Category Archives: Things that make me roll my eyes

Get a grip, Lizzy

On Twitter, Jake Tapper linked to this story about Rep. Jim McDermott’s staffer wigging out when someone called her Liz instead of Elizabeth. She’s a real piece of work, not one to win friends and influence people. Go over there and read the email thread–it’s full of loser. (And may I just tell you how much I hate it when people say “past time” when they mean “pastime”? A lot much.) And this part cracks me up:

My name has a lot of “nicknames” which I don’t use. I use either my first name or my last name because I row with a lot of other women who share the same first name.

(Um, what’s with the quotes around nicknames?) The offender here is someone who clearly does not know good ol’ Betty, and she’s offhandedly mentioning that she’s on a rowing team. Or, heck, I don’t know Lizbeth at all, and I hate to presume, lest I be reprimanded umpteen times in an email thread–maybe she means she fights with lots of women who share her name. Well, if they act anything like dear E-Liz, I imagine she does.

(BTW, you can call me whatever you want–just don’t leave the h off my name.)

mooch desuhhhved sex

Occasionally, we two crazy kids will have us a good old roll in the sack and then… well… we talk British. Or Oirish. We cahn’t tell the defferehnse, really. I think we switch back and forth a little. The funny thing is, I find the accent soooo sexy, so it’d probably do us better to drop into our fake accents before we actually hit the sack.

I felt like I deserved a lettle bet of sax cuunsedering ai’ve behn a lettle bet preoccupied with paying taxes so you lazy lot can live off our contribution to what was once a capitalist society and what grows to be more socialist (and ridiculous) every day. Some days I think it’s hardly worth making money off a blog, because at the end of the day, we only get half of what we make. Still, part of that half that the government gets (I’d say maybe 10%) goes to defending this great nation, and I fully support that. In fact, let’s get all the moochers who just don’t feel like working (I don’t consider the disabled and the elderly to be moochers, obviously, but maybe I need to make myself clear), toss them in a bog, and let the whole half go to raising military salaries and whatnot. Then I wouldn’t complain on tax day.

Alas, that’s not going to happen without a fair tax and a constitutional amendment (way harder in real life than it is in my dreams), so we suck it up and pay for plasma screens for the lazy. Whatevs. It is what it is, because it always is what it is. Have I ever mentioned the passion with which I hate that stupid phrase? I’m sure I have, because every time I hear it, I roll my eyes so furiously that I really think they will disconnect permanently from the optic nerve holding them inside my head, because really I just want to scream, “When is it NOT what it IS, people?” Stupid phrase. Whoever made it up is forever on my list.

At least I got sex out of the whole deal. Before:

Me: It’s bedtime. If you hurry, we can DO IT.
He: [All I really heard was something like a tornado around the house. I think he put away dinner, took the dog out to pee, turned off all the lights, and came upstairs within thirty seconds of my declaration. Men are easy.]

After [we'd been in full-on British mode for several minutes now]:

He: Things seem to be looking up right now…
Me: Of course things ahhh looking up. Ye jest hahd sex.

He was talking about the house sale, prospect of work, and whatnot. But in the back of his mind, I know he meant sex.

As for taxes, I’m still working on 2006. I have finally finished the corporate return for NTM. Had to prepare an extra form, and TurboTax couldn’t file it online just because of this extra form, but it’s ok. I had overpaid with the extension for NTM (that does not make me happy, but I only overpaid by $66), and I already did the personal return about a year ago, so now I just drop the info from NTM into the personal return and be done with 2006. 2007 will be easy. NTM was winding down, blog stuff is easily obtained from Paypal, and holy Spartacus, y’all, I’m pretty sure we are going to get money back considering our moving costs, COBRA payments, and all that we had to pay in 2007. Again, I don’t get all giddy about giving the government an interest-free loan for the amount we will get back, but I’ll be so happy to be done with it for another year that I just don’t give a crap. And 2008 will be so much more simple.

I’m starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. Hence the sex.

I hope your tax returns resulted in such fun times too, pippa. Tracey, I said pippa! Please forgive.

One more thing. Those people who write the tax code and the instructions for the tax forms? Crack smokers, every one of them. CAN I get an amen, y’all.

IKEA

So apparently a new IKEA store has opened or is opening in Orlando. And there are people camped out in front of the store, waiting to save money by spending money in there. And folks, I would like it stated for the record that that is completely retarded. Yes. So ridiculous. Peeps, whether you’re there when the doors open or not, it will still be there the day after that. And the day after that. And the day after that. For years and years. I can understand camping out for concert tickets or *NSYNC CD releases (I’ve done that), but camping out for a store’s grand opening? Unless they are serving a ten-course meal with those bookshelves, camping out and chanting “open open open” is just dumb.

why do people insist on annoying me?

I’m looking for jobs. Accounting jobs. I know, you’re thinking, “What? But she hated it!” Actually, I hated public accounting. I loved industry long ago. And that’s before I even knew much about accounting! Anyway, it’s getting on my nerves. I see a great job that says it’s in Boise, Idaho. Click on the job opp, and it’s in Montana, and relocation to Montana is required. Dudes! Just advertise in Montana! Another thing that gets under my skin? Ridiculous spam listings. They list on every single job category, and it’s the same spammy job. “Earn thousands of dollars working from home! You will be a bajillionaire in days!” Come here, spammy job, let me punch you in the face.

um… i won’t post this

I was a little humored at first that Rambo Symbiot’s girlfriend showed up in a YouTube video… but it’s very pr0n-y. Like I’m one of the few clothed girls in the video. It’s skeezy enough I didn’t finish watching it. It’s also in Swedish, so I have no idea what the people are saying… I hope it’s not, “We want to see the t-shirt girl naked.” Blerg.

he was robbing a bank. we had no choice.

During the Bionic Woman premiere tonight, they had a commercial where those newscasters come on with “tonight at eleven” snippets.

“Tonight at eleven, why an Orlando police officer says he had no choice but to shoot and kill a pit bull.” They never say “dog,” do they? Unless it’s a non-”aggressive” breed. Putzes.

Anyway, Frank turns to me and says, “Um… I’m guessing he was attacking someone. What else is he gonna say? ‘The dog was about to set off a bomb, we had no choice.’”

food allergies and greedy, stupid people

Of course he did it on purpose (prof in link). Probably had his EpiPen sitting on the TV tray right next to the food in his well-lit room (just to make sure he didn’t die on the way to the hospital).

And um, most people with a severe milk allergy have a severe cheese allergy. Some aged cheeses are completely free of lactose, but that’s just going to get you around lactose intolerance — not a milk allergy (two entirely different things — one screws with your digestion and can give you other symptoms, while the other affects your whole body and can send you into anaphylactic shock). Most people with milk allergy are allergic to both casein (the protein in cheese) and whey (the protein in milk).

That said, if you know you are deathly allergic to milk, you either eat at restaurants (not fast food) where you can call ahead and talk to the chef to find out if you can eat safely at his restaurant, or you cook for yourself! You don’t play chicken with your food allergy. It’s just stupid, and it’s your own fault if you get sick or go into shock.

I am not allergic to wheat, rye, and barley, but I am incredibly intolerant (they cause massive vitamin deficiencies in me and give me seizures, muscle aches, nerve pain, heartburn, other not-fun gastric symptoms, migraines, pain in my teeth… I could list more). I’m so sensitive to wheat that I generally can’t eat any packaged foods that were made in facilities where wheat is even processed. So I do NOT go to McDonalds and order a burger without the bun. I know they’re just going to take the bun off of a burger they’d already made, and even if they make a new bun-less burger for me, I don’t trust that they didn’t change their gloves before they touched my food. I’m not stupid. In fact, before I go to any fast food restaurant (very rare), I do my research to make sure of what I can eat there. Meaning that I check the website before I eat there and see what on their menu is completely free of my food intolerances. And when I get there, I ask if their french fry fryer is a dedicated fryer (even though I know it is, because the website told me so). I know before I get to the restaurant that I can eat about four things there. French fries, hashbrowns, hot mustard sauce, and the parfait (without the granola). And if Frank has ordered anything containing wheat, I ask them to put my part in a separate bag from his. Because I know that if I get sick, it’s my fault for not cooking my own food and for trusting my health to someone else.

Recently at Chipotle, I asked the girl who warms the tortillas to change her gloves before she made my burrito bowl, and she did (I watched her). But then I forgot to ask the girl who folds the burritos to change hers before handling my cheese. And I got sick just from her gloves that had previously touched wheat touching my cheese. That wasn’t her fault. It was mine, because I forgot to ask.

It all boils down to trust for me. I don’t trust that other people are as diligent with my food preparation and as concerned about my getting sick as I am.

