Archive for the 'humor' Category

if it ain’t broke…(or how I learned to say no to the medical establishment)

I had a recent experience with the medical community, and not a very good one I might add.  While not necessarily blaming my grandson for my injury, let me just say that I was holding him when the freakish incident involving my knee occurred.   Now, I’ve never known anyone who’s injured their knee while in the act of simply straightening it, but I’m here to tell you that that’s exactly what happened to me.   “Crunch, pop, crunch” were the sounds emanating from said knee while I was having an otherwise pleasant conversation with my new neighbor and showing off my grandson – AKA the most beautiful child ever born.  “Oh God” I said, feeling immediate pain and almost falling down.  “Are you OK?” new neighbor asked.  “Great!” I said, barely able to maintain a serene façade.  God, I hate showing weakness and wasn’t about to start, even though the pain was excruciatingly intense. 

 My daughter-in-law, who witnessed the whole thing, knows me well and realized immediately that something had just gone terribly wrong.  “Here let me take the baby – he needs to be fed” she said, deftly stepping in and relieving me of the little guy.  New neighbor and I exchanged goodbyes and I turned to high-tail it back into the house.  “Shit. Can’t walk” I squeaked, as my son and daughter-in-law helped me hop into the house.  In the meantime, my accounting brain was quickly tallying up the expense of an ER visit and comparing the sum against my bank account. 

It didn’t look great but then again, I couldn’t walk.

While lying on the couch, I debated the pros and cons of being seen.  It was the weekend and I really didn’t think the local CVS clinic would be able to accommodate this kind of injury.  The ER would probably prescribe some kind of narcotic relief, which in my opinion goes to the top of the ‘pro’ column.   Still, there was the expense.  On the other hand, I really couldn’t walk. 

 I opted for the ER. 

 Now it just so happened that my 75 year old mother had just arrived at the house.  We’d planned on catching “The Help” at the local movie theater, which I’d been trying to see for a couple of weeks.  A friend and I had planned on going the prior Sunday, but when we met at the theater, she sheepishly told me she’d just seen it the day before with her sisters and would I mind seeing something else?  So we saw One Day, which I frankly thought was crappy romance schlock.  Not my cup of tea.  Not that I was real keen on seeing The Help, either, but I’d read the book and thought it was pretty good and all the reviews of the movie version were good too.  Plus I like that feisty little Sissy Spacek.   I’ll bet she’s a real fun grandma like me, assuming that she IS a grandma, but we’re about the same age so she probably is.  So mom and I made a date to see The Help for that fateful following Sunday.  On Saturday the sheepishly informed me that she’d ALSO seen the movie with a friend the previous day but really wanted to see it again and now that both people had gone behind my proverbial back and saw it with other people,  it was my personal mission to SEE THAT MOVIE.

 Of course it was not to be.  Instead, we spent a fun-filled 3 hours at the local ER.   In triage, the nurse asked the pertinent questions:  Current medications, other medical conditions, previous surgeries, recreational drug use, the usual …    I almost laughed when the recreational drug use question was asked, but thought better of it.  Instead, I shot back my wittiest answer with lightning speed: “Uh, not since the late 70’s”.   The nurse laughed andI figured she really didn’t hear that kind of answer except from her Most Fun Patients (like me).

 Mom and I were finally ushered into “the inner sanctum” where the fortunate ER visitors are finally allowed to rest their weary heads, and into our own little cubicle where we settled down for the duration.  The fact that the nurse promptly brought me a couple of Vicodin was much appreciated, not only for the obvious pain relief effect, but for its magical power to make time stand still.     Fast forward 2 hours and several X-Rays later when Dr. Whatshisname (who I mentally renamed Baby Doc) arrived to say I really needed to see an Orthopedist because the X-Rays told them nothing and I probably would have to have an MRI and possibly surgery.  Again my lightning quick brain tallied up dollars and cents and came up with a flashing neon sign that read “WAY TOO MUCH MONEY”.   “And what happens if I don’t do any of that?” I asked.  Baby Doc shook his head sadly at my obvious ignorance of his superior genius brain power and assured me that I would most certainly re-injure my knee and would have to do it anyway.  I left the hospital decked out in a knee immobilizer, a pair of crutches (which, as of this writing have never been used) a script for Vicodin and no intention of calling an orthopedist for follow-up.   I figured out how to walk on my own (right leg stiff, no bending) and spent the rest of the day blissfully zoned out.

