Fire. Ears.

Recently I’ve gotten a few Google searches leading to my blog:

Why does Daisy JD think people care about her fire ears?

At the risk of sounding rude, I think people care because my fire ears are top read & searched for posts. I mean, Americans love themselves a good medical mystery-Discovery Health can teach you that with a quick skimming of their programming guide. Mystery Diagnosis. Medical Marvels. Dr. G, Medical Examiner. Untold Stories of the ER.

Anyway. My ears are still a mystery. They are not flaring up as much in the evenings but the latest development is particularly fun- during my long afternoon commutes in the summertime sunshine my ears hurt so badly in the sun/warmth that I feel like I need pain killers when I get inside. They ache, like a horrible burn from a hot stove on your hand. They only turn a tad bit pink, but oh my goodness the burning. I’m considering getting ear muffs for the summertime drive which is nothing short of crazy. I need my fleece ear warmers for bike rides, just to keep the sun off my hearing devices.

My doctors are still confused and since my ears have yet to comply and do their fire thing during day time office hours (to facilitate a deep tissue biopsy) I’m on track to do Grand Rounds during June or July at a large teaching hospital in Chicago. This means each department will be able to see my chart, take a look at my ears and previous photos of them doing their thing, and then sit down to talk about what is going on. Right now the most “liked” theory is that my ears are having some sort of inappropriate rosacea response. Instead of my cheeks flushing, my ears flush.

But lets face it, “inappropriate rosacea” makes it sound like they are cracking dirty jokes in church. Bad ears! So I’m going to attend Grand Rounds and be seen by all the departments and be the topic of conversation.

Maybe in the middle of appetizers & cocktails I can be diagnosed!

Or stop taking horse pills every day. That would be nice too.

Much Too Young…To Feel This Damn Old

Last night B and I attended a Dispatch concert in Chicago. I know, I know, they broke up years ago! But then they got back together, recorded a new album and if I do say so myself, are putting on a great tour right now. B and I were among the oldest in attendance and had great fun watching the 18 year olds trying to pass off fake id’s in order to buy beer. Those were they days were they not? B is very into music and is a pretty decent guitar player himself, so he was in heaven. I on the other hand enjoy music as much as the next person but I’m not musically talented in any way and my taste in music could be described as absymal by…anyone.

Growing up we were not a particularly musical family, despite being the first family in the neighborhood to get a compact disc player in 1989 (my friends used to come over after school to look at it). My parents CD collection wasn’t vast and was comprised of mostly Jimmy Buffett, Queen, Dire Straits, the Beach Boys, Garth Brooks, U2 and Meatloaf. Man I love Meatloaf. There was also a run in the 90’s where our entire family got really into Celine Dion but we don’t talk about that much anymore, as I’m sure you understand.

Last night at the concert, a father daughter duo sat in front of us. The daughter was no more than 18, the father wearing his Preppy Dad Uniform of chinos, boat shoes and a polo. The instant they sat in front of us I was reminded, immediately, of the Garth Brooks concert tour my sophomore year of high school. Garth – The End All Be All of Country In My Humble Opinion- played a three night set of shows in Salt Lake city in 1998 and there was no hotter ticket in town. Classmates whose parents bought them tickets became insta-celebrities. Despite my begging and pleading, no tickets were purchased by anyone in my household. I called the local country station every day during their ticket give-aways in hopes of winning a pair, but alas, it wasn’t happening. I was crushed to say the least. I spent hours listening to his album Ropin’ the Wind, lamenting my sad lot in life. I begged my friends who had tickets to write down every song he played while I played the convincing role of a Morose Teenager.

The night before the first show my Dad came home from work and tossed an envelope on the table.

Someone in my office bought these tickets to some show and they can’t make it so I said I’d take them.

I looked at the envelope and at my Dad, who, in my entire childhood had not attended a single musical performance save my 2nd grade Christmas recital.

I opened the envelope.

Two tickets to Garth Brooks.

I looked up at both of my parents, trembling.

Are….you taking Mom?

My Mom stood there with a funny smile on her face as she shook her head and announced she wasn’t really in the mood to go to the concert. Did I want to go? With Dad?

My entire world stood still before I started jumping up and down, screaming, as only a 15 year old can do.


