Ok. Here's what the research says about my Dr. Sausage-Fingers internal dilemma: While it is possible that "Doctor" Sausage-Fingers has a PhD...as I could obtain a Doctoral degree after a Master's degree in English to become a professor, "Dr. Holler"-style...he is not a Medical Doctor, which makes his "Doctor" nomenclature kind of misleading in his position within the medical field. So, it is likely that Dr. Sausage-Fingers calls himself Dr. Sausage-Fingers in order to command more respect from patients. Maybe he thinks we would think less of him if he called himself Nurse Sausage-Fingers. Maybe he watched the Focker movies and was traumatized by George Burns' treatment of Gaylord "Greg" Focker, the male nurse.
The bottom line: I am no closer to knowing the truth about the state of Doctor Sausage-Fingers doctoriness. Maybe Dr. Sausage Fingers has a PhD--and a right to the title of "Doctor." Or maybe he just prefers the sound of his name with Doctor in front of it. It's a crap shoot.
What do I know for sure? Well, I know that I used the word "maybe" a lot of times in this post. I also know that I would sure like to be "Doctor Holler" someday. Paging Dr. Holler. Are you in Dr. Holler's class this semester? Pause. *Repeating mentally.* That is actually the worst Doctor name ever! Doctor Holler?!...that is like Doctor Pain...or Doctor Love. It's like a bad joke. Students would make a mockery of me (even moreso than poor Nurse Focker).
Life's dreams...up in smoke. Thanks a lot Greg. (Greg Holler, that is. Not Greg Focker.)
Photos by Amanda Naylor, PThreePhoto.com
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Diary of a Wimpy Rider
I have been riding horses since I was five years old. From the time I stepped foot in a stirrup, it was clear that I was meant to move on four legs, not my own two. For me, riding was instinctive: my instructors told my mother that I was a natural. Everyone just sort of knew and accepted--some grudgingly, some fearfully, and some proudly--that I was born to ride.
From that young age, I was fearless. I rode full-sized horses--fiery, flighty Saddlebreds, no less--in the beginning. Later, I began to ride horses and ponies over fences at a hunter stable. I acquired my first horse at the age of eight, an adopted Mustang named Wildfire--appropriately. My parents rethought that decision when 1,000 pound Wildfire took off with 75 pound me around our farm as they stood by/ran after helplessly, and that's when Zephyr came into the picture. Zephyr was an athletic and spirited (but very kind-hearted in a gruff, manly sort of way) Connemara pony, and we raced around the farm and over tall jumps in....I'm not going to go so far as to call it a controlled way, but...a way that I was comfortable with at the time. I was so confident when I rode Zephyr: I never had a worry about him missing a stride or refusing a jump. With him, I was bulletproof.
As an adult, with brittle bones, more experience, and infinitely more to lose upon injury/death, I am becoming a wimpier rider. Every time I ride, I do so with the knowledge that this one could be my last--and though I guess it is healthy to grip reality in this way and calculate my risks, it also takes something fundamental away from the experience. I can't lose myself fully in a rip-tearing gallop the way I did with Zephyr day-after-day: I now wonder if there are holes or rocks in my path, I wonder if Finn will get hurt, I wonder if I will fall, and I wonder if it is worth these risks to let loose. So I rarely do.
In fact, the last time I galloped until I was exhilarated and couldn't see a thing through the tears of joy (and wind-sheer) streaming down my face, I did so on a borrowed horse (thank you sincerely, Melvin)--and it was (a.) half an accident, as I believed Melvin to be the slowest horse in the world, and (b.) before I met Greg, and (c.) years before I had Brooke.
I value my life, and my horse, and both of our soundness so much now--I am acutely aware that he is the past, present, and future of my riding life. He is my equine soulmate, I am quite lucky to say, and I fear injuring him because I am not certain that I'd want to ride another horse at this point--I mean really ride. I trust my horse. He takes care of me. We understand each other, and partnering with him is a calculated risk that is still worthwhile. He is my "me time." Sitting on his back, I am graceful and daring and confident and happy and myself in a way that I cannnot achieve independently. He is kind and gentle with my little children. He understands our situation and his role in it.
