I’ve decided to do a blog wrap up/update at the end of the week – or the beginning of the next week if things in my world were particular chatty – so, periodically but at no set time. This way, I can include all of husband’s rebuttals to anything I’ve said about him - why should I be the only one listening to him? - and I fill you in on whatever else my posts have brought up with me or with others. These are in no particular order. YES, I AM A DOCTOR. I HAVE A WEBMD DEGREE Husband is still sick. The other night I found him sitting up in the chair in the corner of our bedroom at 5am moaning because his head hurt. When I asked if he needed anything, he grunted at me and shuffled back to bed. He’s like dying sick. Unless it’s time to go out and do something outside of the house. Then he’s fine. He’d probably be fine inside the house too – if it weren’t for the million and one projects he has to do to get the house finished. WALK OF SHAME Sad to say this but TTD was bit by that dog, Fido, in the dog park. We didn’t notice at first because we body checked her and it was a nip on her ear. We didn’t notice until the puss started oozing. We felt horrible, very, very bad parents. We did our best to clean the wound but, like we’re not Doctors, we are also not Veterinarians. And both of us get pretty grossed out by goo. TTD was not impressed by our bedside manner of yelling at each other to do the cleaning. Pretty bad parenting, right? It gets worse. Husband took TTD to the Black Vet (see footnote) for a look at the wound. They were escorted into a room to wait. When Black Vet came in, TTD barked. Apparently that was the cue for all the other staff to pile into the room and, while black vet held her by the scruff, TAPE HER MOUTH SHUT! Husband was so taken aback; words didn’t come out of his mouth though he had lots running through his mind –none of them nice. One shot in TTD’s rear and $100+ later, husband and TTD were out of there never to return. Seriously, never! What the F did they think TTD was – a crocodile? We’re going to try another vet tomorrow to see if we can find the lovely friendly experience we had at Adobe Animal Hospital where they made us all feel special and loved. FOOTNOTE: When we first moved in to our house in Nashville, the older white woman neighbor across the street told us if we needed need a vet to try hers. "He's a Black Vet." she said very nicely, looking right at me, to let me know she wasn't racist. Sadly, being Black does not make a good vet. I should know. I don't have a WebMD in that. THE “FILE SYSTEM” Husband would like everyone to know he is apparently not that messy. He has said it over and over, like the Internet can hear him if he repeats it loud enough. After my post about his “file system” and the little folded receipts that decorate all the table tops in this house, he has started giving me the receipts at the restaurant. He’ll fold them first, in a passive aggressive way, and then toss them at me and tell me it’s my fault now if they are found anywhere in the house. I love him. STICK BUG VS MY IFFY MORALS The freaking Stick Bugs must be reading this blog. Or they saw me finally pick their buddy off the windshield and toss him into the yard while squealing. In case it wasn't clear, I was the one squealing. The Stick Bug was dead. He could no long squeal - not that I'm sure he ever could. I don't know jack about Stick Bugs. Other than the fact that they’ve started creeping up to the front door just to let me know that they know what I did. I never see them move, they are just there, closer than they were before. And they’ve told their bug friends. This is what it looked like just outside the door this morning. I’m starting to though all the windows and the door before I step outside. I don’t think I can handle the trauma of one of them landing in my fro-lett. I know husband can’t handle the drama that will be me if one of them lands in my fro-lett! Or one of these, who apparently also got the memo to attack... See, he's ready to pounce... Squee!
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I had a very vivid, very specific dream last night about my sister-in-law and her two kids, my nephews. So vivid and specific that I could smell the spaces, feel the carpet beneath me feet, see the tiny details that brought the room to life. I woke up excited to write it down. But, by the time I got out of bed, let the dog out for her business, gave her a treat, started my hot water for tea and sat down at my desk, it was a blurry fuzzy memory.