 Best of intentions and all, my knee did not heal in the rapid-fire way I thought it would.  At least not at first.  By Day 4 and after a promise to my best friend to make the appointment, my knee was still really, really painful and I was still walking stiff-legged, so I made the call.  The friendly lady on the phone scheduled me to be seen 4 days later by Dr. George – a nice, unassuming name.  One that sounded friendly and old-timey-doctorish to me.     Little did I know that Dr. George would turn out to be just a cog in the ever-grinding machine that turns bad knees and torn rotator cuffs into huge sums of revenue.  Revenue made on the backs of the unassuming ER patients who’ve had slight orthopedic mishaps just like myself.  Dr. George Friendly indeed…

 Of course, just like when you take your car to the mechanic and it flat REFUSES to misbehave, the day dawned practically pain-free.  “Great” I muttered to myself while twisting my knee around to increase the source of the pain, thus legitimizing my appointment.  Dammit, now when I wanted and NEEDED the knee to hurt, it actually felt better than ever.    I twisted my knee a few more times, trying to turn on the pain and made a mental note to park in the back row of the clinic’s parking lot, hoping the walk would screw my knee up at least a little bit. 

 Of course it didn’t, but as I entered the Dr’s office,  I had enough of a residual hobble to make things look good.  Before I even saw the doctor though, they needed X-Rays.  Look, this clinic is right NEXT to the hospital and they even said they had access to my previous ER films, but I guess somebody needed a new motor for their boat or something because there I was, posing for more lovely pictures of my 54-year old knees for their viewing pleasure.  Really, I’d assumed they’d skip that and go for the more costly MRI, but it turns out that there’s a step-by-step procedure for stripping cash from a patient and the first step is more X-rays. 

(Enter Dr. George)

 Not the doctor I anticipated.  In fact, Dr. George was the opposite of my mental picture of a grandfatherly man who would listen to me thoughtfully and sympathetically and inquire about my pain level and generally fawn over me and make me feel special.  Not Dr. George.  Dr. George first told me that I had pretty good knees for a 54-year old women (“hardly any arthritis – not what we usually see), but that would be the last compliment he would pay me.  He then wanted to look at my knee, and tried to pull up my capri pants, which he couldn’t do because they wouldn’t go over my knee.  Sighing, he went to a cabinet and pulled out a pair of paper shorts – “here, put these on so I can look at your knee” he said, handing me a piece of clothing that I immediately knew I could not put on.  Before leaving the room so I could change, he added, “you can even take them home with you!” like he was bestowing a gift on me that I would treasure for the rest of my life.   I tried, folks, really I did.  But here’s the deal:  I have a (relatively) small waist and large hips and this makes articles of clothing like pants and shorts troublesome at best for me.  I can literally spend hours trying on dozens of pants and shorts before settling on one or two that actually fit me.  So you can imagine how trying to pull on a pair of paper shorts that look like they’ve been designed for a teenage boy, went for me.  I gave it my best effort but things started looking grim just past my knees .  “Are you kidding me?” I thought to myself.  “Keep your fucking shorts for some pre-pubescent with no hips” I muttered, throwing the shorts back in the cabinet and pulling out a perfectly-suited hospital gown.    

 I think Dr. George was a little disappointed that I’d eschewed his “gift” and it was my suspicion that he was going to hold that against me.  In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m right about that, since he spent some time palpating my knee on the wrong side and asking “Does that hurt?” No,” I said, “my knee hurts over on the other side and the pain is really deep and I can’t even palpate it myself.”

  “Oh” he said.  “You need an MRI.” 