So, now that you understand my crazy adoration and dependence on this horse...which borders on insanity and is certainly way past obsessive...I tell you that his back has been sore. I have been riding him regularly, if not intensely, all summer, and recently I began jumping him again. It seems that he may not have been fit enough to hit the course with as much gusto as I did-- But what can I say in my defense? He is so fun to jump, that I have trouble controlling my urge to jump everything in sight (a couple of times!). I feel terrible for being inconsiderate to him now, of course. I have been stretching him, massaging him, doing acupressure on him....giving him baths with liniment. I have given him days off, but still I can tell that he is sore.
I have a show planned for September 17 as my birthday present to myself. I wonder if I should take him, or if I'm being selfish?
Somewhere even deeper inside my consciousness: I wonder if I'm just being wimpy?
From that young age, I was fearless. I rode full-sized horses--fiery, flighty Saddlebreds, no less--in the beginning. Later, I began to ride horses and ponies over fences at a hunter stable. I acquired my first horse at the age of eight, an adopted Mustang named Wildfire--appropriately. My parents rethought that decision when 1,000 pound Wildfire took off with 75 pound me around our farm as they stood by/ran after helplessly, and that's when Zephyr came into the picture. Zephyr was an athletic and spirited (but very kind-hearted in a gruff, manly sort of way) Connemara pony, and we raced around the farm and over tall jumps in....I'm not going to go so far as to call it a controlled way, but...a way that I was comfortable with at the time. I was so confident when I rode Zephyr: I never had a worry about him missing a stride or refusing a jump. With him, I was bulletproof.
As an adult, with brittle bones, more experience, and infinitely more to lose upon injury/death, I am becoming a wimpier rider. Every time I ride, I do so with the knowledge that this one could be my last--and though I guess it is healthy to grip reality in this way and calculate my risks, it also takes something fundamental away from the experience. I can't lose myself fully in a rip-tearing gallop the way I did with Zephyr day-after-day: I now wonder if there are holes or rocks in my path, I wonder if Finn will get hurt, I wonder if I will fall, and I wonder if it is worth these risks to let loose. So I rarely do.
In fact, the last time I galloped until I was exhilarated and couldn't see a thing through the tears of joy (and wind-sheer) streaming down my face, I did so on a borrowed horse (thank you sincerely, Melvin)--and it was (a.) half an accident, as I believed Melvin to be the slowest horse in the world, and (b.) before I met Greg, and (c.) years before I had Brooke.
I value my life, and my horse, and both of our soundness so much now--I am acutely aware that he is the past, present, and future of my riding life. He is my equine soulmate, I am quite lucky to say, and I fear injuring him because I am not certain that I'd want to ride another horse at this point--I mean really ride. I trust my horse. He takes care of me. We understand each other, and partnering with him is a calculated risk that is still worthwhile. He is my "me time." Sitting on his back, I am graceful and daring and confident and happy and myself in a way that I cannnot achieve independently. He is kind and gentle with my little children. He understands our situation and his role in it.
So, now that you understand my crazy adoration and dependence on this horse...which borders on insanity and is certainly way past obsessive...I tell you that his back has been sore. I have been riding him regularly, if not intensely, all summer, and recently I began jumping him again. It seems that he may not have been fit enough to hit the course with as much gusto as I did-- But what can I say in my defense? He is so fun to jump, that I have trouble controlling my urge to jump everything in sight (a couple of times!). I feel terrible for being inconsiderate to him now, of course. I have been stretching him, massaging him, doing acupressure on him....giving him baths with liniment. I have given him days off, but still I can tell that he is sore.
I have a show planned for September 17 as my birthday present to myself. I wonder if I should take him, or if I'm being selfish?
