The Turd In The Toilet

We've been summoned by Curly...the blond giant haired former correctional officer.

Curly:  "Follow me" she says in  that stern former correctional officer voice that leaves us no option.

We dutifully get in line behind her as she heads to the bathroom...four ducks in a row led by Curly, who, I notice bounces when she walks.  The Princess, Di, and me.

The bathroom's first four stalls are vacant and Curly pushes the door on the big handicapped stall at the end of the room to make sure nobody's in there either.

Curly:  "How does this happen?" proffering her arm in the "Universal Be My Guest Gesture" directing our attention to the third stall.

Curly:  "How does this happen?  And why is there no paper?"

Immediately sensing the need for photographic evidence I rush back to the office and grab my phone. They're still pondering the poop when I get back a few seconds later.

The Princess:  "Maybe the paper got sucked down but the rest didn't."

Di just shakes her head.

We head back to our office talking poop.

The Princess:  "Maybe it was a clean poop that didn't need paper."

Me:  "But how would you know that unless you used paper?"

The Princess:  No words but with the "Oh Yeah" look on her face as she laughs.

Me:  "If there'd been paper, wouldn't there have been little floater pieces of paper that didn't go down?"

Curly:  "Why would you just leave it?"

The Princess:  "You always look to make sure everything goes down.  I mean if I ever pooped at work...which I don't."

The Princess and I are die hard prim and proper Sneak-a-Poopers who resort to pooping in the public bathroom under only the most dire of circumstances. Curly, on the other hand, doesn't care and will fart out loud and giggle about it in the bathroom...she'll even giggle when other people fart in the bathroom. Much to the shame of the Sneak-a-Pooper in the neighboring stall who is stuck hiding in a claustrophobic cubicle until Curly leaves the bathroom and she can be assured of her Sneak-a-Pooper anonymity.

Di, who is so nice and sweet, went back to her desk.  I don't know what shocked her more, the turd in the toilet or our hysterical reaction to it.  In fact she's soooo nice she probably doesn't ever poop in real life at home, let alone in a public restroom.

We spent the rest of the day off and on discussing the turd in the toilet.  Why? Because nobody would flush it. It sat in there for hours.  Everybody who went in the bathroom studiously avoided the stall.  I think everybody was afraid if they tried to do the right thing and flush it away, the toilet might overflow and then everyone would think they were the one who put it there in the first place. Which is what everyone WOULD think.  I know that's why I didn't flush it.

Being low paid government employees, we try to find humor in our mundane jobs.  Sometimes it's at the expense of others...sometimes it's at our own expense. And sometimes it's just the turd in the toilet...it's the stoopidist thing.

Here's Wilson!!!

Wilson

Is there anything cuter than a kitten?  Or a puppy?  Or pretty much any baby animal for that matter?  I don't think so.  Wilson, in all his cuteness, is the newest addition to our menagerie.

The Husband, who tries to tell people he hates all these stinking animals, is completely smitten.  He thinks it's cute when Wilson tries to drink out of a glass. The thing is this is really weird for him.  The Husband I mean, not Wilson. Water's water to Wilson.  Doesn't matter if it's in a glass on the counter or in his bowl on the floor.  It's for drinking.  No big deal to him.  The Husband though, is another matter.

We went to Maui once on a vacation years ago.  Two of The Husband's sisters lived there and one of them moved in with the other one so we could stay at her house and have the place to ourselves.  She left her dog there to keep us company.  A really sweet & big old lug of a dog.

So one night we're watching TV and eating bowls of ice cream and the dog is sitting there right in front of me staring at my bowl of ice cream.  Being the big sap for sad brown eyes that I am, I let the dog lick the last of my ice cream out of the bowl.  The following conversation ensued....

The Husband:  "Don't let him lick that bowl."

Me:  "What difference does it make?  It's gonna be washed with hot soapy water."

The Husband (In the most disgusted voice imaginable...):  "Well if it doesn't matter, why don't I just shit in the bowl?"  

Me:  Unable to respond due to onset of hysterical laughter.

The Husband:  "Well, what difference does it make?  You said it didn't matter."

Me:  Hysterical laughter ensues...

The Husband:  Beginning to catch the hysterical laughter bug..."Well you said it didn't matter."

So it's not like I don't have reason to be a little surprised that he wouldn't mind Wilson drinking out of a glass.  (We actually laughed about the bowl licking/shitting thing all night when it happened.)

We've become those old people who dote on their pets. I blame this on our children for failing to reproduce and give us grandchildren.

It's the stoopidist thing...

P.S. The Adventures Of Wilson...to be continued.

