MRI of the Tiger: When Life Hands You Lemons, Make Lemon Cream Doughnuts

"It looks like a big doughnut," said the woman on the phone, in an attempt to answer my question about the workings of a closed MRI.  I said okay, and she signed me up.  And that was the end of that until my appointment.

You may be thinking: Back up!  Why are you talking about something as serious as an MRI, and why did you need one?  Did you get beaned in the head by one of your many shoeboxes?  Alas, no.  But I did have some bloodwork done, and my levels for one of the things they tested turned out to be high.  So, to make sure that nothing was growing in my head, my doctor ordered an MRI.

The thing that hopefully wasn't growing in my head was, of course, a brain tumor.

Now, when I first got this news from the overly-chipper-receptionist-who-turned-out-to-be-a-nurse-practitioner, I freaked out.  So much so that I hung up on her.  "Brain tumor," after all, is a pair of words that no one expects to hear outside Grey's Anatomy.  But after doing some online research (okay, after my mom did some online research; I was way too much of a wuss to do it myself) and grilling my doc, I learned that brain tumors very rarely develop in situations like mine and that on the off chance that I did have one, the chances of it killing me were even slimmer.  So, the MRI was just a precaution.  To me, hearing that was as good as already having had the test and getting a clean bill of health.  Now all I had to do was get through the test.

Everyone always talks about the horribly claustrophobic nature of an MRI.  I didn't know if the fear of small spaces thing would sink its teeth into me, but I have so many other neuroses that I erred on the side of caution and requested an open MRI.  I ended up having to go with the closed one, though (see, ahem, the opening paragraph), because the open one wouldn't image what they needed to see.  Which made me nervous.  Although admittedly not as nervous as getting bloodwork always makes me.  Go figure.

On the appointed day, the husband drove me to the office.  He waited in the car while I marched into the building in my LC Lauren Conrad sweat suit and bright pink Uggs.  The place was packed, and I couldn't help but wonder what personal crisis had brought each of those people there.

I didn't have to wait too long.  When they took me back, the tech, who was an older, no-nonsense woman, reiterated the same questions I'd answered at home on my computer.  Here's how that went:

Me: On the form, I marked that I don't have psoriasis.  But I do have pretty bad dandruff.  I don't know if that's something you need to know?

Tech: (Disgustedly) It is not.  Inserts IV for the contrast dye, which I wasn't expecting. 

Me: But I didn't fast!

Tech: (Just as disgustedly) So?  I'm not taking blood.

Right.  Keep it together, I counseled myself.  The tech (I can only imagine gratefully) left me to wait for the next one, who turned out to be a guy around my age.  I followed him into "the room."  Our conversation went something like this:

Tech: Do you want music?

Me: Yes.

Tech: What kind?

Me: Pop, rock, alternative, whatever.

Tech: How old are you?

Me: Forty.

Tech: (Gives a knowing grin.)  Okay.

And so into the doughnut I went.  Sure, the ceiling or whatever was awfully close to my head.  But I could see out the front of the doughnut, which was reassuring.  I closed my eyes and settled in for my very own close quarters concert featuring this spot-on playlist:

"Comedown" - Bush

"No Rain" - Blind Melon

"Lightning Crashes" - Live

"Drive" - Incubus

"Mary Jane's Last Dance" - Tom Petty

"Lithium" - Nirvana

"Bullet with Butterfly Wings" - Smashing Pumpkins

That's right; I listened to "despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage," while trapped inside a medical apparatus designed to examine my head.  I love a healthcare professional with a sense of humor, don't you?  

Which is to say that the experience wasn't bad.  It was more of a creepy, coming-of-age retrospective interrupted by what sounded like fighter jets.  Once it was over, the techs (there were three of them by then) said that I did "very well" and was "remarkably still," and the old honor roll student in me soared.

But the real relief came two days later when I got the call that my scan was completely normal!  It was one of those moments where I felt incredibly lucky and thankful and never wanted to complain about anything ever again.

As long as I don't start reading minds like Zoey in Zoey's Extraordinary Playlist, then everything will be just peachy.

Or perhaps I should say doughnuty.    

Spin-off Kilt-er Filter: 90s Knits and Hits

Kitschy Compass Rainbow Rampage Necklace

Top: Wild Fable, Target

Skirt: Dickie's, Dolls Kill

Boots: Apt. 9, Kohl's

Socks: Gifted

Bag: Olivia Miller, JCPenney

Belt: Wild Fable, Target

 Menagerie Madness Rainbow Rampage Necklace

Blouse: Bongo, Sears

Skirt: Vanilla Star, Macy's

Shoes: Betsey Johnson, DSW

Bag: Sleepyville Critters, Zulily

 Black and Cream Dream Necklace

Sweater: Hearts & Roses London, Zulily

Skirt: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Shoes: Penny Loves Kenny, Zulily

Bag: Tee Shirt & Jeans, Kohl's

Red bangle: B Fabulous

Cream bangle: Mixit, JCPenney

Unicorn Garden Rainbow Rampage Necklace 

Top: TJ Maxx

Skirt: Arizona Jeans, JCPenney

Boots: Simply Vera, Kohl's

Bag: Betsey Johnson, Modcloth

Belt: Candie's, Kohl's

When I first saw the commercials for The Goldbergs spin-off Schooled, I was like, "What?!  How are they going to have a '90s-something sitcom about Barry's girlfriend Lainey when the '80s-something Goldbergs is still on the air?!"  But then I saw The Goldbergs episode where Barry (who's a high school senior) and Lainey (who's a college dropout) struggle to end their engagement, and all became clear.  Although they're still in love, they don't want to get married.  Because they live in the 1980s, not the 1890s!  Anyway, Lainey makes the decision easy -- or as easy as it can be -- by leaving Jenkintown for LA to chase her dream of becoming a rock star with no more than a goodbye (VHS, of course) video.  So, she's out of the '80s and out of Beverly's kitchen, freeing her to become the new chorus teacher at her old high school a decade or so later.  Yet despite this tidy send-off/set-up, I remained suspicious.  Would Schooled work or merely be a flash in the pan?  Still, either way, I knew I would watch it.  Because if there's a sitcom on TV, then I tune in.  Even if it's one of the bad ones.  

