This past week has been so much fun that I thought I would cap off Friday with a doctor appointment. I mean why the hell not? I should have tried to squeeze in a root canal at five because this week has been one stinking ball of fun right from the get go.
I am going to be one of those flashback episodes you see on television. The first couple of minutes characters are blown up and bloody or in bed together or just dead. And then the screen says something like “forty eight hours earlier”…
So Monday the Kid had an allergy situation that was akin to a feather duster dipped in a vat of ragweed pollen and then shoved up his nose and I was on day three of of a faulty transmission-induced migraine. We found no comfort. So we watched a few episodes of My Name is Earl and drowned our sorrows in Benadryl.
Wednesday the Kid learned what hellfire shitstorm of rotting damnation can occur if you don’t call mommy the second you arrive at school and are supposed to be in morning band and not hanging out with friends in the playground. It was such an unexpected vicious maternal attack that the Kid was reduced to tears and the words “Mom please forgive me” dripped from his contrite lips.
The entire week was spent looking for a car to replace Little Red. I actually found a Studebaker with painted flames, an old Fairlane that was SWEET and one car that sounded fabutabulous in the description, but the attached photo was lacking in…let’s say…a front end. The owner seemed to forget the little tidbit that it was actually barely half a car.
I did find something promising and I made an appointment to meet with the owner and go for the dreaded test drive. We agreed to meet at a designated spot and I would call him to come meet me (and I was in a public place and Holly had all the info in case it was a serial killer and everyone had to go all Criminal Minds on my ass and I would be dead and would never get to declare my undying love for Shemar Moore or confess to the painful murder of Mrs. Firth, that stinky tart).
“Great! I’m about three miles from you- I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Three minutes turned into sixty. And NPR was only about the damn election.
I drove back to work, but with a pitstop for Cheetos and my stomach medication. SHIT. YOU. NOT. Cheetoes and Nexium. The whiny ass mid-afternoon snack of champions.
So dude called me to tell me that he totalled the car on the way to see me and texted me a photo. Now in my mind I was thinking he either had an accident or he sold it out from under my white Ukrainian ass. I was sincerely glad he wasn’t hurt, but I was done.
“I guess you weren’t meant to have this car.”
“Yeah…well not now.”
I can’t complain about my entire week because I did spend a glorious Thursday night with my Writing Mamas and we ate tasty little morsels and talked and talked and barely wrote. My best part (now I love you gals with unmatched sisterly fervor, but you also know me) was that I got to hold and squeeze and smell a completely yummy baby girl who nuzzled and cooed and made me remember THIS is what life is about…
So I have already cancelled this doctor appointment twice because of what I will start to call The Dark Days of a Naughty Transmission. In addition to the metaphoric pains in my ass I have an actual, a literal, a concrete-tangible pain in my ass…well maybe a little higher- more like the the location of my wondrous tattoo scrolled in the Cyrillic letters of my Motherland.
Lower back pain.
Lower back pain that doesn’t like to stay stationary. It’s having so much fun it takes a pleasurable jaunt across my back and into my groin. My general doctor- and I mean general- said “this is nothing big, bad or scary.”
Really? You went to medical school for this? I am a goddamned English major and I can give you about a hundred synonyms for each of those mundane words AND advise you that those sensible shoes aren’t doing it for you.
So…on to an ORTHOPEDIST.
I felt like I was in some weird, trippy, mind-control science fiction movie. This place was a combination of God’s waiting room for people with GIANT cavernous scars down their knees and the Last Chance Saloon for a shit pile of athletes with some pretty hot dreadlocks.
And not one magazine. Seriously? This place was as crowded as Hart Field, but they couldn’t come off a fucking People??
I had my book and my Kindle and as always something to write with, but I was pissed. I texted Holly (my…ahem… boss) because I like to bug her. I REALLY like to make her laugh, but sometimes I just want to get under her skin.
“Why don’t you write in your little journal thing?”
That’s code for “why don’t you write your nice little stories and quit bothering me.”
“Aw! You notice!! Well, I do have my book.”
“THEN READ IT!! I’m trying to work here!”
Actually, the last time I saw her she was sprawled on the floor trying to figure out where to place her piles of filing. But then two lesbians walked in and we had something else to talk about. Mind you, we have nothing against lesbians, but this couple was good for people-watching which I did in lieu of People reading.
The people-watching texting stopped when I got called back. I was poked, prodded, x-rayed…and then I met the doctor. I could barely focus on his diagnosis because of the pair of dustmop-like eyebrows perched above his eyes and the wads of nose hair cramming each nostril like a cotton ball after a nosebleed.
Dude, you are an orthopedist. Please spring for a pair of clippers. Oh yeah, my back…
I figured the diagnosis would be to lose some of my fat ass and get off my fat ass, but he did seem to have a worthy plan of action.
“You’re young. You don’t need a hip replacement. Take these for three weeks and then we’ll talk about an MRI”
The combo of young and hip replacement was unnerving and a relief all wrapped up in one tidy prescription. I almost asked him if he knew anything about transmissions.