And with that, he walked out the door and on to what I can only imagine was a much more interesting patient.  Probably someone who would really appreciate a pair of paper shorts as their parting gift.

 So I paid my bill, and walked out the door to await a call from the office regarding where and when the blessed MRI event would take place.

 And here I sit, two doctors, several sets of X-rays and hundreds of dollars later, with no treatment, no diagnosis, and wondering if I’ll even bother with the rest of this medical establishment freakshow.  I suspect there’s nothing terribly wrong with my knee that time won’t heal anyway and that the dire warning from the ER doctor that not following through will mean certain re-injury probably won’t happen in the near future.  Besides, I could die before it happens again anyway.    At least there’s that.      I’m definitely cancelling that MRI appointment.  I’m pretty sure of that.

 So Dr. George, I hope you won’t notice that I never came back to visit you.  I hope you gave your boy shorts to some acne-faced teenage boy or a supermodel with no hips – someone who can actually wear them proudly.  I hope you got a new motor for that boat of yours with my financial contribution to your fine establishment.  Most of all, I hope you develop a personality – preferably something closer to what I imagined yours would be.  That would be nice.


stupidus wordicus redux

It’s a burden being right all the time. 

As soon as Dannon starting running their stoopid “Now with Bifidus Regularis!” commercials, I smelled a rat.  Then I proceeded to do what I often do when faced with obviously hyped-up claims that a product will restore the nation’s digestive systems back to normal after binging on cold pizza for days – I blogged about it.   

Now Dannon’s being sued for false advertising!   After skipping with glee around the house on my tiny, doll-sized feet chanting “Die, Dannon, die!” whilst pumping my fist into the air for emphasis, I collapsed onto my couch exhausted, just in time to see the fibromyalgia lady make her umpteenth, uninvited appearance in my living room. 

She’s my next target and I will bring her down.  Mark my words.

Today’s Diary Entry

Dear Diary:  

Today I really felt like throttling The Horse Face Herselfthat horsefaced spokeswoman on the Lyrica commercial. The urge was so intense, so incredibly acute. The sound of her voice, the click of her buck teeth, her faux-artist persona – all these things inspired a hatred in me so fierce, I was almost unable to stop myself from reaching into my television set in an attempt to silence her forever. 

Things that scare me

It’s a scary world out there, folks, and it’s getting scarier.  I’ve been pondering a few recent events that have very scary implications for our Brave New World:


Waterboarding:  While the debate continues to rage about whether or not waterboarding is being used by the CIA as an interrogation technique – whether it be at an illegal location in an Eastern bloc country, or right here at our own detainee playground in Cuba –  it seems to me that the most obvious problem has been ignored:  The name of the technique itself.    I don’t know about you, but when I hear the word ‘waterboarding’ I don’t immediately think “Ewww.  THAT sounds scary”.  Instead, I  think New Extreme Sport!!   The name sounds suspiciously similar to Snowboarding, doesn’t it?   While I’m sure that our trustworthy government would never intentionallyname a torture technique (so horrible it’s against the Geneva Convention) something that sounds  like a fun sport for twentysomething daredevils,  I propose they consider changing the name.  Maybe to something more descriptive – like Brink of Death Drowning Torture, or The You’ll- Never-Feel-the-Same-Way-About-a-Shower-Ever-Again Interrogation Technique.  


Osama bin Laden:   Lately I’ve found the Bearded One’s videos to be more cute than scary – “Americans should all embrace Islam….” (for various reasons, one being, “because there are no taxes in Islam, only alms.”  Huzzah!)  

What really disturbs me, though, is this:   binladenvid.jpg Isn’t it obvious, from these 2004 and 2007 pictures of Mr. Crazy Himself, that a shipment of Just for Men had been hijacked from its regular route to Sun City, Arizona, to a group of caves, somewhere in Afghanistan?  And how, pray tell, did this happen? 

The US had better get control over this shipping container security problem before we start seeing something like this on our store shelves:


If Just for Men can help this man elude capture for over six years, imagine what it can do for you!