For the Record

There’s a commercial that comes on around here for something called “For the Record.” It’s apparently supposed to be a hard-hitting news segment in Orlando, or an investigative column in the paper. I don’t know. We never pay attention. Until we hear this lady say in a completely ridiculous, fake, staged tone into a telephone: “That’s not the issue here.” It’s so hilarious. We both laugh as soon as she says it.

WB, can you verify that this is one of the most ridiculous commercials ever?

“truth” revised

NASA’s weather numbers were adjusted downward when reverse-engineering the numbers pointed out a major flaw in the calculations: A Y2K error! It turns out Y2K caused huge damages (in the form of private jets and ugly cars) after all. 1934 is now the hottest year on record (not 1998), and 2001 dropped from number 8 to out of the top ten.

I wonder how ticked off the celebrities, politicians, and other fierce global warming believers who took out payday loans or spent lots of money to pay for their global-warming-combating private jets and Priuses are gonna take the news. (Celebrities and politicians will say that they were hoodwinked by NASA, which is a government agency, and therefore the change in numbers is all Bush’s fault, because he runs the government. And then they’ll say it’s still real.)

DOs and DON’Ts for realtors

Ok, more like DON’Ts and DON’Ts that I’m framing as DOs.

And this isn’t addressed to all realtors… mainly just the one we met with about a month ago.

1) Do smile. It helps if you smile, ever, during the tour of the house. Don’t walk around the house and say, “Oh yes, white appliances sell just fine!” with a big huge grimace on your face. “Yes, the walls are painted lovely!” while you glare at them with scorn and contempt. Your voice sounds reassuring, but your eyes say you’re a liar.
2) Do dial back the gloom and doom. Don’t tell potential clients, who have not looked at paperwork, who have not signed paperwork, who have not made a decision that you are the realtor for them, that you see doom, DOOOOOOM in their future. Dude. We watch the news. We know the real estate market is low. We know that if we want to maximize our profit, our house will be on the market for a while (though all this staging work and the golf course thing will help a lot).
3) Do meet the dog. Otherwise she’s just gonna whine in her crate the whole time. It’s good you met the dog and weren’t afraid of her puppy butt making her entire body wag in excitement.
4) Do compliment my mad decorating skillz. Seriously, you should have offered me a job staging your listings after seeing just what was finished of the house, and you couldn’t have been less interested? This also goes along with #1. I am a girl, and my ego needs stroking. Hmm. Maybe I need a girl realtor.
5) Don’t tell me my husband has the option of offing me if he wants to sell the house without me. I thought it was kinda funny, though. “The house is only in his name, but you’re married, so now he can’t legally sell it without your signature.” “SCORE!” “Well, don’t be too excited, because now his only option for getting rid of it without your permission is to kill you.” “He’s given me guns on two separate Christmases. It wouldn’t be smart of him to try.”
6) Do look surprised if I say that. He didn’t. Like he was not surprised at all that I would kill the man I love. I adore him!
7) Do know what faux wood blinds are. At the very least, pretend to know what faux wood blinds are. I told this guy that we were replacing all of our miniblinds with faux wood blinds. He barely nodded. When we got to the master bath during the tour, I motioned to the window and noted that we would be putting up the faux wood blinds in there as well… and when we got to the den, and he saw a set of faux wood blinds sitting out (preparing for installation)? He reached out and stroked them and said, “Are these the kind of blinds you were talking about?” And y’all, he’s been in the business for AGES and owns his own branch.
8) Don’t show me every house in the neighborhood that sold for way too cheap and NOT show me the ones that sold for decent prices. I already did some research before you came, so I’m onto your act. You want to sell the house at a major discount so you can get a quick commission. We’re willing to stay here longer if we have to in order to get what the house is worth. It might mean Florida for a little longer, and it’s not exactly a luxury home, but it sure is nice enough to stay in now that we’ve fixed it up.
9) Don’t try to tell me we’re not on a premium lot. I know that having a house on the golf course is going to get us more than $3K to $5K over what’s across the street. If the lot premium was $10K five years ago, I’m not going to buy your ocean-front property in the Painted Desert.

In case it’s not clear, we are most definitely NOT letting this guy put a sign in our yard. We’re going to put our own sign in the yard for a couple of weeks, and if we don’t sell the house quickly, we’ll talk to a different company. Not the man who hasn’t seen the inside of a house in fifty years.

that’s why it’s called ::practicing:: medicine. because they never actually get it right.

Frank and I went to see Frank’s doctor a while back. I insisted on accompanying him, because Frank is one of those people who just says, “Yes, doctor, you’re the doctor, whatever you say, doctor. I trust you.” Me? Not so much. See my gluten bigot category for why. Frank was going to the doctor because 1) he was going gluten-free with me, because that makes life around here a lot simpler. No, I did not ask him to do this; he is just that wonderful, and he told me a couple of weeks before my test that he was going to do it. Made the decision all on his own–I told y’all I was married to Mr. Wonderful. This way I won’t have to worry about him glutening me through a kiss, or eating something glutenous with his hands, then sticking his hands in my bag of chips without thinking about it and contaminating the whole bag of chips. Stuff like that. It’s crazy the ways I can get sick on gluten, and how teeny amounts can hurt me in significant ways. And not just for a day. For the future. 2) During my gluten challenge, Frank was eating exactly what I was been eating. Glutenous foods full of gluten, gluten, and more gluten. Pizza, soy sauce, bread containing wheat flour, glutenous ice cream (like Chubby Hubby), na’an, Nacho Cheese Doritos, etc. And get this. He had some gastric symptoms; his acne got a lot worse, just like mine did (and when we were gluten-free for three months December to February, and the only gluten he had was the sandwich and Doritos I sent him for lunch, his acne was so much better); he had heartburn, and one night it was so bad that it kept him up until 3 a.m.; he had fatigue on the days that I had fatigue; his unexplained blistery rash on his hands was back (it’s not DH, the rash associated with celiac, but it is a form of eczema for which doctors have found no cause. No cause? Get back to me after you know what’s going on, docs, and quit screwing around.). And when we got to the doctor’s office for the appointment, guess what we found out? While I was gaining twelve pounds on the three-month gluten challenge? Frank was losing ten! Eating a bunch of fluorescent orange mac-n-cheese! And then Frank said, “Oh yeah. I’ve never been able to gain weight, ever, until you were cooking gluten-free dinners all the time when you were gluten-free during those three months before. And I gained all that weight when you were losing 12 pounds.” Uhhhh. Can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it, but then again, I was a little preoccupied with how awesome I was feeling off gluten and how awful I felt on gluten.

Alright. So I made the case for the doctor to test Frank for celiac, all written out nice and pretty, just in case he’s one of those boneheads like Dr. Ego who won’t test you for anything unless he comes up with it first because he needs to feel important.

And of course, Frank started off things by saying, “My wife has celiac, so I want to get tested for it.” And he left off the part that he had practiced on his own in the car, because it was early and he was tired and going on one only one cup of coffee, the part where he was going to say, “I understand that her having it has no bearing on whether I would have it.” So I just took over. I mean, come on. The doctor was already looking at us like we were stu.pid. I would have been, too. Like he could catch celiac from me through sex. Good thing we didn’t tell him my test results weren’t even in yet. And seriously, the doctor had already taken that one statement as license to treat us like just any ol’ stupid patient who will buy anything you want to sell them off the back of the discount doctor wagon. Or maybe he truly knows nothing about celiac, because he tried to feed us a load of watery diarrhea later about it, so I’m kinda inclined to believe that he knows pretty much nothing about it except that some people get diarrhea from it.

Anyway, after Frank’s statement that he wants to get tested because I have celiac, I told the doctor, “here’s why we want him to get tested. He’s going gluten-free anyway, he has a history of autoimmunes all over his family [and I had listed every single one of them for him], while I was on the gluten challenge and he was eating the same foods I was eating, he had a lot of the same symptoms I did [he probably has no idea what a gluten challenge is, now that I think of it], and while I was gaining twelve pounds gluten-loading, he was losing at least ten.” By the time I got to “autoimmunes,” he had stopped listening, because I had handed him the piece of paper.

“Is this something you looked up on the internet?”

Attention doctors: Y’all just have no idea how patronizing and infuriating this statement is. Well, you probably do, and you say things like this anyway, just to assert that you’re the doctors and we’re the patients. And the thing is, he seemed like a cluelessly nice doctor. Just completely clueless about pretty much everything except coughs and runny noses. But the whole did I look it up on the internet thing? I wanted to punch him. It was so hard for me to keep my voice calm. “No, this isn’t something I looked up on the internet. I’ve been studying the disease for about seven months.” But I am glad he asked me the internet thing before the next part.

