Blog

Here’s what I’ve been working on lately. But Bethany, if you click, you’ll immediately lose the entire hard-drive on your computer, with all the stuff you’ve listed on it, all the roadside attractions you must see on your trip. Even if you ain’t using right now. I’ve cursed it. Don’t click. (Those of you who can click, everyone else, that is, I’m doing this in a funky order, you think? Attaching things that aren’t usually attached till later. Just felt like it.)

Beth! Don’t!

No more time now: Off to work for my last day before my weekend. My weekend, however will be taken up by one midnight overtime shift and killing ants. They’ve invaded and they’re working on carrying out my new couch. I can hardly stand to go to work right now…. I’ll have nothing left…..

Oh! The L Word rocks. Season premiere last night, and WOW! Could be because there’s such a dearth of lesbian anything on television, but I was impressed. Rather true to life, with its Dating Flowcharts and scamming on the same people, night after night, and Baby Making (except it’s Hollywood and every lesbian bordered on Too Beautiful. Eh. I suppose I can take it).

make THIS.

Wowzer. She rocks.

And go see my pal Joanna who has two new FOs. And Bethany has a 100 Things list that rocks so hard I decided that yes, she is just too cool to be related to me and/or Christy.

You all rock, in a big way. (And the one knitting a prayer? You know who you are. You are a blessing.) And a whole bunch of you expressed indignance and/or shock that Mom’s still with this particular doctor. The best I can do is directly quote Em’s comment, who was spot-on:

“I have no idea what’s wrong with you”? “I can’t help you”? Are you sure she’s a doctor? Is there a place to register some sort of legal complaint against this woman? Because I assume that the reason little mama hasn’t switched doctors is due to the way our nation’s health care is set up, and this is all entangled with insurance, which then means maybe that complaints won’t do anything. Still, it’s bullshit. Bullshit. Thank god the ER people know their jobs and helped her.

That’s exactly it. The way she’s locked into this particular health plan means she HAS to see this terror of a doctor. It’s a small area, and the only other doctor that’s possibly available to her apparently works in a migrant-health clinic, and Mom hasn’t had any luck tracking him down. But I’m pleased to say that she saw the nurse yesterday, who was great and helpful and smart. The little mama swears she’ll never see That Doctor again, not if she can help it. She’s going with the nurse, all the way. Yeah.

I know I had more things to write about but now I can’t think of them. This is why you shouldn’t put off blogging because you’re comfy on the couch and don’t want to reach for the computer. And damn it, I’m just now remembering that I left some feta/spinach pizza in my fridge that was supposed to be lunch. What that means is I’m fishing in my brain for the Forgotten Things and coming up with the wrong ones. Shoot.

One thing I remember. Go see Marcia. She summed it all up in her Wednesday post.

And I’m going to write today. Really write. Okay? Hold me to it. I’m back in the saddle.

Like Brooke said,

Let’s Play with the Homophobes Again!

“Would you vote for a presidential candidate who supports same-sex marriage or civil unions?”

Go to the poll at the Traditional Values Coalition and tell ’em whether you would or not. When I voted, 62% were saying “Hey-ell no, I’d like to vote against love, please.” When explored, it really is a rather spiteful, hateful site. Ah, well. Maybe we’ll get that percentage turned around, huh?

Back at home now. Little “h,” that is. The drive was again non-eventful, except for the howling of the cats. They’ve been so good for the past few trips, but last night’s drive really upset them. And it didn’t end when we got home: Digit spent most of the night up and growling at the windows until I lost all control and put him out at midnight, raccoons and possums bedamned. Then I worried and got up at half-hour intervals until four when he deigned to come back in, muddy and self-satisfied.Then I was up at six for work.

Yawn.

Mom’s feeling a leetle better, though tired and wobbly-pinned. She’s been newly diagnosed with hypoglycemia, which has been making her shaky and ill. She had to make an emergency room visit right before I went home, and they’re the ones who actually diagnosed this particular problem. Not her doctor, oh, no. That would be too easy. (Have I mentioned how much I abhor her doctor?) So armed with multiple test results, she was supposed to see her doctor today, FINALLY, after an agonizing, sick, three week wait.

The office called her yesterday at 5:03pm to tell her, oh, you’ll actually be seeing a nurse tomorrow, not the doctor. Mom was so flabbergasted she could only gulp and say okay. When she told me what they said, I pitched a fit and made her call back to find out the reason for the switch. But they’re canny. That’s why they call AFTER five o’clock — the phones roll right to the answering service.

Bastards. Fuckheads.

(I told Mom that’s why daughters are good at taking care of their mamas: They can do all the swearing that the mama doesn’t want to do.)

Close your ears.
fuckers fuckers fuckers.
fuckers.

That’s okay, that doctor has NEVER done anything for Mom. She folds her arms and says, over and over, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you. This is not my field. I have no idea how to help you.”

This is her primary care doctor, mind you. The nurse she’ll be seeing today has actually helped her in the past, giving her advice and diagnoses and referrals, so that’s something. It’s just the principle. Ya know?

Deep breath.

Mom felt well enough yesterday to go with me to the movies. We went to a matinee of Calendar Girls. Delightful little movie, and Helen Mirren was a hoot. But what was a bigger hoot was the audience. Arroyo Grande, where my parents live, is quite the retirement area. And they were ALL at the movie yesterday. Mom and I were the youngest there. I walked in with my popcorn and had to search the sea of white heads to find my mom’s waving arm. There must have been a hundred and fifty seniors packed into the stadium seating. One nursing home had come in a large bus.

And those seniors? Worse than teenagers. They hooted and hollered and yelled at each other. Cell phones going off all over the theatre. It was hysterical.

Now it’s my Monday. But it’s probably your Friday, so congrats! You made it!

“Looked good.”

Those were really good words to hear. Deep sigh of relief. Of course, we had all YOUR thoughts with us, which helped immensely. AND I sent Mom in to the hospital wearing my only (so far) cashmere sweater.

One should ALWAYS go to the hospital in cashmere. I was vastly annoyed when they made her change. Grumble. I left the sweater out, though, on top of everything else. When in need, I reach for the good stuff, and I encouraged the little mama to do the same. She’s tucked up now, hopefully sleeping. And I hope to do the same soon….

(Seriously, I’m such a cash-ho. I’ve tried everything I can think of with that plastic yarn crap, made a top-down raglan to the armholes, started a bucket-o-chic, started a sock (even put on a lightning bolt, rock-alongers). It’s awful. Horrible. And worse, I’m out of the Koigu I brought (finished the sock) and I didn’t bring anything else! The withdrawal has me jumpy.)

Twitch. Twitch.

But happy twitches. Thanks, y’all, for all the well-wishes. What would I do without you? And no more – this dial-up is too slow for impatient, tired me. Go say hi to Bethany who has good news, too.