Political campaigns that never stop:  First it started with holidays. Unable to allow its customers one solid week of,9171,1682266,00.htmlfreedom from thinking about upcoming holidays, stores have set up a continuously rotating set of holiday displays.   New Years, Valentines, St Patrick’s, Easter, Mother’s Day, Memorial Day, Father’s Day, 4th of July, Flag Day, Labor Day, Christmas/Halloween, Christmas/Thanksgiving, and finally, Christmas/Christmas.   

Not content being left out of our year-long holiday gorging and spending sprees, the 2008 political campaigning started mere weeks after Bush’s reelection in 2004.  The fact that you actually made the mistake of contributing to a political campaign once – ten years ago – will now entitle you to a neverending stream of meddlesome phone calls and mailers, all with their collective hands out crying ‘More, Please’.  I predict that we’ll never again know a time when someone’s not campaigning to be our next President.  Much like seeing store Christmas displays in August (and there’s really nothing that says Festive! like a fully decorated Christmas tree next to a display of wailing, motion-sensitive goblins) we’ll complain about it, but no one will actually listen. 


Birth Control for 11-year-olds:  I have only one question – what’s scarier?  A pregnant eleven year old, or an eleven year old on birth control?

Last but not least  – The Hollywood Writer’s Strike:  This is perhaps the scariest thing of all.   Personally, I don’t care if most of what passes for television writing bites the dust for awhile.  However, I’m afraid of what this means for the one and only show I actually care about – Lost.’s not enough that the loyal viewers of what is perhaps the most interesting and intelligent show on TV today have to endure a 9 month wait for new episodes.  No  – now that January is finally closing in on us, the fucking writers have to go on strike.  I’ve heard that there are eight Lost episodes ready, but where does that leave the story?  I’ll tell you where – right in the middle of “gotta know what happens next”  How about right in the middle of revealing who or what the Smoke Monster is?  Or right in the middle of explaining how and why everyone got off the island and why Jack wants to go back?  Or maybe right in the middle of showing us what happened to Evil Ben.  Me no likey.  No sir.  Why can’t they let the Lost writers go back to work?  

Anyway, I think the writers are just big babies.  They should be glad to be getting paid to write anything, much less asking for internet content royalties.  Hey, where’s MY internet content royalties?  Huh?

Buncha babies.

All About Me(me)

Prada Pixie has bucked the establishment and made up her own meme and I say Good for her!  It’s a great one, so of course I stole it because I’m lazy and I think I’m coming down with the cold Ken had this weekend and I just spent $200 on my dog’s shots and allergy shot and heartworm pills and, shit – it’s Monday.

