Freaking Ridiculous

My brain blew into a million little pieces because:

  • Bill from idiotic doctor: Just got a bill from Doogie Howser; he charged me $28 to walk through his office to the lab. Which he doesn’t own. The independent lab bill has been paid. Have always “walked” free. Times may be tough, dude, but you aren’t getting a penny from me. <sticking tongue out at dumb doc>
  • Liar, liar, magazine on fire: Waiting for another appointment, I thumbed through a recent fashion magazine. One feature focused on how make up can make you look so rested. Then I saw the before/after of the woman in the photos. I knew her. She had everything from the shoulders up “redone” by a plastic surgeon before the photo shoot. Of course, the magazine failed to mention that , instead crediting her bright mug to new lipstick and blush. What a bunch of crapola! If you choose to believe it, the make up will cost you $30,000.
  • Running into old boyfriends: In the past few months, I’ve run into an unreasonable number of one of my friend’s old boyfriends. Better hers than mine, but this is getting ridiculous. Note to friend: run into your own old boyfriends. Thank you.
  • “So all you are going to do is work the rest of your life?” and “We are worried about you, financially”: Two comments, different friends. Note to friends: Here’s my bank account number; feel free to make large deposits frequently. Then I will be able to sashay about the planet and you won’t worry. Win-win.
  • Lose weight by watching tv:  If you want to lose your appetite, turn on Strange Addictions. I’m sorry these people do what they do. Even if you have a stomach of steel, five minutes into this show will, at the very least, produce some serious gagging and an aversion to snacking between meals. Wretched.
  • “Your wait will be 18 seconds.”: Groovy! Got this customer service message yesterday when calling about insurance. Change that message! Waited 20 minutes and then instructed to leave a voice message. Yeah, right. Customer service, my ass.
  • Phone rings. “Hello?”:  “What are you doing?” Oh, accepting the Nobel Peace Prize, building a rocket in the kitchen, rotating my tires …. I am answering the damn phone. And I thought it was obvious. Meh!

Enough! Ranting is no way to start the day. Better go check my bank account for large deposits.

Cockeyed optimist, I am!

Later.

Plastic Surgeon FREAKED Me Out

I went to see the best plastic surgeon in town … on a lark. If you had access to my bank statements, you’d know it was a lark. I’m a cat, curious and skittish. But more curious. And I wanted to see what this man would say to me. He’s known for “Sleeping Beauties”, performing facial surgery on women who, when recovered, look like they’ve had the best rest ever. And they don’t have those crazy Jack Nicholson eyebrows – the first tipoff that somebody’s been under the knife.

Made a consultation appointment and appeared at the correct time. After very little paperwork, I was ushered into surgeon’s office. He was nice. But he’s in his seventies and had no grey hair and very few wrinkles. Oh yeah, he’s a plastic surgeon. And here’s how it went:

Doc: “What are you here for?”

Me: “Well, you have an excellent reputation and I’ve admired your work. Am not loving the fine lines around my mouth and wanted to know what you would do?” (Why does he keep putting his left hand under his desk?)

Doc: “Well, you have a long neck so I would do a neck somethingorother and then a midline facelift. You don’t need body work.” (How would you know? I’m fully clothed sitting across the desk from you.)

Me: “My neck? Facelift? Draw me a picture.” (And stop putting your hand under the desk)

He proceeded to draw the scariest picture of the side of a head with stitches and scars everywhere. Enough!

Me: “That looks terrifying, not to mention the recovery would be heinous.”

Doc: “I’ll throw in the upper eyelids for $1000.”

Me: “Upper eyelids … I don’t even wear mascara. What? Forget the eyes, how much for the stuff you suggested?”

Doc: “blablablablablabla”.

Me: “So you’re talking $20,000 walking? Are you f-ing kidding me? No offense, and I realize it’s your job, but ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”

Doc: “No, and you’ll probably need tweaking in about eight years. Show me your stomach.”

