 7. On the Society of Actuaries pass list. If I use my first and last names I get the SOA and an ancient poetry project I had a tiny part in. I'm pretty under the radar these days, I guess.