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I’m Not Dead Yet

So, I went to see Dr. Jimmy, the other day, and he seems to think it is unlikely that I have a blood clot, despite the overwhelming evidence on the internet to the contrary.  Because I love Dr. Jimmy (in a completely Hippocratic way, of course), I feel somewhat relieved.  To be honest, I almost did not go to see Dr. Jimmy because my leg felt a lot better on the day of my appointment, but we haven’t seen each other in awhile, so I did not want to hurt his feelings by canceling my appointment.

Plus, I wasn’t sure if they had one of those 24-hour cancellation policies requiring me to pay anyway, so I might as well go and try to get my co-pay’s worth.

Dr. Jimmy, like me, has a Dorfenbergerthalumus that overheats when he is late.  This is a very rare trait in doctors, as many of you will attest, I am sure.  My appointment was at 11:30.  At 11:40, the nurse called me back to the exam room, and asked me a few questions.  After taking my blood pressure, which is one of the few medical tests I always ace, she walked out, and said that Dr. Jimmy would be in soon.  About 60 seconds later, I heard my chart being taken out of its pocket on the front of the door, a quick knock, and Dr. Jimmy strode in.

“That was fast!” I commented.

“No, it wasn’t,” he frowned.  “What time was your appointment?”

“11:30,” I said.

He looked at his watch, and shook his head, frowning.  “I hate running late.  But I’ve had a couple of people this morning who had more than one issue.  I don’t mind if they need to talk about multiple problems, but I wish they would tell the office when they make the appointment, so we can plan enough time for them.”

I tsk-tsked, completely sympathetic, despite the fact that, the day before, I had considered doing the same exact thing when my throat morphed into a volcano.  “I’ll just have to ask Dr. Jimmy about that, too,” I thought, as I swallowed a Zyrtec-D, which calmed the volcano, making my near Appointment Faux-Pas wholly unnecessary.  I didn’t have enough time between the throat scare (is it strep?  Oh, my God, if I don’t get it diagnosed in time, I’m going to die of Scarlet Fever.  Or, at least be blinded like Mary in Little House on the Prairie.  I am not nice like Mary.  Blindness would definitely not improve my temperament…) and my appointment to imagine any other new ailments, so, mercifully, I only had one enigma for him to solve.

Of course, he could not solve it.  Because there is probably nothing wrong.  At least nothing life-threatening.  But it helps to have him say, “No, I don’t think you’re going to die from a pulmonary embolism.”  It’s definitely worth the $15.

Even if he does smile a bit and shake his head.

Wonderbutt waiting in the chair for another chance to give me a blood clot. He is looking away because he is mad at me for walking past the chair instead of settling in and folding myself like a pretzel so he can get comfortable.

Wonderbutt – still waiting, completely forlorn that I have not joined him in the chair for our nightly ritual.  Don’t worry – I sat with him after that.  Didn’t want the poor guy to die of a broken heart.  Though that would be fitting revenge for giving me a blood clot.

This is the First Post Ever that Combines These Topics

At a loss for a blog topic (a problem that has been occurring with alarming frequency), I was cruising CNN’s webpage for a headline that might spark an idea.

Why I orgasmed in an MRI scanner” caught my eye.

First of all, kudos to Kayt Sukel, the author of this post, for an eye-catching title.  Got my attention.

Secondly, she deserves some gratitude from all of us for contributing to the scientific research into human sexuality.

Thirdly, hasn’t everyone always said that you are not allowed to move during an M.R.I.?

I would like to know how she accomplished that little trick.

Apparently, Ms. Sukel was participating in a study on sexuality, which is a very noble cause, and I applaud her devotion to science.

I am not going to use this opportunity to make fun of her because I think there are plenty of other people who will take up that line.

I will use this opportunity to make fun of me.

Recently, I completed an online assessment which stated that I am a Pioneer.  Considering my recent post about Little House on the Prairie, I find this slightly ironic.