I do remember that in my dream, my sister-in-law and the kids were living in a motel room with two cats here in America. Not a totally skuzzy one, but a motel only a few stars below an actual hotel. The nephews were TV stars on a low budget TV show along the lines of Romper Room and Barney. The kind with low production values but very high local viewership. And, for some random reason that I don’t know, I was staying just down hall in the same motel as they were. I remember at one point, I was in awe of their cat box solution – a mini hamper filled with towels that the kittens would climb into to use and, when finished, would leave no trail of cat litter. See, very specific. Very weird memory but very specific. And yet, my sister-in-law is not, as I recall, a cat person. She’s a dog person and a wine person and clothes person but not a cat person. And my sister-in-law and the kids live in Scotland in lovely house overlooking the water. And the nephews are not on TV and have not been on TV- though I don’t doubt that they’d like to be on TV. And we have never stayed in a motel room at the same time. I’m not even sure she’s ever stayed in a motel room. She’s a hotel person. And, as far as I can remember, nothing I watched or read or looked at on the Internet last night had a motel room in it. Or cats. Or my sister-in-law. Or the nephews. Or even kids in a TV show. So now, instead of a very specific dream I’m remembering, I’m left with this unsettled memory that has no background and nothing tangible to hold on to reassure me or give me answers. And that totally bums me out. Because, even at my advanced age, I’m still hoping for some psychic super powers to suddenly become active in me. Super powers I’ve always had but weren’t realized until one fateful moment – a bump on my head or a spider bite – they turn on and I can suddenly run faster than the speed of light, see farther than an eagle’s eye - you get the idea. Magic powers I choose to share with the world use to better it and make it a happier place. Psychic powers that will give me insight to the location of a missing kid. Or give me a glimpse into the future. Or will help me solve long cold murder cases bringing closure to families. But no. Apparently my magic psychic super powers haven’t kicked in yet. I’m still plain, ordinary me. My magic powers are still only my ability to bump into anything and bruise, misspell any word and make any awkward situation even more awkward. Or maybe my super psychic magic powers have kicked in, and my sister-in-law and the nephews will be moving to America so that they can star on a TV show and live in a motel just down the hall from me. I should let her know so that she can pack appropriately. If this were a movie, it would open with me doing a walk of shame through the dog park, Tigger the Dog tightly held by the collar. Both of us trying not to make eye contact with the judgmental dog owners watching and pulling their dogs away from us like we were a bad smell.
But it’s not a movie. It’s my freaking life. And in my freaking life, this totally happened: Yesterday, Tigger the Dog (TTD) and I went to the dog park. When we first moved to Nashville, we went to this park twice a day but since our move, it’s been ages. It’s a pretty cool dog park; lots of trees, freshly mulched levels, a zig zag path running to the bottom of the park and lots of benches and tables throughout for dog folks to sit on and watch their babies play. Unfortunately, most folks just hang out in the center, on the path near the water fountain, near the site of the incident. Now TTD is a ball dog. She will chase a ball down, bring it back to you and - the one trick she knows - put the ball in your hand for another throw. When we first entered, I’d picked up a new bright yellow slime free ball but TTD was all over the place, sniffing here, checking out everyone's rear ends and all the strange smells on the ground. She was too hyper to play ball with me so, I bounced it a few times while wandering the path from one end to the other. Finally she calmed down, all the immediate butts had been sniffed, and over she came, ready to play ball with me. I took the tennis ball, made eye contact with her, to make sure she was paying attention and then I threw the ball down the hill. Hard. RIGHT INTO THE FACE OF THIS GUY STANDING FIVE FEET FROM ME!!! I don’t know his name. I didn’t get it before and I sure didn’t get it after so I’m going to call him Bob. I took the ball and threw the ball right down the hill RIGHT INTO BOB’S FACE! I hit poor Bob in the face, right between the eyes. HA-RRRD! Mortified I start apologizing. And apologizing, over and over again. I can’t say I’m sorry enough times. The old guy on the bench right behind us yells out “I got that on tape.” Not helping, old guy! Don’t know his name either. I’m calling him Ass. I’m waiting for the ground to open up but nope, I’m still standing there while the fifteen or so folks, including Ass, are watching me and poor, battered Bob. Bob, is doing his best to look manly, not cry and not to rub the large lump on his head where I NAILED HIM RIGHT BETWEEN THE EYES WITH A BALL! ack. TTT, obvious