Saturday, July 23, 2011

Doctor Visit

I went to the doctor's office yesterday because of the disgusting cough I've had for a month.  It's my three-pack-a-day-chain-smoking-trucker's-wife cough, as I so fondly like to call it. I had to see a new doctor, since mine heard I was coming and took a vacation day. It was an interesting visit.  The "new" guy, who didn't want to share his name or where he usually practices, peeked his head in the examining room cautiously, then burst in real quick, shook my hand so fast I thought I'd imagined it, and asked what the problem was. 

"Well, I've had this cough -" I started, and I was gonna explain and maybe work up a good hacking cough for example, but he jumped up, told me to hold on, and he'd be right back in two shakes of a lam'bs tale and he was back out the door.  He was back in less time than it me took to work up a good hack and shoved some literature at me about middle-age women and their health. I was not amused.  "Sounds to me like a low grade infection left over from that last cold you had.  You need an antibiotic."

Shyeah, right!  What a quack.   I don't need an antibiotic.  He probably went to Micky Mouse Medical School.  I started to explain my theory that it was GERD caused by my acid reflux, which has caused my esophagus to erode, or at become inflamed, causing me to cough.  The second option is cancer.  I'm shooting for GERD because it's outcome is a little more optimistic and I don't believe in being an alarmist.

I explained all of this to him in terms a five year old could understand, and the whole time he just kept writing out my prescription for an antibiotic and a cough medicine.  When he was finished, he tore it off the pad, waited not-so-patiently for me to finish, handed me the script, and said, "I'll tell you what.  How's about we try this first, and if this doesn't work in a week, we'll try your theory?"  And he walked out the door, totally leaving me hanging before I got to tell him about my big toe hurting. Donald Duck Quack doctor. Went to college at Disney World, I bet.

As I was checking out, he rushed out of another exam room and hollered, "Call if you aren't better in a week!" and ducked around a corner before I could thrown something at him, like the bird.

But I filled the prescriptions today, and I must say after my first dose of antibiotic (at least he noticed I'm allergic to penicillin) I haven't coughed at all.  Maybe he's not all bad.  But next time I want my doctor back that at least listens to me. Sheesh. My insurance pays for that hour and a half of his time.

Friday, July 15, 2011

Reasons Chad Makes Me Go Aaaahhhhh

Have  mentioned Chad before? I'm sure I have.  I have an 18 year old. Yeah.  He thinks he's an adult. I'm not sure I agree, but I'm thinking I'm starting to like the idea of missing him. I love the boy/man. I do.  When he was born he was the cutest thing. Well, except for that conehead.  A movie was made about it years later.  He was a fun child to raise, if you enjoy shaking your head in puzzlement a lot. And stepping on plastic dinosaurs.  And finding your best dishes in the sand box.

But now he's 18, and all grown up he is, all five foot seven of him. I thought I'd walk through the house today and take a few pics to show how well he's ready to take on the world.

When he gets ready for his day he puts his contacts in and leaves the cases in the sink instead of the trash can that sits NEXT to the sink.  Difficult, I know. And he occasionally shaves the scruff off his chin, thus leaving what looks like a deat, drowned rat on the faucet. I have my own bathroom, for which I am eternally thankful, and would never have known about this situation save for the grossed out shrieks eminating from the queen of divas, Scotlyn.

Next on my stop was his bedroom, which I haven't dared to enter in quite some time. Surely you can understand why?

But then again, I tell myself, maybe he's not all bad.  He doesn't do drugs, drink, smoke,or cuss.  He doesn't shoot people or hit little old ladies when he steals their purses (he's very polite about it).  He's almost always respectful to his parents except about cleaning his room.  He's kind to small children and holds the door for ladies.  So what if I'm still tryin to teach him to chew with his mouth closed?  How important is that, really?  And does it really matter if his underwear are growing green fuzz and breeding under his bed?  He's hardly ever been arrested, for crying out loud! I need to keep things in perspective. 


He and his friend just came home from a mission trip to Missouri where they led worship for a youth camp.   So yeah, with a good job, an understanding wife, and an army of maids, maybe he'll turn out all right after all. 

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

I feel like the worst kind of person tonight. I have left poor, defenseless Mazie locked up and alone in the barn.  And her sin is only this:  she is a woman.  I am the worst kind of hypocrite.  When it's my time to "be a woman" as I so delicately put it, I like to get back rubs unless I prefer to not be touch lest I rip your arm off and beat you with the bloody stump, eat chocolate, chips, cookies, ice cream, cake, cheeseburgers/whatever floats my boat while languishing in bed, moaning at the top of my lungs how I want a sex change operation and that me and Eve are going to have a Come To Jesus meeting when I get to heaven.