“Well, it looks like we should be testing you for Lupus. Do you want me to test you for that?” Ok, so Frank has a second-degree family member with Lupus and a first-degree family member with Lupus antibodies but no Lupus, but he also has very few Lupus symptoms. Other than the fatigue, which he didn’t have until the gluten challenge, and some muscle aches that are easily attributed to all that painting he’s been doing (I have muscle aches, but even I wasn’t saying that Frank’s were possibly a celiac symptom, since his are all in the shoulder area and tend to go away when there’s not a room to paint, hmm), there’s not much there in the way of Lupus. He has no RA, no joint pains, no kidney issues, no heart troubles, no lung problems, no persistent mouth ulcers, no eye problems, no fevers, no chills. He does have that vague symptom of dizziness about two or three times a year, but that is usually right after I’ve been acting crazy, which might stress him out a little, so Frank likes to chalk that one up to stress. He does have vague symptoms occasionally, I’ll give the doctor that one. And I’m never opposed to any bloodwork.

After the Lupus question, I said, “I don’t really know the symptoms of Lupus, but if you think you should test him for that, fine. As long as you’re also testing him for celiac.” At this, Frank said, “Yeah, I just want to make sure I’m tested for celiac. I’m probably going gluten-free anyway, so I just want to get the test before I change the diet.” The doctor probably doesn’t know the arguments for getting tested before changing the diet. There are lots against, of course, but lots for. Most doctors seem to think that you should get the tests before. And actually, last November, I could have told you anything you wanted to know about Lupus, and in the doctor’s office Tuesday, I was just sitting there thinking, I can’t remember all that stuff I used to know about Lupus, but I do know enough about it to understand that a lot of organ systems would be affected, at least after the disease progresses. Even when he has the flu about once a year, it’s gone within a couple of days.

Ok, so Frank jumped onto the doctor table where they listen to all your organs and make sure you’re breathing, and the doctor said jovially (it was good I was a couple feet away), “Well, unless you get explosive, watery diarrhea right after you eat a Quizno’s sub, you probably don’t have celiac, but I’ll test you for it.” DANGEROUS DOCTOR! I made eye contact and made sure that my eyes had a death grip on his eyes. “Actually, a lot of celiacs have no gastric symptoms at all. That is a huge misconception.” And I wanted to tell him that more than 50% of celiacs have no gastric symptoms, but I didn’t want to give him that figure and be wrong about it, so I just went with “a lot.” I hate it when I have to educate doctors, but Dr. Arrogant broke me of that doctors-are-gods creed we all grew up on, and I ain’t nevah lookin’ back.

I was HOT. What if that had been some patient who read something or heard something about celiac and thought, “Maybe that’s me. Maybe that’s the source of my misery.” And Dr. Can’t Tie His Own Shoes is telling her that she has to have explosive, watery diarrhea or she probably doesn’t have celiac? This is why it takes an average of nine years for a celiac diagnosis (sometimes I even hear eleven). NINE. Because dangerous doctors like this guy are out there, and their patients leave with their IBS diagnoses (heavy on the BS) or their “you just have the flu” pep talks and go on their sad, miserable ways. And then three more years pass by, because after all, doctor knows best, and if he says I don’t have it, I don’t have it, but finally, one day, she eats a Quizno’s sub on rye and drinks a Braum’s malt along with it, and while she’s at it, she has bread pudding for dessert. And then she finally has the explosive, watery diarrhea and feels maybe brave enough to go present her case to the doctor again. “But doctor, I got the explosion. I got the water. Out my butt. All there. Whaddaya think?” Even worse, what if it’s someone who’s never heard of the disease, and she just has a bunch of vague symptoms, and there’s Dr. You Have The Flu giving her meds for IBS. BTW, I used to get really ticked off when I would see those bloaty stomach commercials for IBS (yes, I’m quite happy that Zelnorm is off the market). Really ticked off. I mean, a lot of doctors, I’m sure, because I have experience with a lot of dumb doctors, probably just call it IBS and give them the med from the commercial. Here, have a pill! Who cares what’s causing your IBS? As long as we can cover it up! Bandaids are awesome!

From the Celiac Disease Center at Columbia:

The vast majority of individuals with celiac disease have little in the way of gastrointestinal symptoms or have symptoms that may receive a diagnosis of irritable bowel syndrome. While the classical symptoms include diarrhea, weight loss and edema, other patients may present with constipation, anemia, bone pain or bone loss, chronic fatigue, skin problems, abnormal liver chemistries, dental enamel defects and neurological symptoms such as peripheral neuropathy, ataxia or seizures. Some patients with celiac disease are truly asymptomatic or have symptoms related to an associated autoimmune problem.

Anyway, once the doctor decided Frank was breathing and had a heartbeat, he started to write down all the bloodwork he would send Frank for. When he mentioned the celiac test, I threw in, “Do you want to go ahead and send him for the DQ2/DQ8 test while you’re at?” Hey, why not, right? He said, “The what?” Haha. He deserved it. I know that’s gastro territory, but I was mad at him for prolonging celiac diagnoses in unsuspecting individuals. “It’s the genetic marker test for celiac disease.” Not that I have faith in our blood labs around here, but why not. “Oh, ok, sure. What is it again? That’s really gastroenterologist territory [yep] but sure, let’s just send him for everything.” I think Frank was still in the room. Don’t worry, y’all. Before we went to the appointment, I had asked if I could go with him. I also said, “And can I get obstinate in my SarahK kind of way?” “Sure, Sweetie.” “Because you know you’re never gonna see him again anyway, since we’re moving and all that.” “Okay.” I beat him down, I know.

The doc did send him for all the bloodwork, and it all came back normal… However, considering that his symptoms have all but gone away on the GF diet (except for some problems that seem to pop up after he eats soy — we’re testing that one now), and considering that serologic tests are for crap at most blood labs around the country, I think it’s wonderful that he decided (all on his own) to go off gluten when I did. I’m not gonna lie, it’s awesome knowing that there’s very little chance the food he eats will make me sick (I get sick from eating non-glutenous products made in a facility that also processes wheat, I’m that sensitive), he seems to be getting healthier along with me.

In short, I’m glad I went with him to his appointment. And I’m glad I got to school a doctor. Doctors need schooling.

oh, come on, people. get OVER yourselves!

Fox News is driving me INSANE tonight! I first saw this Hillary Clinton campaign video over at Hotair, and I smiled and even mildly giggled at it. I thought it was funny (I don’t agree with Allahpundit that it’s “comedy gold”, but I live in a household where we churn out comedy gold in everyday chats. You can’t expect everyone to understand what true comedy gold is, they can’t all live with comic geniuses like I do.).

But good job, Clinton campaign. I mean, other than the fact that neither Clinton can act for crap, it was creative (at least on a politician’s scale) and timely. For once! Remember when she had that “yes, I just decided to run for President, let’s have a conversation together, blah blah blah” video in the middle of winter, and the trees were all springy? Or she ran the ad in winter, and the trees had no leaves? I don’t remember which. Anyway, finally she’s timely and has a sense of humor about anything, and everyone is alllll twisty-panties over it on Fox! What in the world is wrong with these people? John Gibson was analyzing the video like it was a crime scene and he was Greta on a 2-year-long hunt for a missing teen or something. “Do they really want to be associating themselves with the mob after the whole Whitewater scandal?” I don’t remember what exactly he said, but it was something completely retarded to that effect. “And are they saying that women can’t drive? Shouldn’t women be outraged at this?” I’m sure he said something equally stupid, because I was shouting at the TV the whole time he was on, and believe you me, I am venomously opposed to that socialist Clinton. I’m also not a completely humorless donkeybutt! Shep? In his sensationalist reporter tone that he always has? “You will never in a bazillion years believe what the Clintons are up to this time! They are trying to use humor! Is this the end of their campaign? And will this kill your children at 5 p.m., what the Clintons are doing? Find out tonight at 11!” Dungface. And O’Reilly. Argh. He had to have that Schwartz girl on (who never ever has anything negative to say about Democrats, so what was the point of this?) to ask if this was a bad move for Hillary Clinton. Don’t you have Islamofascists to talk about or something, O’Reilly? Guests to scream over? Isn’t there a war on? Mexicans, South Americans, and terrorists still crossing the borders illegally? And you’re spending a segment on whether this was ok for the Clinton campaign to spoof the Sopranos to let everyone know what the stupid campaign song is gonna be? (BTW, who the heck cares what the song is gonna be? Since when are campaign theme songs important to anyone besides the people on the bus who have to listen to it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and you get the point?)

I hate to say it, but Greta was the only one who seemed to not be hung up on the Clinton campaign video, and whether this will destroy her chances at winning the White House (she ain’t gonna be president, kiddos, so isn’t this a moot discussion anyway?). But her show is so ear-clawingly inane that I can’t bear for it to be on the TV for more than two seconds. If I wasn’t up to my wrists in tapioca bread dough, I would have flipped her show off the second I heard that she had decided that she is now Greta Van Grissom, CSI. What the heck? Why is she walking through that dead pregnant woman’s house and talking about how “obvious” it is that no one took bleach from the basement in a hurry? And how dumb is that family for letting her? What is wrong with people? Does she even realize how stupid she sounds?