My Dad just stood there smiling. To this day I’ll never know if he bought the tickets or if he really did score a sweet deal from someone in his office. It doesn’t matter though because the next night after taking me out for cheeseburgers in Salt Lake City, my Dad in his chinos, boat shoes and polo shirt escorted me to the first concert I’d ever attended, filled with cowboys and rodeo men. He bopped and hummed his way through every Garth and Tricia duo, surprised me by teaching me the elusive third verse to Friends in Low Places and pretty much solidified the Dad of the Year Award when he let me stay for the encore- Shameless.

I had died and gone to heaven. And when I stood last night at the Dispatch concert, watching a dad hum and sway to the music with a daughter who was clearly so thrilled to be there I found myself thinking ouf the lyrics to The Beaches of Cheyenne instead of The General.

And that is fine with me….because I have a feeling one day, if B and I ever have  a daughter, he will take her to whatever the crazy kids are listening to those days, in his boat shoes, chinos and a polo shirt and sway along to the music, whatever it might be. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Even if my taste in music is pretty bad.


Chicago, after having a winter that included the Blizzard of the Century had no spring. When I say “no spring” I mean that it was 50 degrees and pouring rain for most of March, April and May. Truly special. We’d only begun drying out when we skipped over the end of spring and jumped right into the middle of summer:

My point with all this IT IS SO HOT talk is that my current arsenal of dresses and slim crops are not going to get me through this summer if we stay over 80 degrees for any period of time. Last summer was fairly cool so I was able to keep my jeans in the rotation. This summer it appears my jeans will be put away for an undetermined period of time because I cannot handle the heat. Say what you will, it is HOT. And dresses and slim crops are all well and good but they don’t pair well with my polo shirts and various other tops if you know what I mean, and I hate to let an entire portion of my summer wardrobe go to waste.

This means that I’m considering wearing shorts. I have not worn shorts since I bought ones with 3 inch inseams at Abercrombie, as all college freshman were wont to do in 2001. Obviously this style isn’t going to cut it these days so I’m trying to find shorts that straddle that fine line of fashionable but not matronly. Preferably with a longer inseam. This of course is proving more impossible than writing a headline about the Rep. Weiner scandal without it being lewd and crude. They are either too short, flimsy, long or pleated for my very particular taste. I feel defeated- finally confident enough to buy some shorts- and now I can’t find any that fit the bill.

Welcome, summer. I’d pour you a drink but I’ll be shopping for shorts until you end.

The Best Laid Plans

Remember how I had plans on Saturday?

Yeah. My bike class was on Sunday.

I’ll let that sink in for a moment before I describe to you what my Saturday morning was like. Specifically I was hot, sweaty and covered in spilled coffee (dumb travel mug) as I wrestled with my bike in an empty parking lot before realizing; (1) I had no idea how to reattach my front tire to my bike frame; and (2) this parking lot sure is empty.

I’d try to caution you from laughing too much, except, well, yeah. Laugh away. I was there on the wrong day, struggling with a simple bike procedure and basically swearing up a storm before throwing my bike (with great gusto) back into the car and driving to Trader Joe’s where I shopped for fruit and yogurt in compression fit bike pants and tried not to cry. B had taken the wheels off my bike to get it into the car and neither of us contemplated that I might not really know how to get them all back on properly and by properly I mean at all.

Saturday night I brushed up on my calendar reading skills and had B walk me through the processing of taking my bike tires on and off. I’m now a pro. By pro I mean I can do it, on a good day, in under 10 minutes. I’m sure the pros can too.

The class itself (ON SUNDAY, AHEM) was really quite great. I met some other people my age who were all muttering through the “changing a flat tire” activity as much as I was – hey, kindred spirits! I didn’t crash and I only had a moment of panic once, when we had to turn left at one of Chicago’s infamous 6 way intersections. I avoid them in my car, much less on a bike, with my stupid clip in pedals and general lack of coordination. (I hate those 6 way intersections because, well, six streets, Chicago drivers, it is obviously the making of an apocalyptic car movie…)

My new coach (is this the proper term?) also informed me that my gears were all wrong, I was riding at the wrong seat height and also, I really needed to not be so freaked out -but all I could say was HI DID YOU SEE THAT SIX WAY INTERSECTION WE HAD TO GO THROUGH SIR?

My coach (instructor?) did however send me this and once I finished laughing for a good 10 minutes I decided I was motivated enough to go back next week.


I survived, but I’m definitely in the market for a good soap that washes bike grease off of one’s calves. For….my friend.

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