The Digital Path Experience (A Less Than Pleasurable Excursion…)

Friday, February 13, 2015

When I switched to Digital Path from Hughes Net a few months ago I was ecstatic.  Finally I could stream video!  This probably doesn’t seem like a big deal for some people but with the previous company, if I was able to have enough speed to download at all, watching anything anytime other than the wee hours of morning would cause me to violate some law of Broadband use resulting in pretty much complete loss of internet access. 

Sadly I found this out the hard way.  Being old and technologically challenged, I had no idea that streaming episodes of Sons of Anarchy would infringe on my ability to check out eBay.  Who knew???  I called Hughes Tech Support and was rewarded with this delightful bit of info.  Thus began my search for a new ISP. (Internet Service Provider for oldsters like me who may be dumbfounded by techno-geek lingo.).

Living in a remote area with limited choices, i.e., no cable, DSL, or cell service, my options are few and far between.  Pickings are slim in this neck of the woods.  When Digital Path brought service to our area my neighbors were first to sign up.  I waited to see how they liked it before I took the plunge.

 

It seemed too good to be true…less money, faster speeds, and no “limited usage”…how could I not?  So I did…and life was good.  Until this week.

There was a storm last week that I hope was the cause of the outages that have been occurring.  Last weekend, was the first outage.  I called Neighbor Linda, who knows all, to see if her service was working and it wasn’t.  Neighbor Linda called to report the outage and by Monday all was good again.

 

Thursday night…down again.  The Husband, who acts like it’s my fault, wanted me to call Neighbor Linda, who knows all, to see if hers was down too.  Instead of bothering her, I did the usual rebooting, unplugging, powering down, up, down up, restarting.  This is the kind of shit they have you do every time I’ve called for technical assistance with the previous companies and I wanted to be prepared.  All for naught.  I gave up and figured it would be working by morning.

Wrongo bongo. 

I waited until 7:30 to call Neighbor Linda, who knows all, and I was actually relieved to hear that hers was down too.  Strength in numbers.  That probably meant that everyone in our area was out.  Neighbor Linda, who knows all, said she was going to call Digital Path mumbling something it being hard.  Since we were about to end the call I have to admit I stopped paying attention.  I blame my short attention span on old age and menopause.  I blame everything these days on old age and menopause, unless I can blame The Husband.  I mean, who wouldn’t?  Point being, I probably should have stayed tuned in to the conversation a little bit longer.

 

Having been given the phone number by Neighbor Linda, who knows all, I took the plunge and called Digital Path…For Residential Service, press #1, for Business Service, press #2, yadda yadda…I pressed the number for Technical Support at approximately 8:20 a.m. PST.

I got a recorded female voice who informed me that I was caller “Number 13”, asking me to stay on the line and thanking me for my patience.  Okay, I get it, businesses need to have auto attendants, and at least she didn’t sound totally disgusted like the gal on the car GPS who gets annoyed when I go the wrong way and says “Re-cal-cu-la-ting” making sure to enunciate every syllable.  She really does sound completely disgusted…and I don’t know why but I take it personally.

Almost immediately The Voice tells me I’m “Number 12”.  Great, I think…this should go pretty quickly.

Wrongo bongo yet again…. 

It seemed like I was “Number 11” forever.  Long enough that, like my mother whom I’ve apparently become, I start worrying about shit that MIGHT happen.  I’m supposed to meet my SIL and Scari at 1:00 for lunch.  What if I’m still on hold?  If I hang up, I’ll have to start all over again.

 

The whole time I’m thinking about all this I’ve been holding the cordless phone to my ear.  Since I hate it when people you talk to on the phone “put you on speaker”, I’ve never used the “speaker” feature.  Finally after all these years I have an actual need for the “speaker” feature.  Thank goodness the phone had a picture of a speaker that was obvious even to someone like me.  I have to force myself to be brave and push it because I don’t know if you can go from “speaker” to “non-speaker” without affecting the call.  It works!

 

I have to go to the bathroom.  Should I leave it on “speaker”?  What if they answer while I’m on the toilet?  Should I risk it?  Should I take it off “speaker” so they don’t hear what I’m doing on the off chance they answer while I’m on the toilet?  This is the kind of shit I worry about.  I don’t know why.

Thankfully I make it through bathroom duty without incident.  Face gets washed, hair combed, jammies off, clothes on.  Still on hold.

I have the History Channel on and there’s a two hour documentary about Caligula.  Caligula, as it turns out, was not a very nice guy.  The show is winding down and by 9:46 I’m “Number 3”!  Okay, so it can’t be much longer can it?