Somewhere even deeper inside my consciousness: I wonder if I'm just being wimpy?
Saturday, September 10, 2011
WebMD or Real M.D. or Neither?
When I was trying to get pregnant with Brooke, my friend, Laura, made me promise to quit Googling or WebMDing (I am taking artistic license to make these verbs) physical conditions. It was becoming an unhealthy habit to say the very least. Thankfully, I managed to curb my addiction to random and useless self-diagnosis... Yep, I left that up to the professionals who had us spend thousands and thousands of dollars to bypass our 99.9% infertility rate and help us conceive. (We underwent months of cycle-charting, pill-taking, failed IUIs, hormone protocols--shots!!, and failed IVF, only to conceive Brooke naturally after we were told it was impossible. In yo' faces doctors!! *with all due respect, of course*)
Wow, that was the longest lead in ever... Anyway, today WebMD reared its ugly head again, only this time, I was not the sole perpetrator. Here's what happened: Brooke has, in the past few weeks, begun to "watch" Baby Einstein developmental DVDs for about three point five minutes at a time. She looked so cute this morning, propped against a "husband" pillow, cuddling her "ni-night" blankey, watching her DVD like a big girl. So cute, in fact, that my mom--Brooke's "BeeBee"--had to take her picture. The resulting image on the iPhone showed a white reflection on Brooke's right pupil.
Mass hysteria ensued, as my mom recalled reading an article on WebMD about infantile retinal blastoma (cancer of the retina), the main symptom of which is this weird reaction to flash photography, as the light bounces off the irregularity in the inner eye. (The fact that my mom remembered this random medical factoid was in itself disconcerting, since she can rarely recall what she ate the previous meal...or what she was going to say when she decided to call...etcetera.) So, we did what any loving guardian with internet access would do: we Googled the heck out of it.
A number of frighteningly serious, scholarly medical articles confirmed her concerns. Retinal blastoma is usually diagnosed in children under the age of 2 (Brooke is 16 months), it will cause a white distortion on photographs where red-eye is often an issue, and it is often accompanied by fever (Brooke's had a bit of a fever for a few days). So, I began to call every local eye doctor listed in the phone book; since it is Saturday, however, few were in. Of those offices that were open, some had no doctor on duty, some were double-booked, some didn't see patients as young as Brooke... Finally, I found a place with a pediatric specialist in the office: he told us to take Brooke straight to the emergency room.
I had it together enough to pack books, diapers, a drink, and some snacks for Brooke, and off we went to the ER. Upon arrival, I realized that I had forgotten my purse--which obviously contains my wallet and insurance cards. We had to double-back home to collect that. Upon our second arrival to the ER, we were checked in and taken directly to an exam room. Thank Goodness, right?
I was telling my mom how lucky we were to be seen so quickly and joked about how the one time when I was prepared for the long haul was the one time that it wasn't going to be a torturous wait. Guess again. Almost three hours later (three hours trapped in a 10 x 10 room filled with medical equipment and a hospital bed and a germy, germy floor...with Brooke and some books and snacks), a CRNP--not an MD--who had an immediately dislikeable nature came in. By this point, Brooke was beyond control...as in, I could barely hold on to her, let alone subdue her and restrain her in such a way that a person could peer intelligibly into her pupils with a minute flashlight.
He performed an eye exam that my 7-year-old could have come up with and basically disregarded our photograph, our WebMD information, and our referral from the pediatric eye doctor. From his 30-second exam on my highly uncooperative toddler, he was convinced that she was fine...and seemingly from his tone and commentary, that we (her guardians) were completely nutters. "So there was no trauma to the eye? And, she hasn't been presenting any symptoms?" he said. "And you brought her to the ER because she took a bad photo?" he implied very clearly without saying a word. Needless to say, our protests about our online searches made us seem even nuttier...as for our pleading at him to look at the photo? Well, we seemed completely wackadoo in the face of his resolute scientific physical proof burden. Even we could tell that we seemed loco.