to the drama and feeling none of my embarrassment, is waiting with the offending ball in her mouth. She drops it in my hand and, not knowing what else to do to make this situation better, I throw it down the hill. Not hitting anyone this time. TTD brings it back. I’m still mortified and make lame small talk with Bob. “My husband always makes fun of my aim.” I say, throwing the ball again and again. “I’ve actually hit a post and had the ball hit me in the face.” I awkwardly laugh, hoping that might make him feel better about me. There is no response from him. This can’t get worse, I think. Just throw the ball a few times and then we’ll leave. And then it does. It gets worse. TTD brings me the ball but misses my hand. The ball falls on the ground and is quickly snatched up by Bob’s dog - I’ll call him Fido. I nervously giggle. “TTD, you dropped the ball. Now, I’ll have to play with Fido.” Bob tells me Fido doesn’t play ball. He just likes to keep the ball from other dogs. I awkwardly laugh again. Bob doesn't. Bob tries to get Fido to drop the ball. Fido won’t drop it. Bob tries again. Fido keeps chewing. Bob reaches down and grabs it out of Fido’s mouth. And all hell breaks loose. Fido turns and attacks TTD. They both start growling and snarling and then it’s teeth shiny and snapping, and it goes from fun and games in the dog park to a full on dogfight in seconds. Bob reaches down and tries to separate the dogs that are a mess of fur and teeth at his feet. I manage to grab TTD’s color and pull her off and away. The other dogs that came over to check out the action and bark “Fight. Fight. Fight.” calm down and wander away. Bob says, “I hope your dog has all her shots.” I turn to look Bob. Who is BLEEDING!!! From a dog bite! From MY DOG! I am now flaming red and just a babbling mess of apologies and utter disbelief. I assure him she’s had her all her shots. That this has never happened before. That I’m going to die of shame. My hand actually goes over my heart as I’m prattling on. Bob takes full responsibility. He did grab the ball from his dog Fido and Fido did start the fight but I am horrified by whole situation. I try to give him my contact information but he doesn’t want it. I can’t stop staring at the large drop of blood the size of a red pinky nail on his arm thanks to my dog. And the large bump between his eyes thanks to me. I apologize one more time and, tightly holding TTD’s collar, I walk the walk of shame to the gate. The other owners call their dogs away from us as we pass. I hook up TTD to her leash and leave, walking as quickly as I can to the car. And then, because this is who I am, as I'm quickly walking to my car, I trip and half fall, half slide down the hill stopping myself mere millimeters away from denting the flashy car at the curb. With my head. Folks from the park are still watching. Awesome end to the visit, I think, as I pick myself up, load TTD and myself into our car and drive away. And I have no doubt in my mind, had I made contact with my head on the panel of that shiny, very expensive looking car, it would have been Bob and Fido’s car. I am still blushing from the humiliation and TTD and I are both currently on time-out and on a self-ban from the dog park. Until everyone has forgotten what happened. Or moved away. Or died. And, most definitely, until Bob and Fido’s restraining order against us has been lifted. We moved into this fixer-up January 2013 and have slowly begun to start projects and not finish them. Our den is down to the studs. The brown granite guest bath – and don’t get me started on this one – has had the bath resurfaced but needs a new vanity, one not sized for children. Our office/TV room/box storage/coat closet is way too many things at once right now and our bedroom walk-in closet - that has not been remodeled in the slightest, don't judge the fixings please - leads to the very small pink (!) master bathroom, the walk-in closet is a mess. My point is; nothing is where it will be someday. But that is no excuse for this: This picture is husband's 'file system' on the counter in the walk-in closet. The one he says he knows where everything is and if I touch it, I screw up the whole system. The system that’s affected if I move things or throw things away or pile things in to neater piles. Any of the above and I incur the wrath of husband. He says he has a photographic memory of where each "document is filed" and if I move it, I “screw up the system.” This is the system he phoned and asked me, quite franticly, to find a card in. The card of someone he was meeting with but he'd forgotten their name. The business card, he said, that was in the "file system" but he wasn't sure quite where. So much for the stupid photographic memory. I started with the obvious pile of business cards on the second shelf. A nice neat pile of cards of people he's met at writer's nights over the last nine months but not one of them was the card I was looking for. I next sorted through the pile of crap - sorry, important documents that can't be thrown away - on the counter. There I found a ticket from a concert event from April of this year, a pair of maps from