I notice that the “speaker” on the phone keeps fading in and out.  What if the battery on the cordless phone goes dead?  Can I put it in the cradle while it’s still on?  I don’t know and I’m afraid if I try, I’ll disconnect the call.  My plan is if the phone dies I’ll run to the bedroom and pick up the un-cordless phone.  But I don’t know if this plan will work.  You never know about this shit until it happens.  So I wait, silently praying the phone doesn’t die.

From 9:55 to 10:26 I’m “Number 2”.  Yes, I’m poop.  How immature is that?  Every time someone says “Number 2” I automatically think poop.  

Some immaturities I will never outgrow.  “Number 1” you’re a winner, “Number 2” you’re poop.  I never automatically think pee when someone says “Number 1”.  Why is that?  I am pleased to admit that as I've matured, so has my thinking and titling of bathroom duties.  If it happens to come up in conversation and I have the opportunity to embarrass someone, specifically The Princess, the conversation goes something like this.

The Princess:  “I have to run to the bathroom”.

Me:  “Do you have to go Big Potty”?

The Princess:  “No”.

 

Which could be a lie because even if she did, she wouldn’t want to admit it in front of a group of people.  I can’t blame her.  I wouldn't admit it either.  So I've matured from “Number 2” to “Big Potty”.  Yes, I've made giant strides on the maturity highway.

Finally at 10:26 I hear a voice…

Voice:  “Thank you for calling Digital Path, how can I help you?”

Me:   “My Internet isn’t working.”

After getting my account info and all out of the way we continue.

Voice:  “Okay, there should be a little black box about the size of a cell phone with a green or blue light on it.”

Me:  “Yeah, it has a green light.”

Voice:  “There’s two cords that go in and I want you to disconnect the one that says POE for five seconds”.

Me:  “Okay” as I crawl under the desk with the phone to my ear, lest we get disconnected.

I try to disconnect the cord but can't quite get it because the box keeps slipping away.  I finally manage to get it unplugged.  After waiting the required five seconds, I try to plug it back in but I can't push the cord in because the box keeps slipping away.  I set the cordless phone down so I can use both hands and when I do, I accidentally hit the disconnect button. 

I can't fucking believe it.  Two fucking hours I’ve managed to keep from accidentally disconnecting that fucking phone and now at the critical juncture of the call I manage to fuck it up.  Needless to say, the air was turned a very, very, deep cerulean. 

I climb out from under the desk and sit in the chair staring at the phone.  Surely, they'll call back, won't they?  Why does this shit happen to me?  So there I sit feeling sorry for myself  staring dumbly at the phone when a miracle occurs.  The phone rings…

Me:  “Please tell me you’re Digital Path calling me back” I say instead of the usual “hello”.

Voice:  “Domino’s Pizza”. 

We both laugh.  His name is Gary.  Gary is my hero.

Gary has managed to diffuse my rage, not only at myself for stoopidly disconnecting the phone when I needed it most, but at his company for making me wait on hold for two fucking hours!  With just a little bit of courtesy and a sense of humor, Gary has made life good again…it’s the stoopidist thing.

Effin' Dork

So, I'm reading The Bloggess which if you don't read it, you should.  And she, The Bloggess herself, is talking about the old song "I'd Really Love To See You Tonight".  

She thinks the lyrics are “I’m not talking ’bout the weather. And I don’t want to change your mind.  But there’s a warm wind blowing the stars around.  And I’d really love to see you tonight.”

Her husband, Victor, corrects her and gives her the correct lyrics...“I’m not talking ’bout moving in.  And I don’t want to change your life.”  

The worst part of reading this though is for years I've been singing "I'm not talking about millennium, and I don't want to change your mind."  

Is there ever a going to be a song that I don't, years later, find out I've been singing wrong?  I'm such a fucking dork I can't believe it.

It's the stoopidist thing....

The IMAX Adventure

About a week or so ago, GSD (The Good Step Daughter) asked if I'd come up to her place and spend the night so she and her husband could go to a Zack Brown concert.  Being the fabulously wonderful step mother that I am, I said sure.  Okay, I'm not always wonderful...but I mean to be...it just doesn't always work out that way.