All we managed to successfully impart--that seemed to matter a whit to him--was that a doctor had told us to bring her directly to the ER. But apparently he was an optometrist and not an ophthalmologist, so we were still screwed. Nevertheless, he grudgingly agreed to call the place to speak to the "doctor" to find out what had had him concerned enough to send us to the hospital. It seemed that he was doing it because we were crazy, and he was maybe a teensie bit scared of us... Too bad the office was now closed. Saturday!!
Crazy BeeBee went on the warpath. She wanted to break every one of our non-doctors sausage-like fingers off (and this was an exact quote). So, she marched right up to non-doctor-sausage-fingers' desk, and she told him to look up retinal blastoma for himself. He explained to her in his soothing, calming, patient voice reserved for crazy people in the ER that he had very sophisticated software for cross-referencing systems, and she told him to shove his system up his behind and GOOGLE IT! (Only in nicer language, I'm guessing. I wasn't there. I was in our exam cage trying to subdue our irate little patient.) Now definitely very afraid of BeeBee, he did indeed Google our condition. He was suitably concerned by it that he called the on-call ophthalmologist. (All along there was an on-call ophthalmologist, yes.) Thank you very much.
After consulting with the on-call doctor and doing some more examination, he did not think that the symptoms matched retinal blastoma THANKFULLY! He thanked us for giving him the opportunity to learn something new and encouraged us to get a second opinion from an expert on Monday. And, so, we were discharged. We were extremely relieved, and we appreciated that he finally took the time to listen to what we had to say instead of dismissing us willy-nilly, but we still decided that he was not our favorite non-doctor. And his fingers really did look sausage-y.
So, chalk one up for WebMD.
Kind of.
But just one.
**Update: I am feeling guilty about calling our ER medical professional a "non-doctor" today. I don't want to be mean or catty, I suppose I was just a little overly emotional at the time of writing this, and I guess my Mama Bear claws came out a little. Or a lot. However, upon further investigation, it is now clear that Mister Sausage-Fingers was actually a resident CRNP (certified registered nurse practitioner). Not only, therefore, is he not an M.D., he is still a resident C.R.N.P. He called himself "Dr. _________." Is that kosher? Is a CRNP to be referred to as "Dr. __________?" Can anyone elucidate?
**Second update: Again, I don't mean to disrespect Mr. Sausage-Fingers. Truly. Even if he is only a resident CRNP. He has a lot more education (specifically in the medical specialty) than I do. I am actually quite jealous of his level of expertise. I just really didn't enjoy his company in the ER yesterday...especially if he was calling himself "Doctor" without justification. Because that would just be ever-so irksome.
Wow, that was the longest lead in ever... Anyway, today WebMD reared its ugly head again, only this time, I was not the sole perpetrator. Here's what happened: Brooke has, in the past few weeks, begun to "watch" Baby Einstein developmental DVDs for about three point five minutes at a time. She looked so cute this morning, propped against a "husband" pillow, cuddling her "ni-night" blankey, watching her DVD like a big girl. So cute, in fact, that my mom--Brooke's "BeeBee"--had to take her picture. The resulting image on the iPhone showed a white reflection on Brooke's right pupil.
Mass hysteria ensued, as my mom recalled reading an article on WebMD about infantile retinal blastoma (cancer of the retina), the main symptom of which is this weird reaction to flash photography, as the light bounces off the irregularity in the inner eye. (The fact that my mom remembered this random medical factoid was in itself disconcerting, since she can rarely recall what she ate the previous meal...or what she was going to say when she decided to call...etcetera.) So, we did what any loving guardian with internet access would do: we Googled the heck out of it.
A number of frighteningly serious, scholarly medical articles confirmed her concerns. Retinal blastoma is usually diagnosed in children under the age of 2 (Brooke is 16 months), it will cause a white distortion on photographs where red-eye is often an issue, and it is often accompanied by fever (Brooke's had a bit of a fever for a few days). So, I began to call every local eye doctor listed in the phone book; since it is Saturday, however, few were in. Of those offices that were open, some had no doctor on duty, some were double-booked, some didn't see patients as young as Brooke... Finally, I found a place with a pediatric specialist in the office: he told us to take Brooke straight to the emergency room.
