Three parts, all nonsensical

Pistachio:

My future husband eats a ridiculous number of pistachios per day. Seriously, it’s time for a nut intervention (he even puts frosting on them). Last night he came home from class and reported to me, in a proud manner, as though he had accomplished something worthy of praise, that he had not had a single pistachio that day. I think this new found love of pistachios is due to the fact that there is very little snack food left in our house and this is the closest approximation. Also, there seems to have been a bumper crop of pistachios this year as they are constantly on sale. Good thing too.

Nanny 911:

Do you know what my new favorite television show is? I’ll tell you. It’s Nanny 911. I know, it’s been on for years, but I’ve only just recently started watching it every week because Brett goes to class at night, which allows me to watch all sorts of crap on T.V. (I’m talking to you Real Housewives of Orange County, The Hills, Intervention, any an all iterations of Law & Order). Last night’s episode was about a single father, who was given full custody of his two boys. This father had been abused (so I assume, based on statements like, “my childhood was a living hell,” etc.) and was now raising his children with basically no discipline. It killed me. I was crying, and felt so bad for this little family. I thought Jo, the nanny, did a really great job of helping them, and so help me if I don’t think this craptastic reality television show isn’t actually doing some kind of public service for parents out there. I love Nanny 911. There I said it.

The “TMI” portion of today’s post:

So tonight I have to have a colposcopy because my pap smear came back with funky cells on it for the second time in a row. I’m not all too worried about this, because I understand that many women have this happen, but I am wondering if all of this isn’t somehow related to my undiagnosable pain (it’s probably not). Occasionally I get myself all worked up and worried that I have cancer and that it’s gone so far as to cause pain in my pelvis and I’ll have to have radiation, which will make me infertile and then I’ll just have to quit my job and run off to help babies in African orphanages because my life will be worth nothing if I can’t reproduce. Yes, these are the thoughts that run through my head. And yes, I am crazy.

I’m making Brett come with for this little adventure, because I need to have a bit of a heart to heart with my doctor, and two ears are better than one and also he can stop me the next time I say, “I have cancer,” and remind me that the doctor actually said I would be fine. Also, why shouldn’t he see me in stirrups with a speculum inserted? That won’t scare him away from every having sex with me again or anything.