GSD's house is about a hundred miles from me so it takes a little while to drive.  I take the truck because it has satellite radio.  Because satellite radio has good reception and it has a bunch of oldies stations and those are the only songs I know the lyrics to.  At least in my mind I know the lyrics.  As it turns out, the "real" lyrics are way different from what I'm actually singing. It was only recently I found out that Van Halen didn't sing Cannon Ball...it's Panama.  All these years I've been singing Cannon Ball.  Every time you find out something like that you wonder how many times you sang it wrong in front of someone else.  Fortunately for me, unless I'm alone in my car, I pretty much sing under my breath when anyone else is around.  Unlike my friend, Smelly, who at any given moment will burst into song...loudly...and out of tune...and she doesn't care.  Sadly, I can only admire that kind of self confidence knowing full well that I'll never in a million years be able to do anything like that.

It just occurred to me that maybe Smelly doesn't really know how she sounds.  Do you think she thinks she sounds good?  Or at least not terrible?  What if she's completely tone deaf and thinks she's singing in tune? I hope that's not the case.  And if it is, I hope she never in a million years reads this and discovers the truth.  I'd really miss those random bursts of song...they're really entertaining.

The drive is pretty uneventful.  Otis Redding keeps me company along with Dusty Springfield and Smokey Robinson.  About half way there I switch to classic rock and sing along with the likes of Led Zepplin, The Doors, Rolling Stones, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and Aerosmith.  I'm rockin' out...

Oddly, the booberdoobers are at a minimum and I only experience a brief moment of road rage when a little SUV pulling a travel trailer clogs up a two lane section of road.  The fucker refuses to use the turn outs so the hundred  cars piled up behind him can go the speed limit and not TWENTY MILES BELOW like he's forcing us to do.  And yes, I'm exaggerating...there weren't a hundred cars backed up...but it seemed like it.  I briefly wonder if he can see me in his rear view mirror and read my lips.  Nah, I decide, he probably just thinks I'm singing along with the radio. Unless of course, he can see my face has gone beet red with rage and there really is smoke coming out of my ears.  After screaming at him and calling him every horrible name I can think of he finally pulls over.  "About time mother fucker" I shout...to myself... as I waive politely when I drive by. I'm such a fucking hypocrite.  Why can't I just flip him off like I really want to do?  At this point in my life, I'm probably never going to grow a set of balls.

After fuckhead lets us by, the drive's pretty much smooth sailin'.

When I finally get there, GSD & her husband are already gone and the three boys are home alone. You'd think that three boys being home alone would be chaotic, wouldn't you?  Not with these three.  Talk about rule followin' little tykes. These guys go out of their way to follow "the rules".  You can't even get them to do anything wrong.  Believe me, I've tried.  Plus, they're polite.

It's kinda refreshing and frustrating at the same time.  I don't know how they did it. GSD was never a big "rule follower" when she was younger but maybe her husband was.  That must be where they get it.  They should write a book about how to raise polite, well behaved children.  It would probably be a waste of time though because the parents with bratty fuckin' rugrats wouldn't take the time to read it. Why?  Because, parents with bratty children never recognize said bratty-ness in their kids.  That's the problem.  They think their kids are fabulous little specimens of humanity and make every excuse imaginable for misbehavior.  Those parents should have their asses kicked...regularly...preferably by someone with more balls than me of course.

C, the oldest boy, actually asked me if I wanted him to get my bag out of the car.  I almost fainted.

M, the middle child, is now taller than I am.  T, the baby, showed me his two silver teeth, acquired on a recent trip to the dentist.  He's now on a sugar restricted diet...THAT HE FOLLOWS WILLINGLY...WTF?

Eventually, we decide to go see a movie. Transformers 4...at the IMAX.  I didn't know what an IMAX was.  A luxury IMAX no less.

After C figures out how to lock the house door, which he apparently has never had to do before, and after I put said key safely on my key rings so we can actually get back into the house later, we all load into the truck and I find that there's not room enough to turn around. So now I have to back down their long drive way. Yikes! It's narrow and winding and really, really steep. I feel foolishly proud that I managed without incident.  A little bump here and there, but the driveway is bumpy...we made it...alive and uninjured...and that's all that really matters, isn't it? And, more importantly, no dings on the truck for The Husband to bitch about. Although if we're counting dings on vehicles, he's put way more in them than I have.

Since C is the oldest, and recently got his learners permit to drive, he's designated as navigator. Fortunately, I had the foresight to ask him to print a Google map with directions to the theater.  As it turns out, he's never really paid attention to directions anywhere in his travels with his parents. Hopefully his attention to direction improves when he starts driving by himself.  Otherwise he's gonna spend a lot of time getting lost.