UGH! I need to go to bed and read my Bible and Harry Potter before I punch something.

OH! BUT BEFORE I DO! JUST A LITTLE NOTE ABOUT PARALLEL PARKING! Since everyone seems to be so hung up on it. I’ll just tell y’all how it’s done. Here’s how my dad taught me, and he didn’t even show me. He just told me what to do, and I’ve always been able to do it just from him telling me.

You pull up even with the car in front of the spot you want so that your side mirror is even with the front car’s side mirror. So LINE UP THE SIDE MIRRORS. Your car should only be about a foot away from the front car. Put the car in reverse. Back up, turning toward the curb as you back up. If you have properly lined up your mirrors in step one and are not too far away from the front car, you will pop right in behind that front car. Just check your rearview mirror to make sure you don’t hit the car behind you. Back up a little too much when you back in, then move forward a little, straightening out your tires when you move forward toward the front car so that your car is nice and straight. WHAT IS SO HARD ABOUT PARKING A CAR? So there you go. That’s how you park downtown on a one-way street at a meter. You’re welcome. Now go to bed.

Serenity: Part II

SARAHK: I was about to call you a liar. Then I changed my mind and decided to say that you and I have different perceptions of “hot” and “medium”.
SERENITY: This salsa is hot.
SARAHK: It’s definitely medium.
***

SERENITY [right after seeing a HeadOn commercial]: I was thinking about getting some of that HeadOn, but I don’t know how to use it.
***

SERENITY: Frank, you don’t care that Sarah just tried to kill me?
SARAHK: I don’t know what she’s complaining about. I have like fifty more pounds to carry than she does, and the gun. [So I'd momentarily forgotten about her shattered ankle and severely injured spine. I'm a retard who never claimed to be a good friend to anyone.]
SERENITY: I didn’t know we were gonna go climb Mount Everest.
SARAHK: Yeah, because Florida has any hills.
SERENITY: Ok, I didn’t know we were gonna hike to the other end of the state.
***

SARAHK [pointing to the mushrooms]: Do you eat fungus?
SERENITY: Yes, I eat mushrooms.
SARAHK: Good, I use those a lot when I cook.
SERENITY: But not when you put it that way. Do I eat fungus.
SARAHK: Well, I have a friend who won’t eat mushrooms because they’re fungus.
***

SARAHK[to Serenity after Serenity comes out of her room following a super-long SarahK-stupidity-induced nap]: Hey.
SERENITY: Mumble.
SARAHK: My head hurts.
SERENITY: Mumble.
SARAHK: Isn’t that the first thing you wanted to hear when you woke up? Great sentence structure.
SERENITY: I actually wish you would have knocked on my door and woken me to tell me that.
***

SARAHK [we've just finished rifling through all my new Chebe mixes]: Yeah, and I can use this bread mix to make my communion crackers for church. Because I can’t have the regular church crackers because they have wheat in them, I’ll have to make my own. But this package even has instructions for making crackers.
SERENITY [amused]: You have to bring in your own body of Christ?
SARAHK: Yep. I did it the three months I was gluten-free before.
FRANK J.: Yeah, and they were like “our Jesus isn’t good enough for you?”.
***

SERENITY: That’s one thing you’re gonna miss about Florida is all the birds.
SARAHK: Yeah, but Austin has bats.
SERENITY: Yeah, that’s better.
SARAHK: There’s a whole bridge that they live under. So we can get rabies there. You can’t get that in Florida.
***

SERENITY: We should cage ‘em more often, I agree with that. But not for the shark’s sake. But cage humans, yes.
SARAHK: Definitely.
SERENITY: Hippies and liberals to start.
***

SARAHK: Now what’s to keep that shark from jumping over the top and into the shark cage?
SERENITY: It’s more concerned with the food they’re tossing out in front of it. It’s not really paying attention to the human.
SARAHK: But that doesn’t answer my question of what keeps the shark from jumping into the cage.
MELANIE ON TV: Blah blah blah the shark isn’t looking to cause any trouble.
SERENITY: See?
SARAHK: Suuuuure. You tell yourself that when it’s eating your face.
***

SERENITY [after seeing me eye her funny for chopping her Neiman Marcus cake into tiny pieces]: It’s cooling.
SARAHK:
SERENITY: It’ll cool faster!
SARAHK: [I love messing with people.]
SERENITY: What?
SARAHK: You don’t have to answer to me.
SERENITY: I’m not answering to anybody. I’m just telling you.
SARAHK:
SERENITY:
SARAHK: It’s better in big bites.
SERENITY: I’m savoring.
***

SERENITY: Don’t blog that. I’m just not going to say anything tomorrow.
SARAHK [laughing]: Yes you are. And only the private stuff is private now, because you told people that I tried to kill you.
***

SERENITY [to Frank J.]: Have you ever noticed that when she [SarahK] gets aggravated, she gets really southern?
SARAHK [amused]: I know. I do, he tells me all the time.

We had been talking about crappy corporations such as AT&T and the Bank of the Northern Hemisphere. They are evil, by the way.
***

You know what Serenity says a lot? “Will you let me finish my story?” You’d think I was an interruptor or something.
***

We were at Publix shopping for foodstuffs, and I had picked up one of those super-wonderful Dole honey golden pineapples. The cashier started chatting to us about the pineapple, and Serenity and I were chatting back. I didn’t know at the time, but Serenity said that the dumb sacker girl (not dumb because she’s a sacker–dumb because she needs a smack upside the head) had said immediately upon hearing the cashier start chatting us up, “She’ll talk to you for hours.” What a brat. Serenity completely ignored her after hearing that. I might have said something. Because this is one of my very favorite cashiers, just one of the nicest ladies you will ever meet. She’s older, has grandchildren, loves to talk to me about the food I buy. Asks me about ingredients I’m buying, what I’m planning to make with them. I love food people. Anyway. At one point, I did get to zing the girl (she can’t be over 17) whose mama didn’t raise her to respect her elders. I don’t remember how the subject came up, but she said something about “Mexicans.” Mind you, this woman has some kind of Asian heritage, I can’t remember which, we’ve talked about it before. I think Chinese. She wasn’t saying anything negative, she just happened to mention Mexicans. Little Brat Sacker Girl said, “Why did they have to be Mexicans?” I just rolled my eyes and looked at her. “Because they’re from Mexico.”

Kids are stupid.
***

SERENITY: What’s this shooting game called?
FRANK J.: Call of Duty 3.
SERENITY: And are there people shooting back at me?
FRANK J.: Yeah.
SERENITY: Ah! Then they will die!
FRANK J.: Nazis, even.
SERENITY: Oh. Then they will really die.
***

SERENITY: Ok. Let’s shoot some Nazis.
***

i do not enjoy shopping

one day i’ll save up my pennies and hire a personal shopper so i don’t have to do it for myself. today i went to:
TJMaxx
Ross
BB&B
JoAnn
Pier 1
and finally Dockside Imports to find something for my large, tall bathroom wall so it doesn’t look bare and spare when we show it to prospective buyers. That’s after having already looked at Lowe’s, Home Depot, Target, and Walmart.

Oh, and I still can’t find a simple valance for the bathroom window. Why is it that all valances in Brevard County are sold in 72-inch widths? My bathroom window is 35.5 inches on the inside, so I don’t think I can make 72 inches work. And no offense to anyone who has them, but Roman shades just aren’t my thing.

I did find this wall art thingy at Dockside. I bought it before I could change my mind, then bought the 9 candles it needed for completion for $3 each at Target. I was still not sure until I got it home and held the wall thingy up against the painted ceiling. I think it’s going to be perfect. We’ll know tomorrow, because tomorrow we paint the bathroom walls and replace the bathroom light fixtures. Tonight we hang the wall art just so all the holes are already there, because there will be excess holes that will require spackle and texturing before we paint. No touchup painting; let’s just do it right the first time. So everything needs to be hung, drilled, caulked, spackled, plastered, patched, etc. before we paint.

Yes, this is the bathroom I was painting many months ago. Still only the ceiling is painted. And I decided it needs one more coat, so I’m doing that tonight.

I stopped at Lowe’s on the way home to pick up sandpaper and another Wagner Paintmate Plus so that Frank and I can both paint at the same time. I guess since Home Depot is so close to our house, we’re a little spoiled. We went there for a shower part a couple of weeks ago, and we looked lost, so a guy in plumbing asked if we needed help. We told him what part we were looking for, and he took us to the part, and when we told him we thought we knew what we were doing and kind of explained what we were doing, he told us why that was wrong and proceeded to explain what we needed to do and told us how to properly fix the shower. All this because we looked lost in the plumbing department.