I had it together enough to pack books, diapers, a drink, and some snacks for Brooke, and off we went to the ER. Upon arrival, I realized that I had forgotten my purse--which obviously contains my wallet and insurance cards. We had to double-back home to collect that. Upon our second arrival to the ER, we were checked in and taken directly to an exam room. Thank Goodness, right?
I was telling my mom how lucky we were to be seen so quickly and joked about how the one time when I was prepared for the long haul was the one time that it wasn't going to be a torturous wait. Guess again. Almost three hours later (three hours trapped in a 10 x 10 room filled with medical equipment and a hospital bed and a germy, germy floor...with Brooke and some books and snacks), a CRNP--not an MD--who had an immediately dislikeable nature came in. By this point, Brooke was beyond control...as in, I could barely hold on to her, let alone subdue her and restrain her in such a way that a person could peer intelligibly into her pupils with a minute flashlight.
He performed an eye exam that my 7-year-old could have come up with and basically disregarded our photograph, our WebMD information, and our referral from the pediatric eye doctor. From his 30-second exam on my highly uncooperative toddler, he was convinced that she was fine...and seemingly from his tone and commentary, that we (her guardians) were completely nutters. "So there was no trauma to the eye? And, she hasn't been presenting any symptoms?" he said. "And you brought her to the ER because she took a bad photo?" he implied very clearly without saying a word. Needless to say, our protests about our online searches made us seem even nuttier...as for our pleading at him to look at the photo? Well, we seemed completely wackadoo in the face of his resolute scientific physical proof burden. Even we could tell that we seemed loco.
All we managed to successfully impart--that seemed to matter a whit to him--was that a doctor had told us to bring her directly to the ER. But apparently he was an optometrist and not an ophthalmologist, so we were still screwed. Nevertheless, he grudgingly agreed to call the place to speak to the "doctor" to find out what had had him concerned enough to send us to the hospital. It seemed that he was doing it because we were crazy, and he was maybe a teensie bit scared of us... Too bad the office was now closed. Saturday!!
Crazy BeeBee went on the warpath. She wanted to break every one of our non-doctors sausage-like fingers off (and this was an exact quote). So, she marched right up to non-doctor-sausage-fingers' desk, and she told him to look up retinal blastoma for himself. He explained to her in his soothing, calming, patient voice reserved for crazy people in the ER that he had very sophisticated software for cross-referencing systems, and she told him to shove his system up his behind and GOOGLE IT! (Only in nicer language, I'm guessing. I wasn't there. I was in our exam cage trying to subdue our irate little patient.) Now definitely very afraid of BeeBee, he did indeed Google our condition. He was suitably concerned by it that he called the on-call ophthalmologist. (All along there was an on-call ophthalmologist, yes.) Thank you very much.
After consulting with the on-call doctor and doing some more examination, he did not think that the symptoms matched retinal blastoma THANKFULLY! He thanked us for giving him the opportunity to learn something new and encouraged us to get a second opinion from an expert on Monday. And, so, we were discharged. We were extremely relieved, and we appreciated that he finally took the time to listen to what we had to say instead of dismissing us willy-nilly, but we still decided that he was not our favorite non-doctor. And his fingers really did look sausage-y.
So, chalk one up for WebMD.
Kind of.
But just one.
**Update: I am feeling guilty about calling our ER medical professional a "non-doctor" today. I don't want to be mean or catty, I suppose I was just a little overly emotional at the time of writing this, and I guess my Mama Bear claws came out a little. Or a lot. However, upon further investigation, it is now clear that Mister Sausage-Fingers was actually a resident CRNP (certified registered nurse practitioner). Not only, therefore, is he not an M.D., he is still a resident C.R.N.P. He called himself "Dr. _________." Is that kosher? Is a CRNP to be referred to as "Dr. __________?" Can anyone elucidate?