Like a moron, I pulled up my shirt and showed him my stomach. What in the living hell did a midline facelift+ have to do with my stomach? I must be on Candid Camera.

Me: “Thank you for your time. You’ve confirmed my intention to age gracefully = no knives near me unless eating. But good luck – for every one of me, there’s ten you”ll “fix”. Yeah, you!”

And for the record, Dr. Demento, keep your hands where I can see’em AND hahaha, my stomach is none of your business, surgically speaking.

Oh, and if I decide to take him up on his offer in the next year, my consultation fee will be deducted from the 20K. I have happily eaten $75 with my own knife and fork.

Later.

*Unlike Nora Ephron, I feel great about my neck!

Just Thinking Kooky Thinks

Hello, hello, hello! Are Mondays ever not maniac? If so, don’t tell me.

My dad had a successful surgery today. Rah! Sitting in the waiting room with my mom gave me much time for thought. Scary, right? I’m thinking …..

  1. Why is Arnold Schwarzenegger such an enormous idiot? I always wondered why Maria Shriver would even speak to him, much less marry him and have some of his children. I bet Mel Gibson and Charlie Sheen are doing the happy dance. And I hope Maria makes out like a bandit in her divorce settlement.
  2. Why do hospitals with enormous cardiac units serve fried everything in their cafeterias? Obviously, to keep the patients coming BUT the medical people were eating that stuff as well. At least they were today. I had no  choice but to select sushi. Used to love it until I read a book where the guy called it “expensive bait”.
  3. One woman in the waiting room called the entire phone book from her small town to report on her mother. Her voice carried. Half the people in the town obviously didn’t know her mother but promised to meet her sometime; the others didn’t know mother had surgery but were mighty glad all went well. TMI.
  4. Took my closet to Pung, my favorite person who happens to own a dry cleaners. Her three-year-old daughter took 12 photos of my right ear with her mother’s cell phone. I have elf ears – no points, but small. Like my nose.  Which reminded me that I LOVE big noses. Not the crooked witch bumpy kind, just a big old schnozz. They are sexy on men. And probably women, too, but I don’t swim in that pool.
  5. When waiting room blabbermouth was quiet, my mother said, “Your middle name is Randal, you know.” Wherever that came from, I don’t know. I just said, “I seem to recall that.” For the last 100 years…..

Stupid Songs I Remembered I Hate While Waiting in the Waiting Room

  • “Baby I’m A-Want You” (I’m thinking that isn’t English)
  • “Never Gonna Give You Up” (stalker song)
  • “Balls to the Wall” ( sounds uncomfortable)
  • “You and Me and a Dog Named Boo” (poor Boo)
  • “Dancing on the Ceiling” (bad trip)
  • “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp” (do tell)
  • “Pardon Me, I’ve Got to Kill Someone”(pardon me while I run like a scalded dog in the opposite direction)
  • “Tell Laura I Love Her” (tell her yourself; who’s Laura?)
  • “Let Me Tickle Your Fancy” (methinks NOT)

Now I must prepare for a bank presentation I have tomorrow. I’m going to present them with an ultimatum. Show Me the Money or Show Me the Money. The bank is bus stop for the lost and the insane – that’s the staff. Which changes every week, I swear. Have been in there no less than five times to clear up all sorts of mistakes; they NEVER fix them. Because the staff changes each week. After demanding to see the manager of the day, I may quote John Imhoff, who said, “Any organization is like a septic tank; the really big chunks rise to the top.” I will get satisfaction this time, even if I shown my money – and the door. Grrrrrrrrrrr.

I need chocolate.

Later.

When the Clock Goes Crazy…

 

 

*This post is not sad, sorry, or whiney; crazy, yes. Anything else, not so much.*

Truth is stranger than fiction. I don’t know if you have a “clock” thing, but I do. I don’t wear a watch just because. When I do look at a clock – in the car, at home, wherever – nine times out of ten, it reads, “11:11“. I have a clock that belonged to my grandmother; it works, but always stops at the time of her death, no matter what. I just use it as an accessory. Unwound. It has been my experience, when a clock goes crazy, so goes everything else.