Today at Lowe’s (and such is the case every time I’ve been at the Lowe’s in Melbourne, and I don’t remember how they are in Texas, but I’ve always noticed this at the Melbourne Lowe’s), I was looking for the sandpaper. I looked in the paint section and didn’t find it. There was a man in the paint section, and he saw me walk by him a couple of times, but he just stood there against the paint counter. Just leaning. Leaning. Maybe he was on a break. And I know I should have asked for help, but I’m like a man in that respect. I’ll find it myself unless someone does their job and asks the customer if they need help. I figure if he can’t be bothered to voluntarily help me, he is probably busy with something else, and I have feet and eyes and brains and can figure out where the stinking sandpaper is.

So I ambled to the tools. Lots of sandpaper, but this is all sandpaper that you put on power tools. No, I need the manual kind, and frankly, power tools scare me (not all of them, just the ones with gigantic blades), and I’d like to get out of this department, thank you. Several Lowe’s employees just looked at me in tools. And I was walking with my arms loaded, too. I hadn’t found the paint stick (they didn’t have a Wagner’s, and I know that Wagner’s works, because I have one, so I decided I’d get it at HD on the way home), but I had an extender thingy, paintbrushes not made of foam, and a corner painter that will screw onto the extender, exactly what I need for the one more coat of the ceiling. And I looked lost. On purpose, looked very lost. I hate looking lost. But I was so stinking tired and had been shopping for four dreadful hours and had had just about enough. Plus I could feel my food dragging through my small intestine. I can’t describe how that feels, it just feels like food dragging through your small intestine. And it was last night’s food, because it was around 5, and I’d not eaten anything all day. Irritable.

Ok, so up and down the front aisle I went, looking at all the signs. Nothing on the signs. Back to the tools. There was a shopper at the power-tools sandpaper with manual sandpaper in her arms. “Oh!” exclaimed I. “Where did you find the sandpaper?” She told me where to find it. “Thank you soooo much.” So I went back to paint. Well I couldn’t get my mind off my intestines and all the family news I got on my little shopping outing today, so I still couldn’t find it. I just would like some sandpaper, please. The nice Home Depot men would have already walked me to it, asked me what grit I needed, showed me the grit in each brand, and told me whether to sand the floor in clockwise or counterclockwise motions, Daniel-san. Finally I just went back to the paint counter where the Leaner was puttering around, doing nothing. “Excuse me,” I said very politely. He ignored me. Ignored! Oh, nuh-uh. You’re puttering and leaning, and my intestines lack motility. You will help me. “Excuse me,” I said very politely, more loudly. The Leaner (upper 50s, for those picturing the scene) looked up. “Yes?” Yes, you may help me. “Can you tell me where the sandpaper is?” Because I’m not sure you can. He looked annoyed, pointed, and told me I could find it all the way at the end of aisle 13.

I didn’t even find what I wanted. I mean, they had 220 grit sandpaper, but I found sanding blocks, and they had every single grit of sanding block except 220. So I got a 100 grit sanding block to make Frank’s work easier and decided I’d get the 220 when I picked up the paint stick at HD on the way home.

The HD experience was much better. I found everything right away (granted, I knew where exactly the sandpaper would be because of my Lowe’s experience) and went to self checkout, and the credit card girl who oversees in case there is any trouble just walked right over to my register as I was arriving and rang me up without my asking, much faster than I would have, because she didn’t have anything to do at the time. She didn’t just lean against her counter. Then when I set off the alarms as I walked out of the store (she’d forgotten to de-magnetize the paint stick, or whatever it is they do when they rub it against that pad on the counter), she jogged right over to me, fixed the problem, apologized, and told me to have a great evening.

“Thanks, you too!” Ah, much better.

Anyway… maybe pictures of the bathroom by Saturday.

uhhhhhhhhh

Fire and steel. Keep watching to the end if you can stand it. The end is the most unbelievable. I’m kinda sad I didn’t get to see this in “Hot Topics” today so I could see the meltdown in its entirety. I took the View off the DVR list yesterday because I couldn’t stand it anymore, and Frank can’t bear to even have it on as background noise. Newsflash, Rosie: Ahmadinejad would have you and your partner executed (probably by stoning or hanging) for being lesbians.

Oh, and make sure you catch the “Jimmy Carter error” Freud bit at the very beginning of the video. Ro, darling, that’s because it was Jimmy Carter and not someone with gralls.

And then go here for Treacher’s Ro-ku-like comments.

i’m not making this up

i saw this a month or so ago when i was driving around shopping one day. am i the only one who finds something wrong with this?

help! i think i’ve lost my filter!

and my patience for idiotic adults who act like children.

Ugh, it seems that’s all I blog about anymore, no? Me having a run-in with someone stupid and not filtering my sarcasm before it gets to my mouth.

So I take Rowdi to the vet yesterday for her checkup (oh joy of joy, she has fleas!). After we are all done with the vet, I’m standing at the checkout counter waiting for my bill and talking to the vet’s assistant. Rowdi is standing quietly at my side, staring intently and respectfully at this giant St. Bernard at the far end of the the lobby. It was so cute to see her so intrigued with something yet not pulling at the leash–I think she was in awe.

First the vet’s assistant (this cute little college girl) tells me that she’ll never forget the first time I brought Rowdi in for an appointment a year ago and said, “I’ve never owned a dog before and have no idea what I’m doing!” and then she tells me what a great job she thinks we’ve done with Rowdi, and what a great dog Rowdi is. I aww thank her, and then we start talking about the carpet-dog (Australian Shepherd) behind the counter who is staring up at us and is completely still and looks like a statue. The vet’s assistant tells me the carpet-dog is begging for cookies and says, “I’m sorry, but if Rowdi can’t have one, you can’t either.” And we continue to talk about poor Rowdi’s strict diet and make other such small talk while I wait for my bill, the flea pills for Rowdi and the kitties (oh yeah, shoving pills down kitty throats is so much fun), and Rowdi’s flea preventative.

That’s when I realize an increase in loud chatter in the vet’s office, about four feet away from me, in the same direction as the St. Bernard. But I’m thinking it’s just that–loud chatter. You know how it is when a bunch of people start talking at the same time. I continue talking to the assistant (I really should learn her name, it’s the same girl every time and I always recognize her face) and ignore the chatter until it becomes clear that the chatter is alarmingly annoying. I finally turn toward the noise and see this lady–you know the type. Early 40s, cheerleader mom who would kill another cheerleader to make sure her daughter makes captain, boob job, perfect nails, doesn’t leave her house without her makeup perfect, perfect straight black hair, and clutched tightly in her arms is a muppet dog to match her hair. Oh good grief, she is looking at me. And talking to me. Talking at me. With scared eyes. Chatterbox with the muppet hair and the muppet dog and the french manicure sculptured nails is talking at me.

MUPPET: Are you holding onto that dog’s leash?
SARAHK: [Nothing from me, because see, I really am still trying to take it all in, take her all in. She doesn't start with "excuse me" or "pardon the interruption while I ask a most ridiculous question that I already know the answer to", and I am pretty much stunned into silence. Doesn't happen very often.]
MUPPET: Are you holding onto that dog’s leash?
SARAHK: No. I’m just letting her roam around free in the vet’s office with all the other dogs. [Oh, look. I found my voice.]
MUPPET: We’ve been attacked by a dog before is the reason I’m asking. [She's actually pointing to herself and her matching muppet dog while she's saying this, and she's speaking in a very urgent "you understand" tone. And no, I don't understand. You're being a child in a room full of adults.].

This whole time, Rowdi has not even blinked in Muppet & Co.’s general direction, because she is still heavily enthralled with Mr. St. Bernard, who is obviously not a female, because females larger than Rowdi tend to make Rowdi bark. Finally, I just wave Muppet off and turn back around. But not before my mouth starts talking again. “No, I’m not responsible with my dog at all.” What responsible adult human takes their 60 lb. pit bull / German Shepherd / lab mutt to the vet with all the other sick dogs off-leash?

So I turn back and start talking to the vet’s assistant, and she whispers, “Don’t worry about it. It’s not you. It happens all the time in here.” And I’m actually kind of non-plussed, maybe because I’m so used to the muppet’s type, and I’ve received the same kind of treatment in the vet’s lobby before. I just say, “Oh, I’m sure it does,” because really, I’m sure it does, as Rowdi is not the only large dog in the world, and the Muppet is, well… a clone. So the Muppet gets very wide eyes when I turn around and ignore her in my Alpha-dog way and takes a very wide berth around Rowdi and me to walk to the other end of the counter, lest Rowdi jump up and snatch her twin muppet dog right out of her muppet arms.