**Second update: Again, I don't mean to disrespect Mr. Sausage-Fingers. Truly. Even if he is only a resident CRNP. He has a lot more education (specifically in the medical specialty) than I do. I am actually quite jealous of his level of expertise. I just really didn't enjoy his company in the ER yesterday...especially if he was calling himself "Doctor" without justification. Because that would just be ever-so irksome.
Friday, September 9, 2011
For Kateri: Another Public Potty Misadventure (...You Guys Can Read It Too)
So, about three months ago, I went antiquing with my mom. I found myself in desperate need of a bathroom (soda induced pee emergency, thankfully), while she was desperately in love with an old glass buoy and net... I wanted to leave the store and book it home, but she loved this thing, and she was determined to find out how much it cost and hopefully purchase it. The shop owners were busy ringing out and helping other customers, so I faced the music, handed Brooke to my mom, and went in search of the antique shop's quaint little antique bathroom.
And not to be disappointed! This public bathroom was pretty cute and super-old, tucked into the space beneath the stairs. It had a decrepit, miniature toilet--the kind with the (unsanitary) wooden seat--and a the tiniest porcelain sink that I'd ever seen. The room also featured hand-stenciling along the top of its bead-boarded walls.
I used the bathroom (#1 only) and used a modest amount of t.p.
I flushed.
The water in the toilet rose...AND ROSE....AND ROSE...and toilet paper shreds began to explode from the drain of the toilet like sewage seaweed. PANIC!! Nightmare!! The water began to overflow the toilet bowl and cascade onto the floor! A noisy waterfall of filthy torrents!
In a state of shock, I reached my bare hand into the toilet--I didn't know what else to do and was spazzing--and grabbed this huge wad of sodden t.p. that the toilet drain had regurgitated... I threw it into the trash... I tried opening the back of the toilet and jiggling the mechanisms. After what seemed like an eternity, the toilet finally ceased its geyser impression, but the damage was done. The whole ENTIRE floor was covered in toilet water.
I used paper towels and t.p. to try to sop up the mess and got the whole place reasonably clean--if you consider toilet water to be an acceptable cleaning agent, I guess. Upon closer inspection, as I dried it, I noticed that the flooring appeared to be water-damaged and warped.
I can only hope that this indicates that I'm not the first person to flood the bathroom!!
Humilated and with skin damp with toilet water, I left the bathroom, my dignity shredded like the toilet paper that gurgled out of the toilet. As I said, the evil potty had ceased its attack. The floor was reasonably dry. I am ashamed to admit that I didn't notify the gentleman who seemed to own the store of my mishap, but I was just too mortified. My mom bought the antique buoy...so at least one of us did something positive for the store during our visit to make up for my inadvertent vandalization...
When we got to the car, I scrubbed my hands with antibacterial gel and baby wipes out, out darned spot-style. YUUUCK... I still feel dirty. Stupid old toilet! (One time when you definitely don't appreciate an antique, right?)
And not to be disappointed! This public bathroom was pretty cute and super-old, tucked into the space beneath the stairs. It had a decrepit, miniature toilet--the kind with the (unsanitary) wooden seat--and a the tiniest porcelain sink that I'd ever seen. The room also featured hand-stenciling along the top of its bead-boarded walls.
I used the bathroom (#1 only) and used a modest amount of t.p.
I flushed.
The water in the toilet rose...AND ROSE....AND ROSE...and toilet paper shreds began to explode from the drain of the toilet like sewage seaweed. PANIC!! Nightmare!! The water began to overflow the toilet bowl and cascade onto the floor! A noisy waterfall of filthy torrents!