After an incident free trip, we get to the theater...thanks to Google.  When we go to buy our tickets, only the front row seats were left.  I didn't think much of it at the time. Then on to the snack bar. This is where I really start wondering if these are real kids or some kind of new alien species.  I could tell C & M were worried that I was going to have to spend too much money.  They actually suggested SHARING bags of popcorn.  Can you believe that?  When I said everyone should have their own bag, M said maybe we should get the SMALL bags.  Where did these kids come from?  I want to turn them around and see if they have those things in the back of their necks like the aliens from the old Invaders TV series.  We compromise on medium bags...along with bottled water insisted on by the little rule followers, and diet Coke for me.  As it turns out, M was right. The medium bags were giant and none of us finished our popcorn.  (A note for the frugally inclined...snack bar munchies cost way, way more than the movie tickets.)

On to the darkened theater... where I found out why the front row had the only seats available.  You end up looking straight up at a ginormous curved IMAX screen. You can't even really focus on the whole screen, just the middle section.  The curved sides end up looking totally fucking distorted.  I mean, Mark Wahlberg isn't hard on they eyes, but I didn't really expect to be staring up at his giant nose holes for the entire show.

The seats were comfortable though...cushy recliners with side tables for drinks.  It took a little while to figure out the actual reclining process when T, who was sitting next to me, accidentally pushed a button and his chair moved.  We both looked at each other with that raised eyebrow, big eyed, "O" shaped mouth surprised look.  Kinda like those adult store blow up dolls, only human.  I did find out, albeit over halfway through the movie, that if you go fully reclined, it's easier to look at the screen straight up.  Then you don't get a crick in you neck.  Although if you're old and inclined to doze off, reclining may not be your best option.  Not that I dozed.  I started to a couple of times but all the fucking explosions in the movie kept waking me up.  Note to self...never sit in the front row of an IMAX theater if you're over the age of 16.  Seriously... if you ever find yourself contemplating this...walk away.

After the movie, we stopped at Subway where, by their choice, the boys SHARED SODAS.  OMFG! Then off to Walmart for Hershey's syrup because the ice cream flavors they had at home were Vanilla and Cookie Dough.  I don't like Cookie Dough, and the only way to eat Vanilla is with Hershey's, and being the healthy life style family they are, unlike me, they don't have bottles of Hershey Syrup lining the shelves in their refrigerator.  No, their refrigerator if filled with things like fresh fruit, organic vegetables, you know, weird stuff.  No Cheese Wiz in that Frigidaire, no sir.  I did manage to convince the rule followers that yes, butterscotch syrup, would be okay, and wouldn't put me in the poor house if they wanted to try it. Which they did.  I was secretly overjoyed by this.  They really are little human boys!

When we left Walmart, M, the middle rule follower who happens to be a wee bit of a worry wort, carefully monitored my driving speed from the back seat... pointing out that the speed limit was 50 and I was going too fast.  Silence little rule follower in the back seat (I said to myself)...to him I said..."It doesn't get down to 50 until further up the road."  (Just for the record, I really do try to drive the speed limit when I have kids in the car or when I'm hauling horses...you know...the whole precious cargo shit...I can't believe I even thought that let alone actually wrote it out...gag me with a spoon.)

When we got back home M carefully inspected my key ring to see if their house key was still on it.  I think he was really afraid I was going to steal their house key. Chill out child.  What would I do? Make off with all their organic fruits and veggies when they were gone? Yeah, right.

Out came the ice cream as soon as we got home by their choice, not mine, convincing me a little more that yes, these were really human children.  They all ate the ice cream with butterscotch syrup...and liked it.  I think if I hadn't been there, they might have eaten more.

I make fun of GSD's kids and how they follow rules, and call them aliens, and act like they're not "normal" kids.  But really, they're not.  Most kids these days don't have parents who give a shit and insist that they follow rules.  Insist that they eat stuff that's good for them instead of junk food (like me) all the time.  Insist that they be polite and respectful instead of being obnoxious little shitheads.

It takes a lot of time and effort to raise kids to be productive members of society these days.  My hat's off to GSD & her hubby.  Well, it would be if I were ever to wear hats...which I don't...but if I did I'd take it off to them.  Because even though I might make fun of them, they're doing a bang up job of parenting.  Their kids are definitely not the "norm"...but they should be...it's the stoopidist thing.

P.S.  The vanilla ice cream they had wasn't really ice cream...it was frozen yogurt. I have to admit, it wasn't bad...who knew????  But then if there's Hersheys on top, how could anything be bad?

Aging...Not So Gracefully

Remember when you were little and you mom would tell you to wait thirty minutes after eating before going swimming?  Otherwise you'd get stomach cramps and drown?  Did anybody really wait thirty minutes?  I don't think so.  Unless you had a mom with a stopwatch and some kind of weapon, i.e., belt, yardstick, wooden spoon, hair brush, or the dreaded "wire hanger"...the latter which has since become synonymous with Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest..."NO. WIRE. HANGERRRRRRS!!!." you never really paid attention.  (I'm really glad Joan wasn't my mom.)