And of course, I didn’t think to ask Mitzi the Muppet if her little twin was on a leash until I got out to the car. Because the little muppet was not on a leash. And good grief, woman, when you see two adults having a conversation, the very least you can do is say “excuse me” before interrupting to ask your inane questions. If she had bothered to look at my hands, she could have seen that I was holding Rowdi’s leash. She only asked the question in order to say, “Your big dog scares me. Make sure you hold on to her tight so she doesn’t eat my little Fluffy here.” If that is what you mean, then say, “Excuse me, ma’am. Your big dog scares me. Make sure you hold on to her tight so she doesn’t eat my little Fluffy here.”

Maybe next time, I’ll carry an extra leash in my left hand so that when a muppet goggles or asks the inane question, I can just casually flash the leash, all bundled up and not attached to the dog. Like, look at me, my dog is off-leash. Fear her!

criminal – UPDATED

It is criminal that my insurance company paid $158 and I paid another $20 to that joke of a gastroenterologist that I saw last week. That man couldn’t find a colon with two hands, a rectum, a roadmap, and a flashlight if he was staring right at it. And the entire appointment was him trying to bait me into a peeing contest over who knows more about the gluten-free diet.

And he is so sure that I don’t have celiac disease (my neuro, Dr. Wonderful, said he would be this way and not to let him talk me out of it, because he won’t even do an endoscopy unless he’s 99% sure a patient has the disease), yet he was so into his ego that he forgot to try to offer an alternative or even feign concern that I’ve had chronic diarrhea for three years. You don’t think this is my problem? Perhaps you should tell me what you think the problem is. Or, I don’t know, MAYBE STICK A SCOPE UP MY BUTT AND TAKE A LOOK AROUND, YOU DINGUS! He didn’t even think of that. Not that I would trust him to do such or ever go back to him. You’ll see why in a minute.

For one, there’s his inability to do simple math. No solid poo for three whole years. Zero. Seriously. Then, in the last six weeks since being gluten free, I’ve had solid poo 10-12 times. He says that is not the slightest bit improvement. I said, “Um… that’s not improvement?” He said, “No. I thought you said you had improved. I misunderstood you. So you’ve had improvement with the migraines and the seizures, but not the diarrhea.” And I said, “I’m sorry, but how is that not improvement?” “It’s just not. But then again, I’m the one who has twenty years’ experience treating patients, and I’m the one who went to medical school, and I’m board certified.” Yeah, well I was a CPA for seven years. Do you wanna whip out ten keys and see who can add the best? It won’t be you, Mr. Can’t-Do-Math. I’m not a doctor, but I’m also not a gigantic tool. I said, “Yeah, I get it, you’re the doctor. I’m not trying to get all up in your face here, but I don’t see how that’s not improvement. It’s not at all?” Because when I had my first solid poo, I practically did cartwheels. You have no idea. I wiped first, though. “Nope. But I don’t want to belay the point.” Big words from the little man. Suppose he meant belabor?

I don’t think I needed to relay to him in exact words that I’ve had it up to my cowlick with arrogant doctors who think they are gods. I think he got it by the way I didn’t just accept what he told me. I don’t fear doctors anymore, and I know that I am as smart as most of them (you know, without the Topamax). If I’d wanted the extra debt and the extra school, I could have been one, too, except that I’m human and have compassion, and I don’t know if they allow that in most doctorin’ skools. Unfortunately for me, this means I have a much harder time saying “yes doctor” and “no doctor” and “whatever you think, oh ye god,” so if I have any chance of being treated with kindness (and with most of them, the cynic in me is saying I don’t anyway, so maybe this is no big loss), it goes right out the door as soon as they start talking down to me and treating me like I’m five. Because you see, I’m thirty. And yeah, most days, I look about twenty-two, twenty-three, but really. I’m an adult, and even if you think I’m barely legal, you need to treat me with respect and dignity, because we’re both adults, you’re supposed to be a professional, and you all seem to be forgetting who is paying whom. I don’t pay you to treat me like dirt. And why are you asking my date of birth on my chart if you’re just going to judge me by the size-up anyway? Not that they ever read the charts. Dr. Arrogant, after he’d run a ton of tests for Lupus, actually was surprised when I told him I had seizures. He had never even looked at my paperwork.

So when this doctor, who had even Dr. Arrogant beat in the ego department, was doing my exam, he was still trying to quiz me. “So what do you know about the gluten-free diet?” I told him to be more specific with his questions. I said it very nicely, but seriously. I said, “What do you mean?” “Just that. What do you know about the gluten-free diet?” “Well, that’s a very broad subject. You’re going to need to be more specific with your questions.” I mean, seriously. What do you want me to say? Go off on the whole spiel about no wheat, no rye, no barley? Oats are actually probably okay except they end up being cross-contaminated because of where they’re grown, and some people are sensitive to them and some people aren’t? Of course, I’m suspecting I know more about it than he does, because when I told him that I’ve finally lost weight for the first time in three years, this man told me that it’s because I’m doing a no-carb diet. Ummm, I can have rice, potatoes, corn, beans, a ton of non-wheat flours, not to mention all that carby fruit and sugar I can have. It’s very far from a no-carb diet. But hey, he’s the one who’s board certified. Far be it from me to belay the point.

[UPDATE: I totally forgot this part. He changed the subject right after I told him to be more specific. He asked me if my neuro, Dr. Wonderful (whose real name is Dr. Mazo), had any scientific explanation for the diet helping my migraines and seizures. Actually, Dr. Wonderful and I had so much to talk about during my appointment, what with improvement in all of my symptoms (five or six things, including the solid poo, which Dr. Wonderful congratulated me on), plus med changes, my nerve conduction and muscle studies, my MRI results, and the pinched nerve in my back, that we hadn't gotten all sciency. But I was thinking about the book I'd read, and I'd picked up stuff on vitamin absorption from that. Oh yes. Earlier, Dr. Ego had asked where I had gotten all of my info on celiac disease. "Did you get all of your info from the internet?" "Well, I've read pretty much everything out there on the internet about celiac disease and the gluten-free diet. I also read the book by the dr. at Columbia in New York." He looked surprised and a little crestfallen. "Oh. So you read the book." He knew which book. "Yeah, I read the book." This was right before he told me which one of us was board certified. And right before I realized which one of us couldn't do simple math.

So here when he asked about the sciency stuff, I said, "No, he didn't say. But maybe it's because now I'm able to absorb my vitamins better."
Said Ego, "Your medicines?"
Said I, "My vitamins."
Said Ego, "Your medicines?"
Said I, "No. My vitamins."
Change of subject. They don't like it when they try to correct you and you correct them back.]

And then came the moment when I had enough, and I achieved the opposite ending of my appointment with Dr. Arrogant. See, with Dr. Arrogant, I stormed out crying and told him I couldn’t see him because he wasn’t taking me seriously. Well, I was sitting on the table, and when I told Dr. Ego that he would need to be more specific with his questions that I can now absorb vitamins a little better, he changed the subject.
“How much caffeine do you usually have?”
“I stopped drinking caffeine, because of the epilepsy–”
“Caffeine is in coffee, tea, cokes…” Oh no he didn’t just list the sources of caffeine for me. What. I live under a rock? I don’t suffer migraines? I’ve never heard of caffeine at the age of thirty? Tool.
“And I’m not a dumb person, and you don’t need to talk down to me.” I said it so much more calmly than my brain was thinking it.
“Ok. That’s it. Heather will be back in in a minute to tell you about your test.”
And he stormed out and slammed the door. Apparently doctors don’t like being told not to talk down to their patients.

The test he is sending me for is the genetic marker (DQ2/DQ8) test for celiac disease. He’s such a pinkytoe. It won’t do anything but rule out celiac disease. So if the test is negative, there’s something like <1% chance I have the disease, but if it’s positive, it proves nothing, and he said he would do an endoscopy. No, Dr. Ego, another doctor can do that, because you and I will never meet on purpose again. When he told me he would send me for this test, he told me, “It’s just a blood test.” I said, “That’s fine.” He was telling me like I was asking for crack or something. “Ooh, doctor, please give me that yummy endoscopy, it will make me feel sooo good. I’ve been waiting for that good invasive endoscopy. I wants it, doctor, I gots to have it. I need to feel that burn, doctor, please, doctor, please. And not just one. How ’bouts two? I’ll show you a little bit of thigh. Good cracky biopsy. I wants it.” Pig. And he said it in the course of our conversation four times. He would bring it up again, while I was trying to move on to the subject of my colon and the blood in the poo, he would go back to the blood test, and “it’s just a blood test,” and the fourth time he said it, I finally rolled my eyes at him, to his face. Like, I get it, ye god. Can we talk about my colon please, before I laugh in your face and skip out of here like the little girl you think I am? Prat.