his dad’s visit and a mess of receipts. Receipts that husband apparently can't put into his pocket without folding into tiny little squares and then, if he remembers to take them out of his pocket before his pants get washed, throwing them oh so delicately on the counter when he gets home. Sorry. That was incorrect. He’s not throwing – he’s "filling" them. I looked carefully through the pile but nothing. I then checked the dish with the keys. The dish that has more than just keys; pieces of wire, pocket fluff and half a dozen guitar picks but not the card I'm looking for. There's no card in the dish with the coins and pocket fluff and guitar picks in it either. There are million more receipts though. Receipts he doesn't need ever again folded and folded and then folded again and "filed" in the coin dish. There are dozens of business cards in the piece of window trim that is currently serving as some sort of card file. Some of them are from our first week in the house for companies we're not going to use. But they're "filed." In the window trim. It took me approximately half an hour to find several cards that might be the card, send pictures of them to husband and then carefully re-file them in the crap-fest that is his "file system." I rewarded myself with two mint dove chocolates, two mini heath bars and a heap of judgement while sitting at my desk. My desk where I haven't filed a damn thing in weeks, have no idea where anything is and just move piles around to work. I'm not in the least self-righteous about it though. Only a wee bit smug. Or at least I was, till I posted the picture. The only way I'm standing higher on the mountain of "I'm better than you because..." is that this is actually a desk and not a walk-in closet. Cleaning my desk has just moved to the top of the To-do list. Damn husband!
Husband was sick yesterday. Like stay in bed sick. Well, really like got out of bed to announce he's sick and then climbed back into bed sick. His bones ached, his head ached, he had a fever and was just "not well" as he likes to say. I thought it was the flu. Told him to stay in bed and rest. For once he listened to me and he slept the day away.
Or so I thought. Apparently at some point he woke up, got onto WebMD and diagnosed himself with fibromyalgia. Because the symptoms of fibromyalgia are aching, headache, depression, irritable bowels and anxiety and he has all those. And, while its a woman's disease mostly apparently the male population can get it too. Like my dear husband seems to have. It's good that he's diagnosed himself because treating the fibromyalgia will be hard to treat at the same time as the meningitis he apparently had last spring. And the tetanus he had earlier that year. And the Meniere’s disease, the diabetes, and the tennis elbow... Funny thing, with all these diseases he seems to have, he never goes to the doctor. Him: “I have tennis elbow.” Me: “Go to the doctor.” But he won’t. Actually, I exaggerate. He will go sometimes. He saw a doctor for the heart attack he was having - we went straight to the ER for that one. The heart attack that turned out to be indigestion from a Chipotle burrito eaten at lightning speed and arm pain from lifting his father's overstuffed suitcase. He also saw a doctor for the necrotizing fasciitis he’d diagnosed himself with six years ago. The flesh eating bacteria thing that started on his hand and then moved to under his arm and then his chest. He went to the doctor for that one but only AFTER I’d nagged for three weeks! Pieces of his skin were sloughing off his hand, leaving a red seeping wound and yet, he would not go to the doctor. When he finally went in, AFTER THE THING HAD MOVED TO THE THIRD PLACE ON HIS BODY, he told the doctor that I nagged him in. The doctor actually said to him, “Let me get this straight, if your wife hadn’t nagged you, you wouldn’t have come in?” Yup! Then the doctor couldn’t figure out what it was, because it wasn't necrotizing fasciitis, and had to send it off for evaluation. An evaluation that husband refused to pay for because he feels that he went to the doctor for his expert opinion and if the doctor didn’t know what it was, the doctor should pay for the other guy’s opinion. The billing company felt differently about that one. So without the doctor to run interference and actually refute and debase his WebMD diagnosis, our conversations go a bit like this: Me: "You can't have meningitis. If you did, you couldn't touch your chin to your chest." Him: "Well then I've had it all my life then. I've never been able to touch my chin to my chest." Me: “Go to the doctor.” But he won’t. Much like this fibromyalgia thing that’s got him bedridden. If it is indeed fibromyalgia. By the time he gets out of bed this morning, it’s sure to be something else. I, too, have a WebMD degree but I never exaggerate like husband. It's obvious from my symptoms that I have rheumatoid arthritis and gout and sarcoidosis and Wernicke's syndrome... Going to make husband move over. I'm getting back into bed. I'm obviously dying. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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