However, the assessment results, in combination with my assessment of Ms. Sukel’s article, have made me wonder just how willing I am to try new adventures.

How far would I go to be “the first?”

It seems like it’s getting more and more difficult lately to accomplish things that no one else already has.  Ms. Sukel was apparently one of many to orgasm in an MRI scanner, so that’s out.  I am, however, jealous of her achievement of being the first person to write about the experience (at least, I assume she is).

Although I am pretty certain that I would not have pursued that idea even if I had been the first to come up with it.

I believe that I am the first to blog about a bulldog named Wonderbutt, member of the family Firepants, and that gives me no small amount of pride.  But, I still feel that there are more frontiers I must explore, and both Ms. Sukel and my incredibly accurate online assessment have inspired me to fulfill my Pioneer destiny.

For the sake of my family, my adventures cannot include: revelations of sexual experiences, death-defying stunts, or anything illegal in the United States.

As 99.9% of my brainstorming list falls into the above categories, I am having trouble determining my next course of action.

Also, I probably cannot: travel too far from home, end up in the Witness Protection Program, or participate in any experimental drug trials.
Now that I have crossed out virtually everything on my list, there is only one possibility.

I must become the first female President of the United States.

Yeah, I didn’t know that’s where I was going either.

Why Do I Think a Man Came Up with this Idea?

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/theeerin/3924624031/”>TheeErin</a&gt; via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a&gt; <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/”>cc</a&gt;

Little House on the Subdivided Plot

The only television show that rivaled my obsession for Nancy Drew when I was growing up was Little House on the Prairie.  I wanted to BE spunky little Laura – although my personality, through and through, was goody two shoes Mary.

Even more appealing to me than the television series, though, was the book series.  One thing that now amazes me as an adult was the ability of Laura Ingalls Wilder to not only remember her childhood in such detail, but to have the foresight that these stories might be interesting to other people.  Many of the real-life tales in the books must have seemed like mundane every-day experiences for her generation.  But now, we can’t believe that people would save up for glass window panes or be excited about oranges and a tin cup in their Christmas stockings.  And the dangers of Indians and wild wolves that surround your house are absolutely foreign to those of us who grew up in Soccer Mom Suburbia.

I figure my life, too, is going to seem amazing to future generations.  I mean, look at how much has changed since the 60’s.

For example, recently the battery on my car key died.  Not my car – the key.  Now, just think how odd that sentence would have sounded back in the day.  Not the Prairie Days.    The Scary, Hairy Days of the Hippies.  About when I was born.

Anyway, fortunately my car still has an actual lock into which I can stick the key, so I have been using that.  Dimples, however, keeps forgetting that I cannot unlock the car from a mile away.  So, she hits the car running 20 mph, yanks the door, and falls flat on her butt when it doesn’t open.  (She and Wonderbutt both seem to have problems with doors.)

Yesterday, she complained, “I’m tired of having to wait for you to unlock the door,” as I turned my key right and opened all of the locks.

I raised my eyebrows (at least it felt like that was what I did), and smirked.  “Kid, how would you like to wait while I opened the door with my key, sat my butt down in the driver’s seat, settled my purse on the seat, forgot you were there, put my seatbelt on, closed my door, started the car, heard you tapping on the window, remembered you were there, took my seatbelt off, leaned over behind the passenger seat, and reached with the tips of my fingers to pull up a little thingamabob on your door to unlock it?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“That’s right, Missy.  That’s how things used to be when I was a kid.”

“Was that back when Aunt Crash opened her door while your mom was driving and almost fell out of the car?”

“Yep.  Those were hard, scary times.  No child safety locks, no car seats, and no seatbelt laws.  It’s amazing we survived.”

Okay, so it wasn’t wolves and Indians.  But some day it might seem interesting.

My Covered Wagon with a Flat Tire - This Won't Be a Problem When Cars Fly

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