  1. What is your all time favourite book, from childhood, as an adult?  Little House on the Prairie/Pillars of the Earth.  I’ve read each numerous times and I even live close to a town that has a Laura Ingalls Wilder day once a year.  They don’t, however have an Observant Bystander day.  Yet.
  2. All time favourite movie as above?  The Wizard of Oz/The Philadelphia Story.  Again, numerous viewings and yes, I’ve done the WOZ/Dark Side of the Moon thing which totally rocks by the way.  A little known fact is that you can do the same thing with The Philadelphia Story and Frank Sinatra’s In the Wee Small Hours album. 
  3. Favourite type of chocolate, and how much of it do you eat a week?  I only eat Nestle’s chocolate chunks because, well, nothing says big hunk o’ chocolate like chocolate chunks. 
  4. Favourite drink, non alcoholic and alcoholic?  Iced tea with lemon.  Amaretto sour.  No joking around with the liquor, no sir.   
  5. Where is your all time best holiday destination?  For Halloween, I like to go a few blocks over to this big house that looks like a castle and has a blue tile roof (I shit you not, people), because they change the doorbell chime to sound all scary and stuff AND they give out full size Hershey bars. 
  6. Where is your dream holiday destination?  Oh shit, I just realized this was written by a Brit.  Which means I’m supposed to be answering these holiday questiont by substituting the word vacation.  Well, I’m not changing the answer to #5 because it’s truly the best Halloween destination.  As far as dream vacations go – I’d have to vote for a tour of famous cemetaries.   I tried to talk my dad into visiting Jim Morrison’s gravesite in Paris, but even after I explained who Jim Morrison was, he still wasn’t interested.  Oh, and Italy.  Yeah, I’d really like to go to Italy.
  7. Which is the best Beatles track of all time?  I Want You/She’s So Heavy from Abbey Road.  Nuff said.
  8. What are you most proud of having achieved (having children doesn’t count)  Making it out of my twenties alive. 
  9. What would you want for your last supper ever?(assuming it’s food you like now and not liquidized mush when you are 90!)  Cheeseburger, really salty fries, chocolate milkshake.
  10. How old were you when you had your first snog, name of snoggee if you dare?   Haha!  I know what snog means!   OK – 16 and no, I won’t say (cause a lady does NOT kiss and tell – did you hear that Monica Lewinsky???).  He had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life though.
  11. Do you have an unfulfilled ambition?  Yes!
  12. If so what is it?  Well, besides being a World Famous Blogger, I want to learn how to take pictures well.
  13. What yer gonna do about achieving it?  I’m shopping for a camera as we speak (thanks, Deb!)
  14. Describe the outfit that best describes you as you are.  Soft, wornout bellbottom jeans, gauzy shirt, chunky shoes.  The hippie girl never died.
  15. If you were on Desert Island Discs which one piece of music would you want to keep?  Wow I had to Wiki this one!  ONE PIECE OF MUSIC?  OK, but tomorrow I might now feel the same way – Hold on Hold on by Neko Case.  The words are perfect to me. 
  16.  And what would the luxury item be, as in no use at all, on a desert island?   An art deco still life painting I have.
  17.  Outside of your partner, Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Beyonce Knowles, J-lo who do you fantasise about?  You mean I can’t choose George Clooney??   Billy Bob Thornton cause he’s sooooo nasty.
  18. Describe the contents of your purse/wallet, ie receipts/ bus tickets/ plastic you never use/ and if your lucky enough money.(English use of the word purse here)  Gum wrappers, lots of gum wrappers, hair ties and headbands, lotion, big fat red wallet, cell phone (somewhere in the bottom of the purse where I can never find it to answer it), cigarettes (always where I can find them), sunglasses, medications (old women have to carry their medications with them ya know), and various types of paperwork (currently camera research).
  19. Outside of the family what item would you save from the inferno?  Just to be clear here, my dog IS my family so he’s going regardless.  Other than that, my purse. 
  20. How much would you like me to stop now.?  But I LIKE talking about myself…

Show us your guns!

Let me start out by saying that I do not own a gun, nor have I ever owned one.  75aguns1.jpgFor years, my home has been gunless which, according to my pro-gunnie friends means I’ve been grossly unprotected from marauding packs of  robbers, rapists and  murders – or, in the words of Hedley Lamar from Blazing Saddles: Rustlers, cut throats, murderers, bounty hunters, desperados, mugs, pugs, thugs, nitwits, halfwits, dimwits, vipers, snipers, con men, Indian agents, Mexican bandits, muggers, buggerers, bushwhackers, hornswogglers, horse thieves, bull dykes, train robbers, bank robbers, ass-kickers, shit-kickers and Methodists.

And Jehovah’s Witnesses.

It seems strange to the pro-gun people that I’m not concerned about being unprotected.  “But what would you do when the bad guys come into your house?” they ask.
“Bad guys?  In my house?  But why would they do that?”
“Well, to kill you.” they answer haughtily, as if I were terribly naive about the ways of the world.

I have various answers to this question, my favorite being,  “I guess if they really want to kill me, then they can.”   After a brief moment while they sum up my response they usually reply with the standard   “Oh, you don’t mean that!”

But I do.  I do mean that. 

In my opinion, the only reason to own a handgun is to kill another person.  And I’m not sure I could do that.   Besides, even if I could manage to access my handgun from my (supposedly) locked case, load it and point it at the bad guy, it would be insanely easy for said bad guy to simply walk up and take it from me.  