Luckily, Schooled turned out to be one of the good ones.  I don't know if it was Lainey's classic underdog-meets-feisty-fish-out-of-water character, the abundance of chokers and plaid miniskirts, the sweet swell of '90s pop rock classics, or even the appearance of Brett Dier (Jane the Virgin's Michael) as curly coiffed English teacher extraordinaire and Lainey's nascent love interest.  But I was sunk by the end of the pilot.  The haunting yet hopeful strains of The Smashing Pumpkins's "Today" playing as Lainey's students mosh for their school concert instead of crooning a barbershop quartet might have cinched it.  Because although I talk a lot about my love for '80s trends and pop culture, at heart, I'm a '90s chick (or, as Icona Pop originally intended, a '90s bitch.  Why the FCC dubbed that out but let Meredith Brooks belt out her '90s anthem "Bitch" over the airwaves remains a mystery to me.  Perhaps the '90s were a kinder, gentler -- and yet somehow more badass -- time.).  People identify most with the decade when they came of age, and I'm no different.  To this day, when I hear Weezer or the Cranberries or Better than Ezra or any other angsty group of that era, I feel this kind of euphoric melancholy (if there is such a thing), like nothing and everything is possible all at once.  Although I like all kinds of music, it's this stuff that seems the best and most real to me, like it's delivering a personal message.  You know.  Like the super-intense, self-absorbed way you feel about everything when you're a teenager.  

On a less introspective note, in the '90s I was also into plaid minis.  I had dozens and now wish that I hadn't given them all to Goodwill.  Fortunately, like rainbows, chenille, faux fur, checkerboard prints, and ring zippers, they're having a moment again.  So I restocked my closet.  This week I put together not one, not two, not three, but four outfits in which Scotch skirts rule.  Here they are by themselves, photographed Warhol-style:

That said, Schooled has fashion, nostalgia, and nostalgic fashion all locked up.  But more importantly, like The Goldbergs, it's also a (putting on my adult voice now) quality program.  Part of the genius of The Goldbergs is that grown-up Adam's voice-over never tells you exactly which year it is, just that it's such and such a date in 1980-something.  This frees the show to reference movies, songs, and fashions of the time in keeping with the storyline instead of the date without prompting nitpicky viewers to protest exactly when said stuff hit the market.  Not that some viewers don't do that anyway (I've seen that Fan Corrections segment on Conan; I know that there are basement-dwelling Internet trolls as far as a Nielsen box can reach).  The point is, The Goldbergs isn't about being a factually perfect chronicle of what happened during an iconic decade.  It's not The Eighties on CNN, or even I Love the 80s on VH1.  It's about creating a tribute to all the things everyone loves about this decade, all the little slice-of-life snippets that make it what it is in our memories.  Also, the show is equal parts big laughs and heart, which is a sure-fire formula for any sitcom.  No one wants to love a family who isn't funny, just as no one wants to laugh if they don't care about the family in the first place.  And Schooled is following in The Goldbergs's neon pump footsteps.  In addition to offering up relatable and hilarious characters, witty dialogue, and colorful costumes and sets, it continues its predecessor's pop culture pulse tradition.  The first two episodes are chockful of '90s references including but not limited to Kurt Cobain, Zima, She's All That, Discman, and Mrs. Doubtfire.  Also, the first episode opens with Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch's "Good Vibrations."  If that doesn't set the tone for a bitchin' school year and TV series, than I don't know what does.  So, gold star, Adam F. Goldberg.

Can't wait to see what you teach us next.

Bat Out of Spell: Happy Halloween Sans the Scary

Fabulous Felt Gray Bat Barrette 

Fabulous Felt Pink Pumpkin Barrette 

 Fabulous Felt Halloween Candy Barrette

 Fabulous Felt Gray Alien Barrette

Fabulous Felt Blue Alien Barrette

Fabulous Felt Pink Alien Barrette 

Some may say that Halloween is nothing without blood and guts and body-snatching bad guys and those weird, made-for-school movies about inspecting your candy for poison and razors.  But to all that I merely say, "Boo!"  So, here's to the sweet side of the scariest night of the year with a cute-to-boot barrette battalion.  Cartoonish candy, amiable aliens, a bat, and a polka-dot pink pumpkin (not a pumpkin with chicken pox or acne or worse as one unnamed observer commented) tune out the tricks and turn up the treats as we near the witching hour this year.  After all, these are friendly aliens, much like the one (okay, the anthropomorphic UFO) in the classic Halloween children's book (and one of my personal favorites) Space Case.  

In Case, "The thing," as the alien/UFO is called, descends to Earth on Halloween to learn our ways -- and snag a Snickers or two.  The story is strange and mysterious and even wryly funny.  I particularly liked the bright, graphic cover and remember wishing that I could get it printed on a sweatshirt.  (It was the '80s, so this wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility.)  Anyway, when I think of Halloween stories, this is the one that comes to mind.  Sorry not sorry, Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.     

That said, I hope your Halloween was more marshmallow pumpkins than smashing pumpkins.  Which, now that I've said it, doesn't work on both levels because "Today" is a really great song.

Screw it; just enjoy those Snickers.