A Few Random Thoughts

Over the last few days I have tried to be more patient and aware of the people around me and as a result, I've learned a couple things. None of it seemed important enough to write an entire post about, and when lumped together into one entry they still don't seem very important. But here they are anyway.

• If the providers at certain medical facilities would like to see their female patients on a more regular basis, maybe the Ob/Gyn should start offering complimentary bikini waxes with an exam, a mammogram should come with a massage and the dentist should offer free lip waxes anytime the drill comes out.
• Along those same lines, when a guy signs up for a gym membership he should be required to receive a complimentary back wax.
• If you want to fit into a pair of jeans that are sized in the single digits but like to eat actual food and drink beer that doesn't taste like shit, shop at the Gap.
• Radiohead is great music to listen to in the car, at a party or at the bar. But is it great for a workout? With the exception of "15 Step," not so much. All it did was make me thirsty for something other than water and make me wish that I was either at a party or at the bar.
• I overheard the following conversation in the grocery store: "Can I have candy? No. Please I want candy! No. How come I can't have candy, because I really want some! Not now no candy. Candy candy candy you get me a treat! I said no. BUT MAAAAAWWWM I WAAAAAANT CAAAAANNNNNDEEEEEE! Oh, okay, here." Sorry lady but you just screwed yourself and yes, I saw your kid smirk at you.
• After a recent trip to the dentist it has occurred to me that four shots of booze would have the same numbing effects as two shots of novocaine, but would be a hell of a lot more enjoyable and my nose wouldn't have still been numb three hours later.
• Anyone who has had plastic surgery that isn't medically necessary automatically forfeits any and all rights to criticize or laugh at those of us that haven't been stretched, stitched, augmented or lifted and aren't hauling around coconut-sized sacks of silicone.
• There are a lot of women this year that have decided to completely ignore the pick-up procedures at school. Here's the thing, other moms aren't looking at you sitting in your fancy SUV because we're impressed by your car and think you're a rebel because you are breaking the rules. We are glaring in your direction with flames shooting out of our eyes because we hate you. We don't think your car is anything special, we hate your stuck-up attitude, we hate the fact that you're sending a message to your kids that it's okay to be an inconsiderate moron, we hate that you sit there and talk on your Bedazzled cell phone and never notice that you're blocking traffic, we hate your ginormous celebrity wanna-be sunglasses that you wear even when it's cloudy and we wish you would either get a clue or go away.
• I'm pretty sure that the whacked-out mom at the post office, despite what the words to her song implied, wasn't there with her little girl to buy "stamp stamp stampity stamps oh la la la so here we go along we go la la to get the stamp stampity stampy stamps." I think she was just getting stamps.
• I will stop picking on vegetarians when they: A) Stop being a pain in the ass. There is really nothing worse than going out with someone who gets pleasure out of being high maintenance and bringing attention to themselves and their wacked-out dietary choices by questioning each and every ingredient. Oh, and here's a little secret: When you ask the server if the kitchen uses vegetable stock for the soup, the server will say yes and the stock is made with chickens. And B) Stop giving me nasty looks as I sink my teeth into a bacon cheeseburger and let the grease drip down my chin. Just quietly enjoy your BLT made with Fakin' Bacon and let me enjoy the fact that my meal is better than yours. Ah, who am I kidding, I will never stop picking on vegetarians, but if they weren't such a pain I'd probably pick on them a little less.

Who Delivered Me?

As I get older, I try to appreciate the small benefits that are only acquired with age: low car insurance rates, not having to freak out when I find a gray hair and, after years of practice, hard work and dedication, having a high tolerance to alcohol. I'm also appreciative of my health because I don't get sick very often. Even when Zach and Zoe had the flu in October and Doug had the flu in December, I somehow managed to escape it all and, unfortunately, was able to take care of everyone. As a result of my good health, I usually only have to go to the doctor once a year.

About a week ago, I managed to act like an adult and actually attend this once-a-year appointment with my OB/GYN. After peeing in the stupid cup (yes, I know I'm a little dehydrated), standing on a defective scale (I wish someone had told me that I was wearing an x-ray apron) and telling Zoe to sit quietly outside the exam room door (a Nintendo DS is great for times like this), I put on the super-stylish pink paper gown and waited.

I've been seeing the same doctor for 20 years and we've been through a lot together, so he is always genuinely interested in how my life is going. It may seem a little weird that we talk about the football season, recent vacations or his kids while I'm doing my best impersonation of a cowgirl, but what am I supposed to say: "How's the view from down there?"

The worst part of the OB/GYN experience is the week between when I write my address on the pink "your test results are negative" post card and when I receive it. There has only been one time that the postcard didn't arrive, and sure enough I received a call instead, notifying me that the tests came back with questionable results, so further testing would be necessary. The results of the additional testing necessitated an undesirable procedure which consisted of having a part of my body that is hidden from view converted into a chunk of ice. A lovely experience, really, and now I know how an ice machine at the Holiday Inn feels.

Ever since then, waiting for that damn post card to arrive is always a nerve wracking experience. I figure that since I tested positive for some fucked-upedness once it's bound to happen again, especially as I get older.

Fortunately, after a week went by, the coveted pink postcard arrived in the mail notifying me that I'm normal (stop laughing). While holding the piece of mail I let out a happy little "Woo hoo!" and Zoe asked me what was up.

"I'm happy because the doctor said I'm healthy, that's all. Remember when I went to the doctor last week and you saw me in that junky pink dress? Oh, and you got to meet the doctor that delivered* you?" As soon as I said this, I instantly knew that she would be confused.

"Delivered me? When was I delivered? I came in a box from that brown truck?" Oh, if only it could be so easy.

"No, Zoe. Before a baby lives in a house or rides in a stroller, it has to grow inside the mom. Then a doctor helps to get the baby out. That's called a delivery."

"That's crazy, and that makes no sense. You're wrong. A delivery comes to the front door, from that man wearing the brown clothes." There was no convincing her otherwise. The girl now thinks that she arrived via UPS.

*When Zach was three, he tried to convince me that I should get another baby. Not have a baby, but get one. In fact, he wanted two: one for him and one for Charlie. His suggestion was that I go to that "Babies R Us store and pick up two babies. Can we do that today?" I guess it's probably a good thing that I couldn't take that approach because considering how crazy Zoe makes her brothers some days, they'd probably be asking for the receipt.