Last Friday, I noticed the enormous clock in my kitchen was crazy. Twenty minutes behind, then an hour ahead. I didn’t even think about the clock crazies. It can be good crazy, bad crazy, mixed crazy – but crazy, regardless. Sort of like me. Sharing:

  • My family of origin has been playing hospital tag for the past year. I’d planned on going to the farmer’s market Saturday morning.  Instead, was sitting in the ER. Hollering, “MORE MORPHINE, NURSE HOLLY”, as the patient was in severe pain. She was very accommodating. We are the Loud Family. I noticed there were four people in the room across from ours. And only the nurse was speaking. Being the Nosy Otis I am, I looked in there; everyone in the room was signing. How do you scream, “morphine”, in sign language? Before I pushed my bossy self in “to help”, a patient advocate appeared and all was well. In that room.

 

  • Ok, so Mother’s Day Brunch was not happening. Miss Peach (eldest daughter) and I went to the hospital. Where I got to storm the nurses’ station, with the same request, “MORE MORPHINE, NURSE HOLLIE”. Two nurses, same name … what are the chances? Peach and I left, picked up some food, and came home. Then a crazy beautiful bouquet of flowers are delivered to my door. On Sunday. From Miss Peach. Love. But Miss Peach says they are wrong. They look right to me. Then I get a text from McPaddie’s beau. McPaddie is youngest, texting, calling, emailing me love bombs from the basement of her house where she is trying to finish last project for graduation. Bless her bones. Her beau’s message was also crazy beautiful – to a mother’s eyes. It said, “Happy Mother’s Day. Thank you for McPaddie“. Crazy good. Love my girls. Went to bed at 4 pm.

 

  • Morphine. Cowgirl explained hospital morphine to me; apparently it is diluted somewhat – not pure. So you can ask for it a lot. Good to know.

 

  • Monday was Pro Flowers Day. I called customer service, told them the arrangement wasn’t what Peach ordered; they were lovely and another bouquet was on the way.

 

  • Tuesday was big crazy. Patient to be released from hospital, no diagnosis, but no pain. Rah!? I get to go to see Lien. She makes my hair look amazing – even though it is not amazing as I am growing it out. Last month, I looked like Justin Bieber before he cut his hair. When I got to her salon, she seemed fine. She had to excuse herself, mid-cut, for about 20 minutes. I think she’s preggers. For the first time ever, she phoned in the hair. I left looking like Dan Fogelberg (RIP!). A tall, skinny, white woman does not look good with Justin or Dan hair. That’s ok, she wants to be pregnant and I can wear a baseball cap for three more months (her estimate).

 

  • Am failing mightily at this housekeeping thing. So today I walked into my dry cleaners/wash-n-fold for the first time in two years and handed over the laundry pile. Standing behind the counter is my favorite friend, Pung. She screamed, “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” Pung and I have history. We have laughed a lot, we’ve cried together, I love her. Crazy good reunion. She wants to get pregnant, too. What is in the air?

 

  • Ding Dong. Pro Flower delivery. Open that big green box up and … oops, not what Peach ordered. Got back on the phone with customer service (they are so nice). And another bouquet is on the way. If this continues, my house is going to resemble a funeral parlour. Not complaining. I love flowers. So, crazy good because Pro Flowers has excellent customer service. Taking extras to patient’s home. Win-win.

In between, my friend sent me a great piece of writing I love by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. She’s very cool and I feel good when I read her writing. Am also reading essays by Regina Brett and enjoying her writing thoroughly. Am thoroughly pissed off at Angry Birds Rio/Rovio/Apple/Blue Sky Productions/ Chillingo because the promised May update hasn’t appeared. So I guess that makes me an angry bird.

I must go as I am very busy. I must pray for family health, great friends, babies for Lien and Pung, deliver flowers, take the damn clock off the wall, and remember to be thankful for good crazy, healers, calm during storms, good writers, amazing daughters, baseball caps, and anything else I will remember after I push the Publish button.