I never got a cramp.  In fact, I never knew of anyone who did, did you?  My eyes never stayed permanently crossed either.  AND my face never froze with my tongue stuck out at my bratty little brother.  Saying shit like that made kids not believe other stuff parents said that was true.  Really, how many times have you burnt the roof of your mouth or your tongue because you didn't believe "don't eat that, it's too hot"?  If they hadn't cried wolf with the other shit we might have believed them.

But the cramp thing...I never got a cramp when I was a kid.  I didn't start getting cramps in my feet until I became an adult.  It may have had something to do with walking around in platform sandals or some other such nonsense but whatever the reason, that's where I'm saying they started.

I get different kinds of cramps in my feet.  Sometimes they're in the top part between my second toe and my little toe.  They make my foot sort of flatten out in the toe area and my toes actually spread apart.  Very unnatural looking.

Cramps in the arch of my foot have the opposite effect on my toes.  They all try to move to center stage at the same time, some curling up, some curling down.  Oddly enough, my big toe is never involved in this mad dash to the middle.  Ms. Big Toe remains calm and secure in her place as the largest toe, causing me no pain, while the others vie for position as second toe...with little Miss Second Toe pushing back against the others.  Fortunately for me, the toe battle usually lasts less than a minute before the losers give up and return to their delegated positions.  But once they start fighting, they end up having to try again, and again, and again.  I think the fight is over and can walk like a normal human being again...and then they start fighting.  Fuckers.

The cramps I get in the ball of my foot are like being pierced with a very large needle with little electrical shockey feelings pulsing from the center.  These, while extremely painful and rendering me a unipod, don't force my toes into unnatural positions.  I am, however, rendered immobile for the duration.

I get so mad when I get a cramp in my foot.  Other than swearing profusely, I have no ritual or remedy for dealing with foot cramps.  I guess the swearing is kind of a ritual but it does nothing to remedy the cramp.  I drop F bombs, on myself, which only fuels my rage.

I've tried rubbing them out.  No go.  I found I'm Queen of the Wimps when it comes to inflicting further pain on myself.  It hurts so fucking bad trying to force a cramped foot back into its normal pose.  I've tried putting my foot on top of a tennis ball and rolling over it with my foot when I get arch cramps.  Still no go.  I found out the hard way not to do this when the cramp is in the ball of my foot because it feels like I'm shoving the needle directly into the nerve endingings. Triple F bombs filled the air when I tried this.

Leg cramps, while still painful, are usually a little easier for me to deal with.  At least I can walk around while I wait for them to relax.  Okay, maybe not "walk"...more of a hop/hobble combo.  A hopple.  Sort of like Grand Pappy Amos on the Real McCoys...who always had a hitch in his git along.

So the other night I'm sleeping all nice and cozy when for no fucking reason, the muscle alongside my left shin bone starting cramping.  Really bad.  I flung  myself out of bed and started hoppling around, and get this...I actually heard myself moaning in pain.  WTF???  I was actually hoppling around moaning out loud...to myself.   Do I do this all the time and never noticed before?  Do I do it in front of other people?  How fucking embarrassing is that?  

I know I grunt alot...especially getting out of the car or off the couch.  Unlike old man noises like farts...for which the nearest dog or cat gets blamed, I call them old woman noises because I don't remember making them when I was younger. Although it could be that since my memory is going I just don't remember making them when I was younger.  Now I wonder how many other things I'm blaming on my advanced age that have been a part of me all along but I just don't remember?

What's up with the whole moaning thing anyway.  You read all the time about people moaning in agony.  Why, when we have the ability to form words, do we emit incoherent soundage?  I can see why a baby would do it or a mute, but a person with basic language skills should be able to say "ow", or "ouch", or "fuck that hurts".  Don't you think?  It probably comes from some reptilian part of our brain...the part that gets blamed for all inexplicable behavior.

Rambling on and on, and getting sidetracked is another thing I'm blaming on advanced age...

So in the midst of my hoppling and moaning, I bend over and for some reason notice that the second toe on my right foot has a wrinkle in it.  Really?  Wrinkled toes too?  I thought maybe it was a piece of lint and tried to brush it off, but it stayed.

In order to confirm this latest bodily insult, I needed visual verification.  Since I can't see shit close up without them, I donned the nearest pair of reading glasses. While I'm pleased to announce it wasn't a wrinkle I'm totally mortified to see that it's a long hair growing out of my toe.  WTF?????