In a state of shock, I reached my bare hand into the toilet--I didn't know what else to do and was spazzing--and grabbed this huge wad of sodden t.p. that the toilet drain had regurgitated... I threw it into the trash... I tried opening the back of the toilet and jiggling the mechanisms. After what seemed like an eternity, the toilet finally ceased its geyser impression, but the damage was done. The whole ENTIRE floor was covered in toilet water.
I used paper towels and t.p. to try to sop up the mess and got the whole place reasonably clean--if you consider toilet water to be an acceptable cleaning agent, I guess. Upon closer inspection, as I dried it, I noticed that the flooring appeared to be water-damaged and warped.
I can only hope that this indicates that I'm not the first person to flood the bathroom!!
Humilated and with skin damp with toilet water, I left the bathroom, my dignity shredded like the toilet paper that gurgled out of the toilet. As I said, the evil potty had ceased its attack. The floor was reasonably dry. I am ashamed to admit that I didn't notify the gentleman who seemed to own the store of my mishap, but I was just too mortified. My mom bought the antique buoy...so at least one of us did something positive for the store during our visit to make up for my inadvertent vandalization...
When we got to the car, I scrubbed my hands with antibacterial gel and baby wipes out, out darned spot-style. YUUUCK... I still feel dirty. Stupid old toilet! (One time when you definitely don't appreciate an antique, right?)
Confusion: My BAD!
Guys, I was adding tags to some old posts, and they got scooted up to the present and reposted as "edited" posts. I'm sorry!
She Works Hard for Her Money
Momglomerate readers, I know that I have been posting much less prolifically lately, and for this I do apologize.
Oh, how I love this blog! Unfortunately, while I enjoy writing my posts, and am just ecstatic with the increasing readership, I am not finding the blogging to be very lucrative at this early stage. And by "not very lucrative," I mean not. at. all. lucrative. At all!
So, in order to bring home the eggs to go with Greg(apostrophe)s proverbial bacon, I am spending less time blogging and more time working (...on things that pay more than $18 per six weeks--thank you, Google ads). In addition to trying to keep the house and yard looking like something out of Better Homes and Gardens 24-7, I have taken on some editing and typing assignments.
You know how these momglomerates are. Always changing.
I must go now. I need to try to translate the wording on a W-4 (the hardest part about starting a new job; I swear that you need an advanced dual degree in economics and law with a minor in philosophy just to fill out one of these darned worksheets correctly!) Then I need to photocopy my passport photo to prove that I am a citizen of the USA. Then I need to do some laundry, followed by a bout of serious weed killing--using vinegar and soap!
Could my day BE any more wildly-varied and exciting?? What did YOU do today? Haha :-)
Oh, how I love this blog! Unfortunately, while I enjoy writing my posts, and am just ecstatic with the increasing readership, I am not finding the blogging to be very lucrative at this early stage. And by "not very lucrative," I mean not. at. all. lucrative. At all!
So, in order to bring home the eggs to go with Greg(apostrophe)s proverbial bacon, I am spending less time blogging and more time working (...on things that pay more than $18 per six weeks--thank you, Google ads). In addition to trying to keep the house and yard looking like something out of Better Homes and Gardens 24-7, I have taken on some editing and typing assignments.
You know how these momglomerates are. Always changing.
I must go now. I need to try to translate the wording on a W-4 (the hardest part about starting a new job; I swear that you need an advanced dual degree in economics and law with a minor in philosophy just to fill out one of these darned worksheets correctly!) Then I need to photocopy my passport photo to prove that I am a citizen of the USA. Then I need to do some laundry, followed by a bout of serious weed killing--using vinegar and soap!
Could my day BE any more wildly-varied and exciting?? What did YOU do today? Haha :-)
Misadventures in Public Restrooms: Please Do Not Do #2
Just a heads up: this post is about poop (and me), which is a decidedly unladylike topic of polite conversation--heretofore the crux of this blog, to be sure! Read on if you dare...