Favorite quote today: “If I keep a green bough in my heart, the singing bird will come” (Chinese proverb)

Off to mop the kitchen floor. Tomorrow. Maybe. Or not.

Later.

Are You Superstitious? Part 13

 

Parts 2-12 do not exist. But if you  are superstitious about that number, you can call it, Part 2. Am currently wearing a press-on device, $7, guaranteed to give me a brow lift in one hour. Which would be proof that I’d believe anything … including superstitions, except for the following:

  • “Wear your underwear inside out for good luck.” Trust me here, if you turn that frown upside down with inside out panties, you will NOT get lucky. And you might be drunk.
  • “A dog chasing its tail brings tornadoes.” No, no, no! Rabies? Yes. Tornadoes? NO! Rabid Luck … or drunk dog.
  • If you have a hole in your jeans, you will have a visitor.” Especially if the hole is in front of your privacy. A bit too “come and get it” for me.
  • “Eating a hair from a horse’s forelock is a cure for worms”. Let’s think about this. If you have worms, you are either dead or sick – if the latter, go to the damn doctor. If you can’t find a doctor and think this horsehair/forelock thing is the way to go, please wear a helmet. This is a recipe for a head injury, indigestion, and an isolation unit until the end of time.
  • “A cat onboard a ship is considered good luck.” Well, double duh and slap me silly. Of course a cat on a ship is good BECAUSE of all the rats on the ship. Purr Luck.
  • “Never bring a hoe in your house.” Especially if you can’t spell and you are a married man. Bad juju.
  • “If you drop a dishtowel on the floor, a worse housekeeper that yourself is coming to visit you.” Not. Possible. At. My. House. Dirty luck.
  • “If you sleep with a teabag tied around your head, you are an idiot”. ‘Nuff said here.

Must dash off to the store. The one hour, $7 brow lift worked! It lifted every piece of skin, from brow to scalp, right off the front of my face. As my skull is exposed, I either need to tie a pirate bandana (arrghhhh!) around my head for 4-6 months or find a perky, come hither, man magnet skull-cap. Ta Ta For Now!

Later.

Flying Boogers and Bad Medicine: Two Men Behaving Badly

I am not CEO or General Manager of the universe. Shocking, but true. Nevertheless, there is some nasty business that has unfortunately come to my attention and  MUST be addressed. If you are the least bit squeamish, get some ginger ale.

 

Public Nose Pickers, especially Line-Cutting Nose Pickers

Is it “Finger Up Your Nose Month”? If so, I missed the announcement and refuse to participate. Apparently many people opted in. I’ll give you one example. Dig this (no pun intended) … by some miracle, am standing in First Class line at the airport. There’s a line. Am decked out in flight gear – jeans, t-shirt, dark glasses, baseball cap – and standing in line because I follow rules at airports. When we are just about to board the plane, a local “captain of industry” strides right up to the front of the line and inserts himself. Bad behavior. Cutters suck. He’d already settled into his seat when I boarded so I pulled my cap down so he wouldn’t recognize me. As I was settling into my seat, two rows behind and other side of aisle, Mr. $1000 Suit proceeded to down two glasses of wine while picking his nose and flinging the contents into the aisle. Not just once, either. The woman in front of me turned around and said, “Did you see that?” I nodded, replying in a loud voice, “He’s just a gross line-cutting, nose-picking, booger-flinging moron.” And then ducked behind my seat, partially because I’m a chicken but more to avoid his nasal debris.