I've never had hair growing there before.  How did it get there?  How long has it been there?  I've been wearing sandals since it got hot and never noticed it.  How many other people noticed it but were too polite to tell me?   Is it a little lost soul who's migrated south for the winter?  Like the migratory chin hairs who ventured south and liked it so much they decided to stay?  Is my future destined to be finding migratory pubes where they aren't supposed to be too?

Hoppling to the bathroom to get tweezers I make quick work of the little migratory menace.  The sad truth is in addition to all the other aging insults I'm forced to endure, I've become a fucking hairy footed Hobbit...it's the stoopidist thing.

Pre Game Show...For The Husband!!!!!

Hooray, it's not me this time.  I know it's really wrong, but I can't help chuckling (to myself of course) when I think about what's in store for the man of my dreams. I even feel a little guilty for thinking it's funny since it's something nobody wants to do.  I think I'm just so happy that it's not me.  So it's actually more of a sympathy laugh.   I mean it not like he doesn't know...this isn't his first Game Day prep.

Yes, during The Husband's last yearly physical, his good ol' Doc referred him to the Happy Butt Doctor for a colonoscopy.  Don't you think that might be a good office name for the anally inclined physicians in this field?  It would show a sense of humor about the hole ordeal...notice the little play on words...hole instead of whole?  Get it?  Sometimes I just crack myself up...I'm so mature.

He got the referral papers in the mail a few days ago and sent them in.  I was a little puzzled because they had him scheduled to see a guy with D.O. after his name instead of M.D.  Don't you think that's kinda weird?  I always thought DO stood for an Osteopath and I thought they were just a Chiropractor with an M.D.   Seems kinda odd to me that an Osteopath would be performing butt doctor duties, doesn't it?  I told The Husband to find out about this little oddity when he went in for his office visit.  It probably stands for Doctor's Orderly. Some poor schmo workin' for minimum wage doing the real Dr.'s dirty work.

When The Husband came home from the office "consultation"(which is really just an anal violation pep talk and some way the medical system has come up with to get yet another fee) I forgot to ask about the DO thing.  I didn't get the anal violation pep talk before my Game Day and when I stopped to think about it I have to say I'm not sorry about that.  I'd feel really weird talking to some strange man and listening to him explain how he planned to violate me anally.  Better not to know the stranger behind that mask.

So last night The Husband hands me his "instructions for pending doom".  Starting in the morning, no solid food and only clear liquids.  This is a problem because The Husband likes his lunch.  He's afraid he might waste away going one whole day without lunch.  I'm pretty sure he has enough girthage to last him a day or two but I wisely keep this thought to myself.  Anyway, I asked him about the DO thing.

Me: " So did you find out if the guy's an Osteopath?"

The Husband:  "He's a doctor.  Some kind of Colo-Rectal surgeon."

Me:  (Noticing The Husband is studiously avoiding eye contact...) "You didn't ask, did you?"

The Husband:  "No, I forgot...but I saw some kind of sign on the wall."

Story of my fuckin' life...

This kinda surprises me because most old heterosexual dudes are pretty picky about anyone without proper credentials messin' with their hiney.  They want to know it's really a necessary medical procedure they're signin' up for and not some fun filled extra credit class for med students.

Not so with Crazy D, the hair guy...who may be just a teensie weenie bit homophobic.  He told me when he had his colonoscopy, he was laying on the table, still awake, and one of the male personnel took a pre-moistened towelette and wiped his ass.  Crazy D was totally horrified by this.  He couldn't believe the guy did this while he was still awake.  Honestly, I can't believe that I was actually talking about colonoscopies with my hair guy.  And we were hysterical about it. It's such an old person thing...talking about the latest thing going wrong with your old decrepit bodies.

Back to the Pre Game Day itinerary...at 2:00 pm, he starts drinking his Prompt a Poop juice, which being the dutiful wife I am, I picked up at the pharmacy.

I have a little gripe about that.  When I picked up my Prompt a Poop Juice, it didn't come carefully concealed in a paper bag.  Noooo, they handed me the plastic jug containing what I'm fairly certain is powdered excrement out in the open so everyone who saw me knew I was about to be anally violated and was willingly preparing for said violation.  The Husband's bottle of Prompt a Poop came in a paper bag so nobody knew what I was carrying out of the store.  Is this a new procedure?  Or did somebody fall down on the job and forget to put mine in a plain brown wrapper???