And when I told him about the blood in the poo, he said, “Well, that could just be internal hemmorhoids.” Could be, yeah. But could not be, too, right? See above screaming where I mention sticking a scope up there. And could you be less concerned about my large intestine?

I wouldn’t be surprised if Dr. Ego (whose real name is Dr. Turse — don’t go see him; after working with colons for so long? he stinks, and I’m going to write the board that certified him a nice long letter about all that negligence I experienced) and Dr. Arrogant (real name Dr. Del Rosario) are golf buddies. They get together on Thursday afternoons to talk about all the patients they didn’t treat this week. Ratfaces.

FOX NEWS ALERT!!!

they just had a Fox News Alert that consumer spending is up 1% in December.

and see, before i heard the big chime, i hadn’t noticed the channel was on, because i’ve been sitting here reading my new Celiac book ever since Frank left for work, and it’s just background noise.

thanks for the update, Obvious Man! and thanks for reminding me to change the channel, guys!

maternal – UPDATED 121406

So we went to see the new Bond flick tonight (oh yes… best Bond since Sean Connery, maybe even tied for first), and all through the opening scene there were these kids in the back row practically screaming with laughter. Not at the movie, because this was not a particularly funny scene. At themselves. Because they were just. so. funny. I had already shushed these people, loudly, in the opening credits. Yet they’d continued on through the opening scene.

I let it slide. For the moment. And then there was the ultra-cool end of the opening scene that I almost missed due to the absolute gaggle coming from the back of the theater. This is why we don’t actually go to the theater anymore. Ok. One of about five reasons. But Casino Royale? Frank has been itching to see this one for weeks! And today being our “anniversary,” I got a nice lunch after church at Yellow Dog Cafe (oh, I must tell y’all about how nice the waiters have been about my celiac disease this weekend, and how curious they’ve been), and Frank got to go see Bond. I mean, I’ve been wanting to see it, but I knew it would be in theaters at least through Christmas, but Frank rilly rilly wanted to go this weekend. And these little pipsqueaks half my age were back there yelling about anything but Daniel Craig and scream-giggling about how great their nail polish is.

I decided to give them through the opening credits.

After the opening credits, there was a fun action sequence at a construction scene, and then suddenly some ridiculously loud laughter and yelling from the kids in the back, and that’s when I just shot out of my chair. Frank was about two ticks behind me, as I saw that he had started to rise when I was just past his knees but already into the aisle.

He couldn’t pass me, because I had my future-mom walk on. I’m not sure where the words came from, but they just flew out of my mouth. The kids and the Flemings were the only people in the Bond theater, so I also had my stern dont-mess-with-me voice on. “This is not your own personal playground. I am about to have you thrown out of here. I paid thirteen dollars to see this movie. Okay? Thank you.”

By the time I had gotten to “playground,” the kids were completely silent. The fifteen year-old boy closest to the aisle was looking half at me, half at the screen and had the “please don’t tell my mom, I promise I’ll shut up” look going on. The thirteenish girl had that defiant “oh no you di-ihn’t” look on her face and was looking at the screen, but she didn’t give me any lip either, because I’m thinking all three kids believed I meant business. And I think the ten year-old boy next to her would have done push-ups in the aisle if I’d told him to; poor thing.

When I turned to go back to my seat, I noticed Frank was standing behind me backing me up. He had followed me up the aisle and was ready to back me up if needed, but didn’t see the point since I was doing fine on my own. He told me later that he had been about to spring out of his seat and I had barely beat him to it and what I had said was about as good as what he would have said.

That lasted about twenty minutes before Britney started her gigglefest again. She had apparently forgotten my thirty year-old cranky-walk! Anyway, I totally put it on again and slapped the door on my way out of the theater. RARR!

Of course, when I came back, they must have thought I had simply stormed out angrily for some Jujubees, but I had sweetly told the manager that some “kids” in the Bond movie were “out of control,” and I’d already approached them myself…

So about five minutes later, the manager came in and talked to the kids. I don’t know what the manager said, but whatever it was, it worked for good.

When we left the movie after the end credits, the kids were waiting for their parents to pick them up. If it weren’t our “anniversary,” and I were in a less benevolent mood, I would have waited for their parents so I could tell them how the kids were behaving… of course, it’s a crapshoot whether the parents would have cared…

Now somewhere there’s a little snotnosed brat writing on her myspace page about some evil hag shushing her in the movie theater and then having the gall to even go tattle to the mean theater manager about her! What a horrible old shrew! That woman wouldn’t know fun if it hit her right between the eyes! Which is something I should have done with my popcorn! But my mommy didn’t give me money for popcorn!

UPDATE: spacemonkey made a comment over at Conservative Grapevine that it’s a shame that it’s illegal to shoot people that do that.

i realize it would unfortunately have been illegal to let the little twits know that i was packing heat and that they really should just shut up. ;-)

but TRULY, the most unfortunate thing of all is that i did not think to switch guns for the occasion. i was carrying my .38 special snubby, and i should instead have accessorized with my beaUUUUtiful Walther P99 in honor of Bond. James Bond.

and for those of you visiting for the first time, welcome. you might like to read the story of how i got that P99. it almost got me arrested at the airport.

no really, he said it…

i was outside with Rowdi and heard a neighbor out with some service guy who’s fixing something on the house or whatever. and the service guy, who is apparently looking for something and can’t find it, said this:

I feel like I’m looking for the ark of the covenant here… you know, on Mount Ararat.

it’s good that it took me a minute to process what he said, or i might have laughed out loud at him.

more friendly neighbors

It’s like our neighborhood is in a competition for Least Friendly Neighborhood, except they forgot to tell us about it.

Just now, Frank took Rowdi down the street to pee, and an old man (it sounds like he was older than our friendly neighbor Bill, so I’m guessing 70s) turned his car around to follow Frank, then yelled out his car window that “in this neighborhood, we pick up after our dogs when they [s-word].” Frank was confused and said, “Wha?” He repeated himself, and Frank said, “Well, I always do pick up after her.” Crotchety Old Pinkytoeface said, “Well, she [s-word] back there just now, and you didn’t pick it up.” Frank said, “Um, no, she only peed.”

And the guy turned his car around and drove off in the opposite direction. No apology, no sad goodbyes, nothing. I’m guessing this is the same old man who will stare harshly (if one can stare harshly) at me when I’m with a pooing Rowdi, and won’t stop staring until I have picked up every last ounce of poo off the ground. Seriously, this man near the end of the street will actually walk out of his house, stare at my dog and me, and then walk back inside after I pick up the poo. But see, I’m not as nice as Frank. I stare back. Harshly. This Crotchety Old Pinkytoeface is so lucky I wasn’t with Frank when this happened. Frank is nicer and slower to react to people being ugly, and I’m all over the situation immediately (he’s a better Christian than I am). To the point that when we’re driving together and someone is a complete jerk on the road, he’ll say, “Man, I should have honked at that guy but I didn’t think about it until it was too late,” and I’ve already played through what I would have done, which is honk and yell at the nitwit at the perfect moment so he has no question as to whether I noticed him being a rotten buttface.
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we just had one of the dumbest arguments ever over one of the dumbest things ever

Did you know there are actually stupid people out there who are sooooooo geeky and full of themselves that they will only refer to science fiction as either “SF” or “Science Fiction”? “Sci-Fi” is so lame. If you say “Sci-Fi” like um, most of the free world, you’re, like, not geeky enough for their geek club. Because you don’t “sound intelligent” enough to be in the conversation. I bet they all do that completely r3t@rd3d l33t sp3@k thing too. Yeah, I probably did that all wrong, because I’m not a complete loser. I wonder if these people will even watch the SciFi Channel. “No, we boycott, because there are 4 extra letters in the name. They either change the name, or we’ll never ever see Bttlstr Gllctca! Ever! We mean it!”

It’s like those people who are so full of themselves that they can’t call a moving picture a “movie”, they simply must call it a “film” merely because it is shot on film and for no other reason than to inform you that they are in the know. What ever will these l33tists do if they start filming straight to DVD-RAM (just for example’s sake, people, don’t start sending me l33t-g33k mail). “Why, Jeeves, you must drive me down to the theatre today” — the “re” is in there because these “film” types probably pronounce it theee-uh-truh — “so I can see the new ‘dram’ that was ‘dramed’ so beautifully over the misty mountains of Nyew Zealand. I heard from my dear friend Ms. Jolie – we brunched in Namibia once, you know – that the art direction is fabulous. Though I really do prefer the old medium. It rolled off the tongue better. Oh Jeeves. Sigh. Sigh.”