I’m one of those people who are most likely to be killed by my own handgun. 

Right after the 4th of July, one of our vendors came into my office.  “Did you have a good 4th of July?” he asked.  “Well, the firecrackers really bother me” I answered, signing his paperwork and handing it back.  “I’ll bet you’re one of those people who doesn’t like guns” he said, giving me a knowing look. “You’re right.” I said.  “I don’t own a gun.  But I’m not an anti-gun person either – I just don’t want or need one of my own.” 

I waited for the inevitible question that I knew was coming regarding bad guys and home invasions.  However, he surprised me with a new variation on that familiar theme:  “What are you going to do when Al Queda comes to your door?” he asked, serious as a heart attack. 

Al Queda?  At my house?  Was this guy serious?   

Maybe I am naive, or just plain stupid, but I don’t believe the bad guys are coming for me.  And little do my pro-gun friends know is that I already have a strategy for when the bad guys (or Al Queda) forces their way into my house and says “Hey you! Defenseless woman!  I’m gonna shoot you dead!”  It’s a strategy that involved no guns or fancy, karate chopping self defense stuff either.  And it’s pretty much guaranteed to work – so here it is:

First I will act all “Oh no, please don’t hurt me bad guys (or Al Queda guys).  I’ll do anything you want!”  Then, real quick, I’ll flash them my boobalicious breasts, thus rendering them completely and totally speechless.   After I start my mesmerizing dance of boob seduction, I will be slowly making my way to the kitchen where I have the only weapons a women needs:    A sink and a small appliance.      Then I’ll crook my finger at them and say “Come here you naughty boys and watch me wet down my tshirt for you!  And if you’re really good, I’ll let you have your way with me” (Note:  Guys cannot resist the possibility of having sex with me.  This is a known fact).    I’ll encourage them to wet down my tshirt from the sinkful of water, while continuing to do my dance of seduction and yelling  “More! More water!  More wetness!”   As they’re spashing water at me and trying to join me in my dance of seduction, I’ll be waiting for just the right moment when I’ll grab the plugged in coffeemaker, throw it into the sink, and fry their dumb bad guy (or Al Queda) brains.   

Then I will call the authorities, explain that there are fried bad guys in my kitchen, and go change into a dry shirt. 

Diabolical, isn’t it?

Blaming it on Disaronno

The time:  Last Friday night, approximately 11:30pm
The place:  At home, in the study, on the internet (natch)
Level of inoxication:  Mild, but getting there (two cocktails, down, working on the 3rd).

Ken arrives home after his stellar performance in community theater as The Coach in High School Musical  (and before you ask why I wasn’t there, I went to the Sunday matinee, thank you very much).  After appropriate kisses and inquiries about my evening (fair) and how his performance was (quite fine), Ken sits down at his computer to check email.  Soon there is the sound of a braying laughter coming from his side of the room. 

“Whaaas so funny?” I inquire, barely slurring my words.
“This joke my nephew sent me.  You want to hear it?” Ken asks, apparently judging that I am not too impaired for a joke.
“Yes!” I exclaim. (I cannot resist a joke, any kind of joke whatsoever.  Jokes are manna from the gods).

“OK.  You’re riding a horse.  On your immediate right there is a drop-off.  On your immediate left is a lion chasing a gazelle.  In front of you is a zebra and in back of you is an elephant.  What do you do next?”

“Hmmmm.  Lion, gazelle.  Uh, unicorn in the front, coyote on the left?   What if I kill the lion with my light sabre, then challenge the unicorn to a dual?  No, that won’t work, the unicorn has special powers……..   Oh fuck it, I give up.  What do I do next?”

Ken looks over at me, smiles and exclaims, “Get your drunken ass off the merry-go-round!”

I immediately start laughing.  “I cannot believe you said that to me!  That was hilarious, honey!  Get your drunken ass off the merry-go-round, that is too funny.  So what’s the answer, huh?”

“The answer is” Ken says deliberately, “Get your drunken ass off the merry-go-round.”



Number of people here to be entertained and enlightened

hit counters Logo