Just to be clear...I'm only guessing that the jug contains powdered excrement simply because when hydrated as per the directions it tastes like shit...or what I'd imagine shit to taste like if I ever had the inclination to eat shit...to the best of my knowledge, I've never actually tasted shit...at least not intentionally.

Even before I knew there'd be a bag covering the jug, I made sure the clerk knew it wasn't for me when I stepped up to the pharmacy counter..."I'm here to pick up a prescription for MY HUSBAND"...she only smiled at me.  I may have shouted the "for my husband" part a little bit.  She probably thought I was lying.

The night before he was supposed to drink his excrement cocktail, The Husband was pretty sure he'd be able to work the whole day.  When he told me this, I looked at him like he'd suddenly grown a second head...

Me:  "Are you fucking kidding me????"

The Husband:  "No, why not?"

Me: "You're gonna go to work and shit your brains out intentionally?  How gross is that?"

I'm still not sure if he was serious or not...he likes to say things he knows I'll get all jacked up about. It works...I can't believe I still fall for it almost every time.

He also thought he was going to be able to go to work after his "procedure".

Me:  "You can't do that.  Read your instructions for pending doom.  They say you have to have a ride when you show up or they won't do it.  So you'd waste a whole day shitting your brains out for nothing.  Then you'd have to do it all over again."

The Husband: " I have a plan.  I'll park my car at Pep Boys and take a taxi to the hospital.  When I get done, I'll take a taxi back to my car and go to work."

Me:  "No."

The Husband:  "Why not?  They won't know."

Me:  "No."

He starts laughing at me being so adamant and keeps egging me on about it.  He loses...this time. Truth be told, I don't think he was serious...just another example of The Husband yanking my chain.

He couldn't finish the whole jug of Prompt a Poop but apparently he got enough down to do the job.

The next morning bright and early we went to the hospital.  I had visions of going in until he was checked in and then leaving to go shopping.  The hospital staff were so efficient though that I didn't even have time to go to WalMart.  They said I could go back with him while they prepped him for his procedure and it seemed kinda wrong to put a trip to WalMart before giving moral support to the man of my dreams preparing for anal violation.  Once they had him prepped and ready to go they wheeled him away and I barely had time to walk to the car to get my Kindle and read a couple chapters of Adam Carolla's new book before they were calling me into the recovery room.

It's a funny book and I thought I'd keep reading while I waited for the man of my dreams to awaken from his drug induced Twilight Sleep.  Alas, my plans were foiled by Chatty Cathy, the nurse assigned to him while he was in recovery...not the doll from the late fifties/early sixties.  Remember her?  And Tiny Tears?  And Betsy Wetsy?  And Patty Play Pal?  My mom always wanted me to play with dolls and I never really liked them...I was such a disappointment.

Chatty Cathy told me about her husband, her late parents, her husband living in Alaska, some of her health issues, some of her husbands health issues, the difference between different type of fiber supplements, and on, and on, and on. Then she hands me a little vial of water.

Me:  "What's this?"

Chatty Cathy:  "They're your husband's polyps."

Me:  "Are you giving them to me?????"

Chatty Cathy:  "Oh no.  They have to go to the lab but I thought you might want to see them."

I'm pretty sure I had a shocked look on my face and couldn't come up with a witty retort.  So I looked at them.  The polyps were barely visible in the water vial.  I don't know what I expected...something really gross I guess...but they were bright orange and as small as a poppy seed.  Who'd a thunk it?

Then she started telling me about The Husband's post anal violation instructions, and what to expect.  It's all written on the papers they give you but maybe she thought I couldn't read or something.  So she read them all aloud to me...like I was five.

All I really wanted was for her to shut the fuck up so I could read my book...but what do I do?  I smiled, and nodded, and acted interested in what she was saying. Adam Carolla was on the chair waiting to make me laugh and I was forced to ignore him and smile, nod, and act interested in someone who was actually boring the hell out of me.  You'd think at my age I'd be able to somehow politely but firmly extract myself from situations like this, wouldn't you?  But noooooooo, I don't want to seem rude or be impolite.

By this time, The Husband was starting to open his eyes and spout gibberish.  So I figure I can focus my attention on him and ignore Chatty Cathy.  I start to talk to him.

Me:  "They found two polyps."

The Husband:  "They did?"

Chatty Cathy AKA Buttinski:  "Oh don't expect him to remember anything you're saying. The drugs they use are amnesiacs.  They make it so they don't remember anything."  

Me:  "Oh."

Me In My Head:  "I know what amnesiac means fuckhead..so just shut the fuck up and go away so I can get back to Adam."

Sometimes I really want the "Me In My Head" to speak for the real "Me"...it's the stoopidist thing.