Saw Mr. Nose Finger again just weeks ago but was able to avoid him due to large crowd. Every time I see him, the only thing I think is:

 

Dr. HickDead

It’s no secret that I detest my GP. Haven’t changed because I only have to see him once every couple of years. Until recently. Had to fast and go into his office for a bloodletting. Have I heard the results yet? No. Have I received a bill for $400+ for the lab work? YES. His nurse called me last week and asked for my phone number. WHAT? Apparently Dr. DoDo called my number – the same number the nurse was speaking to me on – and he said it didn’t work. Methinks he doesn’t work. Woke up this morning to a message he’d left on my cell last night. Late Sunday night. Saying he’d call me back. His casual approach to medicine would indicate to most that I’m 100% perfecto, but no, he’s the sort who would say, “Uh, you’re half-dead but I can only think of one thing at a time so, uh, I’ll look up your stuff in that big book thingee and call you back.” MORON. DOUBLE MORON. Contact your patients when you get their reports and then bill them. Don’t call on Sunday, period. Oh, and by the way, YOU’RE FIRED!

Over both of those losers.

Later.

 

 

 

 

 

Here a snark, there a snark, everywhere a snark, snark

Life around here is so bloody boring, I’ve taken to re-reporting news, lying, and confirming suspicions that I’m demented. My family must be so proud. But I digress …..

Broken News

Florida Reverend Terry Jones isn’t going to burn the Quran after all. But the story keeps changing by the hour.  Methinks he’s been influenced and encouraged to back off! This guy has blown smoke up  global petticoats, getting all sorts of attention.  And nine years later, Osama bin Laden has yet to be located. My head just exploded.

 

Msn.com offered up some pretty interesting – if not totally weird – stories today. The first one I read, about Old Salty Restaurant in North Carolina, was entertaining. Allegedly the Old Salty owner has posted a sign which reads, “Screaming Children Will Not Be Tolerated.” Gotta love her. She says business is better than ever. There are, of course, discrimination issues boiling. Call me a knucklehead, but I didn’t know that screaming children who disrupt the ambience in a restaurant were under attack. I’m with Old Salty, but I think she should add the following to her sign: “Parents Who Sit There and Let Their Children Scream Will Not Be Tolerated, Either”.

The medical news was repulsive. One of my good doctors told me that a generic medicine can be as much as 25% different from the more expensive original. I found that dismaying until this morning. In a story by Maria Szalavitz, it was revealed that our medicines – depending on what you need – can have sewer swill, nun urine(!), rooster combs, Gila monster slobber, viper venom, and/or sea-snail poison as ingredients. Don’t even get me started about the nun urine. Remember, my head already exploded.

For those of us watching our budgets, which probably includes 99.9 % of the population, Investopedia had a piece on overpriced products.  This list included movie popcorn, greeting cards, college textbooks, bottled water, printer ink, and brand name fashion. Who can afford to buy the popcorn if they do go to a movie? Plus, it’s my personal opinion that the “butter” is strangely similar to suntan oil. The college textbook scam has been going on since …. college had textbooks. As for bottled water, the article said at least 48% came from the tap. Which means I will be offering izziedarling kitchen hogwash for the very low price of $4/bottle in a store near you soon.

Liar, Liar, My Pants Aren’t On Fire

I told a boldface lie yesterday. Tried to tell the truth but it was rejected. An elderly man was sitting in a taxi across from my townhouse. I had to take Cooper (a.k.a. spawn of Cerberus) on a walk. Walking past the taxi, the gentleman asked me if Coop was a Border Collie. I said, “No sir, he’s a JackRat.”  He asked me again, “Is he a Border Collie?”. I said, “No sir, he’s a Jack Russell”. He asked me the same question again. I said, “Yes sir, he’s a Border Collie”. Now Cooper is about as much of a Border Collie as I am, but the man wanted to hear what he wanted to hear. So I lied.

Sad but True: Am Nuts

I read this thing online that outlined how to answer surveys and make money. I was all over it – work in nightgown, tell the truth, and make money? Really! That was three days ago and guess how much I’ve made? Two cents. Swear, that would be one penny and one penny. So, let’s all go to Old Salty and have a round of Gila Monster slobber on me! Oh yeah, leave your screaming children at home … or with Reverend Jones; I have a feeling he’s going to be on a new career path.

Later.