And here I've done pushed my delicate little lady out into the cold hard night (it's 85 degrees, but you know what I mean).  Now, lest you think I'm some sort of monster, she's in a 10x10 dog run that my wonderfully strong husband put up inside the horses' stall - poor Blitz is out in the cold/heat now.  She has a bucket of water, fresh food, a horse blanket and a pile of hay.  The radio is crooning country music ballads from her favorite radio station, 101.1. And still she howls, barks, and yips.  It's times like these I'm so thankful for hearing aids.  Take those babies out and it's instant silence. I called the neighbors to make sure they couldn't hear her.  They can't.  The kids can, loud and clear, but they can just deal with that. I don't care about making my kids happy, just my neighbors.

I went outside and had a heart to heart with Mazie, explaining how being in heat wouldn't last forever and then she could come back in the house. Next heat she could get her some, if you know what I mean (she didn't), and it would end early.  Then she'd have a short pregnancy, pop out five or six wee ones (no more, please), and wam bam thank you maam, we'd get her spayed and it would all be behind her.  She listened well enough, but as soon as I stopped talking, she set back to howling, "Whyyyyyy can't you make Buddy stay in the barn and I stay in the house?"  Well, because he isn't bleeding, genius.  That's a practically new couch.

So I'm inside feeling rather guilty while Mazie sits in her dirt floored pen with no Midol/Dr. Pepper/chocolate/DirecTv.  I'll just have to deal with my feelings though, because no way am I sleeping out there just to make my guilt go away.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

I want my own room!

"It's not fair! I want my own room!"

"Well, I want my own room more!"

"Mama, we need our own rooms.  We can't stand sharing any more.  Can we have a bigger house?"

Yeah, sure, I'll add that to the grocery list, right between laundry detergent and milk.  Extra bedroom, preferably pink. Check.

And when the big sister is not home for the night, what happens?  Little sister is afraid to sleep by herself in the scary bedroom, so she talks big brother into sleeping with her on the couch.

And she wants her own room? 

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Convo with Ainie

Ainie cornered me in the closet putting clothes away a few minutes ago. 

"Mama," she demanded with her hands on her hips, toe tapping, "Why do me have to clean today?" 

We've already had variations of the conversation about a million and two times, so for the million and third time I answered her, "We're cleaning, my dear precocious child, so we will have a clean house."

"Why?  No one's coming over."

"Some people actually live in clean houses."

"Not us."

Friday, July 1, 2011

Chad's First Big Boy Trip

So Chad went away on his first alone trip and turned 18.  How did this happen?  I didn't allow it, that's for sure.  I know I was just changing his dirty nappies last week (that embarrassing enough for you, Chaddy-boy?).  Anyway, it appears he was having the time of his life off on his own, which just served to add insult to injury to me, his poor beleagured mama. He sounded, I don't know, happy or something.  Again, not something I would ever allow.

Today he's on his way home!  Yay!  I can yell at him to clean up his room/mow the yard/take out the trash/everything else he never does anyway.  I've been rather bored all this week with only the younger three kids to yell at, and since they DO their chores (CHAD!) I don't have anything to yell at them about (CHAD!) but I do anyway just for the fun of it.

I got a text a bit ago. 

"Had a flat tire"

Oh good Lord, heavens to betsy.  My son is going to die.  I saw this very thing happen on TruTV.  A guy was changing his tire and some neanderthal done hit him and kilt him dead.  So I called my mama to tell her my baby had a flat tire.  And she reassured me like a good mama should. 

"And this is a holiday weekend.  Lots of drunks out."  That helped.

Oh my goodness goodness gracious.  What kind of mother was I to let my precious child, born of my blood, to go out into that wild vicious world without his mama?  Did he even know how to change a tire?  Did he even know what a jack was?  It was then I realized that I had an uncle that I never met that was pulled over and got hit by a car and died and that car never even stopped and he died and his mama was never the same again and God help me I was hyperventilating now.

Peter paused the DVR long enough to ask what my problem was.  I said Chad was dead and I missed him.  He called me a drama queen - can you imagine? - and said "the boy" would be fine, and to call him back if I was so upset.  Well, duh, he can't answer because he's dead, you big dummy.

Just then my phone rings, and it's Chad of all people.  Probably the state trooper had found his phone next to his bloody body and was calling to tell me the news, but it was actually Chad's voice. 

"Just wanted to let you know we have the spare on and are headed home.  We'll have to drive slow, so don't worry."

Don't worry, he says.