I know that a lot of people have a lot of problems with pooping or not pooping or not pooping enough. I, thankfully, do not. Personal pooping doesn't generally even enter my radar, what with all of the poop issues that pop up around me: I have to hear about Alyssa's poop, Greg's poop, and the most-dreaded "Mama, Mama, boo-poo, Mama" from Brooke. Oh, the abundant joys of family life...
Today I had an appointment to have my riding jacket tailored because I have a show coming up next weekend (yay!). All morning, I had been having wrenching stomach cramps, gurgling, just general garden-variety gastrointestinal distress. (Think: Pepto commercial.) Without getting too graphic, I will say that I tried to relieve my issues oftentimes without success; I even went so far as to around when I was driving to my appointment to try again at home.
Of course, as I entered the parking lot of the tailor shop, my stomach did it's ultimate drop, and I knew I needed to find a restroom fast! Once inside, I inquired about a public restroom. I was shown to a tiny room directly behind the front counter. In spite of the restroom's lack of exhaust fan, paper thin walls, and absurdly close proximity to the staff and other customers adjacent in the front room, I was utterly relieved to be in there...until I sat down on the toilet and came eye-level with a neon, laminated sign from "the Management," which stated:
"Please do not do #2 in this bathroom. It would be very inappropriate to do in our front counter restroom."
[the eeearrrrch sound of a tape rewinding]
Whaaaa? Excuse me?! Inappropriate? It is not exactly a choice when Nature calls! They don't say when Nature implores or inquires or suggests....she CALLS to action. Believe me, it is certainly not that I WANT to do my business in their business. I generally avoid using public restrooms altogether, and I would never do #2 in a friend's or family member's bathroom unless I had no other choice. I think of myself as a very polite, and very personal pooper.
I seriously considered leaving the shop before my appointment even began. I urgently needed a REAL restroom, and I was sort of indignant about the rules and regs of this quote-unquote public restroom. What nerve?! What a way to treat one's customers? ...talk about inappropriate.
Can you even believe this? Does anyone have any other misadventures to share? Is this common?
I know that a lot of people have a lot of problems with pooping or not pooping or not pooping enough. I, thankfully, do not. Personal pooping doesn't generally even enter my radar, what with all of the poop issues that pop up around me: I have to hear about Alyssa's poop, Greg's poop, and the most-dreaded "Mama, Mama, boo-poo, Mama" from Brooke. Oh, the abundant joys of family life...
Today I had an appointment to have my riding jacket tailored because I have a show coming up next weekend (yay!). All morning, I had been having wrenching stomach cramps, gurgling, just general garden-variety gastrointestinal distress. (Think: Pepto commercial.) Without getting too graphic, I will say that I tried to relieve my issues oftentimes without success; I even went so far as to around when I was driving to my appointment to try again at home.
Of course, as I entered the parking lot of the tailor shop, my stomach did it's ultimate drop, and I knew I needed to find a restroom fast! Once inside, I inquired about a public restroom. I was shown to a tiny room directly behind the front counter. In spite of the restroom's lack of exhaust fan, paper thin walls, and absurdly close proximity to the staff and other customers adjacent in the front room, I was utterly relieved to be in there...until I sat down on the toilet and came eye-level with a neon, laminated sign from "the Management," which stated:
"Please do not do #2 in this bathroom. It would be very inappropriate to do in our front counter restroom."
[the eeearrrrch sound of a tape rewinding]
Whaaaa? Excuse me?! Inappropriate? It is not exactly a choice when Nature calls! They don't say when Nature implores or inquires or suggests....she CALLS to action. Believe me, it is certainly not that I WANT to do my business in their business. I generally avoid using public restrooms altogether, and I would never do #2 in a friend's or family member's bathroom unless I had no other choice. I think of myself as a very polite, and very personal pooper.
I seriously considered leaving the shop before my appointment even began. I urgently needed a REAL restroom, and I was sort of indignant about the rules and regs of this quote-unquote public restroom. What nerve?! What a way to treat one's customers? ...talk about inappropriate.
Can you even believe this? Does anyone have any other misadventures to share? Is this common?
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