For the record. Sci-Fi sounds way cooler than SF, and movie sounds way less arrogant than film. Now you know.

it’s your chance, take it

No, this is not an inspirational post. This is, shockingly, a complaint. Fox News is covering the Israel / Hezbollah-Lebanon (sp?) bit, and I don’t know what the cameraman is thinking. The air raid sirens go off in Haifa (been there), and he zooms in on a building that hasn’t been hit instead of panning out to the place from which a potential attack from Lebanon will be coming. Then later, during another potential attack on Israel (many of Hezzie’s rockets are falling into the sea), the cameraman is zooming in on nothing in the sea. And a tree leaf.

Kellogg’s obviously can’t spell

Having been in many spelling bees in my day (and having won the school bee twice and advanced to regionals once), the Kellogg’s Frosted Mini Wheats commercial with the spelling bee girl drives me crazy.

She gets up to the mic and is given the word “aardvark”. She starts spelling. “A-R…” Her guardian mini-wheat sits on the microphone and tells her to concentrate, because she’s smarter than that, or some such dumb visual. So she starts over. “A- A – R – D – V – A – R – K.”

In the real world of spelling bees, you would hear, “Eeeeeeeennnh.” That’s the buzzer. No wait, it was a ding. You’d hear, “Ding!” If you start your spelling over, you are not allowed to change your spelling. If you change your spelling, you’re out. Period. If you say it wrong the first time, you’re out. If you say it right the first time and wrong the second time, you’re out. The official rule is:

10. Having started to spell a word, a speller may stop and start over, retracing the spelling from the beginning. In retracing, however, there can be no change of letters or their sequence from those first pronounced. If letters or their sequence is changed in the respelling, the speller will be eliminated.

In the Kellogg’s spelling bee, though, the speller is commended for being correct, applauded, and assumably passed to the next round.

And now you know that the most mundane things drive me nuts. Play by the rules, Mini-Wheat!

that was pointless

Fox had the dumbest segment on earlier. The Friends actually interviewed a physics professor and asked him about each of Superman’s powers, and whether they’re realistically possible. The answers to all of the above were basically “No”. And this guy did a whole show for the NG channel about “The Science of Superman”.

Just this morning, I accidentally unleashed my heat vision on Rowdi. Branded an “S” right on her butt. So she knows who’s boss. Tonight I just might do the dishes on super-speed.

Slow news day, I guess.

re: salt shakers

who is the genius that invented the bottom-loading salt shaker? am i the only one who has trouble maneuvering the filling of the bottom-loading salt shaker? turn salt shaker upside down. pour in salt. realize you’re spilling salt all over the counter. check your pouring technique. no, the spout is firmly ensconced in the hole in the bottom of the salt shaker. so where is all that salt coming from? oh yeah. it’s coming out the top.

i hate it when they call terrorists “masterminds”

Yeah, flying planes into buildings takes some planning. You can call that one guy a mastermind.

But really. Zarqawi? How masterful is your mind if your main MO is beheading people? Does that take a ton of planning? Major IQs? How many kids know how to take the heads off their Barbie dolls?

It’s something you learn in kindergarten. Zarqawi is not a mastermind.

P.S. I’m glad he’s dead. Yay!

i keep hearing

that Florida is one of the most likely places to be hit by a hurricane this year.

thanks, check back with me when you have something real to say. maybe Florida sticking out like a … um … sore thumb has something to do with it.

but i’m glad you folks keep us updated on the news.

ok we get it

yesterday when i was at the imaging lab waiting to be called for my battery of tests, the TV in the waiting area was tuned in to CNN. i was reading some family magazine that was giving me tips on fun stuff to do with my kids (great reading selection, i’ll tell ya).

so CNN had a story on about a smudge on top of Mount Ararat possibly being Noah’s Ark. didn’t everyone do this story like 20 years ago? and 10 years ago? anyway, that’s when the sighs and grunts started. this man sitting in front of me (late 50s?) started sighing or grunting at every pause in the story. i knew he had something to say.

yep, he did. finally, he started preaching to other 4 of us in there. talking to the air, really, because no one was listening. first he talked about the number of species we have today that weren’t on the Ark (did i miss the detailed list in the Bible?). a few minutes later, when still no one was listening, he went on for about thirty seconds about the amount of rain it would have taken to cover the whole earth in 40 days, and i mean, he was mad; it was like CNN ran over his puppy and then laughed about. he got no response.

the whole time, before he was even talking, when he was just sighing, i wanted to stand up, walk around to face him, and say, “OK, we get it. you don’t believe in the story of the flood. but really, you’re not converting anyone, you’re just making yourself look like a giant pinkytoe.”

but i didn’t want to be rude.

on feeding me bull

i called to pay off an account today like a good credit person does. and Frank has good credit, because he’s never been divorced, so his ex-wife isn’t ruining his credit by paying his car payment late every single month for the last 18 months (dear Psycho, please pay your bills, you rotten scumbag). but i digress. so we don’t have joint credit because mine stinks, and i’m calling to pay off his balance, because a huge national bank couldn’t possibly have online payment access for their credit lines. anyway, i digress again.

so i call the automated system and try to pay it off. and the thing says the maximum i can pay is $800 dollars (for example purposes, we’re going to say the balance is $1000). so i’m thinking that’s stupid, because it won’t let me pay off the full balance. mind you, i’m waaaaay before the due date, plus i’ve already made a payment this month, and i’m about a month and a half before the 0% interest wears off. so i really want this thing paid off so we don’t get hit with interest charges in 6 weeks.

so i call the number again just to ask for a current balance so i can mail the difference in like a good 20th-century bill-payer. oh, and wow. do ya think people would mail more stuff if the price of stamps wasn’t 39 cents? holy cow, am i old? i remember 22 cent stamps. ok, back to stupid banks. well, i can’t get the automated system to give me a balance. they send you to an actual person to get the balance, because they must need to sell you something while they’ve got you on the phone.

now i already know i’m not gonna get what i want, because my name isn’t on the account. i should have just said my name was Frank. anyway, so the guy asks me my name. Shania Twain. oh wait. SarahK. he pauses for a minute and then says, ok, how can i help you. and i’m like SCORE! he’s gonna let me get the info i want, he must know i’m pretty by my voice! and i tell him. ok, i wanna pay off the account, and i just called and made a payment, and the system said the max i could pay was $800. what i want to know is why can’t i pay off the whole balance, and i want to get the whole balance information so i can send in the rest.

ok, you know what bull this kid expects me to buy? “yeah, the automated system only lets you pay off 80% of the balance. you have to call us and get a customer service rep to pay the whole thing off, you know, because if you want to pay off the whole thing, we don’t want you to end up leaving a few cents on the balance accidentally.” that is the biggest crock of bull i’ve ever heard. REALLY? GET A SYSTEM THAT KNOWS BASIC MATH! they want you to assume that you’ve made some payments and forgotten to record them, because you’re probably calling to pay off the balance a week before your 0% expires, and hey, you won’t find out until your next statement that lookie! you get $800 in interest tacked on because you failed to pay off the entire balance. I AM NOT AN IDIOT. come on, kid, please come up with a better story. so my answer to him is, of course, “i see,” which is my standard “what a load of crap” answer when i know i’m being fed some. note to customer service reps: if you feed someone bull and get “i see” in response, they didn’t buy it, and now they hate you for being a liar. oh wait. love the sinner, hate the sin. ok, they hate the lie you told and want to kick it in the nads.

so i say, well what do i need to pay to pay off the whole thing. and i know the answer, but i want the punk kid to give it to me so i won’t wish his lying nads to be punched. i even walk him through it. “well, i’m looking at my statement, and my last statement balance is $1100, and i already paid $100 last week, and just now, i paid $800. so the extra that you need to add to that payment is $200. right?”

so now liar boy starts telling me (mind you, he’s let me get this far) that he can’t say. and i say, “well, i’m looking at the statement, and i know what i’ve paid, so my balance should be $200. uhhh… am i even in the area?”

“well, yeah, you’re in the area.”

so i re-consult Quicken and see that i was off by $10. “oh. is it $210?”

and now he’s really squirming. “iiiiii can’t play this game.” well, the game ended when you started lying to me, Bill (that’s his name now, because that’s the same name i gave to my neighbor that i don’t like).

and i said, “oh. well can you at least tell my husband the exact amount i need to mail in?” and i know what the amount is, but now i’m annoyed, so i want him to have to tell someone.

“yes, i can tell your husband.”

“fine, i’ll just have him call you, because this is insane.”

“ok.”

“thanks. goodbye.”

brat. don’t let me ask any questions if you’re not going to answer them. as soon as i told you my name, and you saw it wasn’t on the account, you should have said, “i’m sorry, ma’am, i can only discuss this with the person on the account. please have him call.” don’t lead me on and feed me bull just so you can later say that you can’t give me any information.

moron.