Man Oh Man

Sometimes living with a man can be difficult - just ask anyone who's been married to one.

Living with TWO men?  Oh boy, that one's in a league of it's own.

For the past month, I've been living with two men: my husband and also his best friend Jake.  I got a text while on a grant trip in New York that Jake needed a place to stay for a while, so could he move in with us?  I really need to stop taking these trips.  Last year when I was in Japan, Rex bought a truck.  I tried to make a "no major decisions while I'm out of town" rule, but so far it isn't going great.

So I got him from the trip, and - voila! - a new roommate.  He's cool and fairly low maintenance, so in all reality I really don't mind him living here.  In case you were wondering, though, HERE are some ways my life has changed now that I live with two guys:

1. The toilet seat is never down, ever.  I have to always remember to look before I sit.  Rex was pretty well potty trained on this one before Jake came, but the convenience of having the seat up all the time must have been too alluring.  All progress has been lost.

2. Table manners?  What table manners?  Dinner at our house is always fun, but let's just say I'm glad my grandma never comes over for dinner.  She could out-manners Emily Post, and these guys couldn't out-manners most first graders.  First of all, we have to cook a LOT of food.  Probably 8-10 servings of whatever we're cooking should be good...for the three of us.  Then, while my napkin is neatly folded in my lap and I'm taking dainty bites, they have their phones out, they have their elbows on the table, they burp (which is apparently funny) and fart (which is apparently hilarious).  I sometimes look around, hoping that one of my girlfriends is going to drop in from the ceiling or ninja jump off of a wall to rescue me from yet another discussion about guns, fishing, or poop.

3. Man Code.  I don't understand man code.  To the best of my knowledge, guys use it to prove macho-ness on completely random and pointless things.  Case in point: I went grocery shopping with Jake, and when we got home I planned to take the groceries inside in two trips.  He said, "Sorry, man code only permits me to take one trip.  Hand me that case of water bottles...and that other case of water bottles..."  I told him we should really take two trips, but I've learned that man code trumps logic.  We ended up with water bottles sprawled around my garage floor and me glaring at Jake, but he kept to the code.  Apparently this is a win?  Men are a strange species.

4. Bewbs (and Other Funnies). I have a very nice display on our fireplace mantel.  I used gold frames to frame four pictures of letters: W-E-B-B.  How sweet, right?  Our last name proudly displayed in our first home.  Well, I came downstairs the other morning, and Jake had turned W-E-B-B into B-E-W-B.  That spells bewb, which isn't even a word, but it sounds like "boob" and therefore hahahahaha that is so, um, funny? *squinty eyed annoyed emoji here*  Rex thought it was belly-laugh worthy.  Our last name is an anagram for a misspelled body part!  BWAHAHAHA.  Man sense of humor is weird.  Fortunately, I teach junior high boys.  I am well-versed in fart jokes and the fact that the word "naked" is comical.  I guess I always thought they grew out of that at some point, but I was clearly mistaken.  Either that, or it takes longer than twenty-seven years.  Time will tell.

5. For the Love of Dogs.  I love dogs.  I love the dogs I have, and I preemptively love the dogs I will one day have (here's looking at you, pug!).  The thing is, though, that there's something about a man and his dog.  Dogs are "man's best friend" for a reason. It's sweet to watch the guys love on their dogs, but when Jake tries to train Moon to bite my leg off and Rex lets Ruby sleep in our bed YET AGAIN, then sometimes I wonder if it's possible for this love to go a little far.  The other day Jake's underwear was all over the house because he was trying to train Moon to pick up underwear.  It apparently didn't go well. I'm drowning in dog fur, and I constantly have to watch my back while cooking because someone is always trying to steal the food (mostly dogs, sometimes men).

As much as I laugh at Rex and Jake (which is a lot), I have to admit that there are perks to having two men around.  I never have to open my own jar lids.  If I want to do a home improvement project (like the stairwell project I've been putting off for a year), I've got two guys to help me out!  Also, I don't have the opportunity to take life too seriously because I'm always laughing.  I'll be stressed for a second, but then the two of them are over in a corner laughing about the fact that the burnt piece of pie filling looks like poop, and isn't that funny?  And then I start laughing too because no, it's not funny, but the fact that two grown men are laughing about it is a little funny.  Then I have to walk over and turn all of the magnets on the refrigerator right side up because Jake has turned them upside down again, and by that time I've forgotten what I'm stressed about.

If I have to live with two men, at least I'm living with two pretty awesome ones.  It's a bit odd as a living arrangement, true, but we're having a lot of fun.

Almost Hipster

I like to write in a hipster-type coffee shop downtown in my city.  It's pretty fabulous: think exposed brick walls, floor tiles older than me, and a teal and neon green ceiling.  The ceiling almost distracts patrons from the metal pipes zigzagging right below it.  The shop has fair trade everything, baristas who wear skeleton shirts and call you "dude" even if you're a girl, and a clientele including mostly millennial generation tattooed people with Coexist stickers on their cars and backpacks.

Today I decided to try to fully assimilate with this crowd.  I can be one of them! I thought optimistically.  This came about because our car broke down (again).  If we were rich, my husband might have bought me a new car so that I could stop driving mine.  It's as old as a high school junior.  We're not rich, however, so he bought me the next best (aka most affordable thing): a bike lock!  I have a bike I bought for $10 at a garage sale  earlier this summer, and that bike paired with my new shiny bike lock gave me UNLIMITED FREEDOM!  Unlimited freedom within about a ten mile radius around my house, that is.  Hey, at least I don't have to stay home all day.

I quickly decided I would bike to my coffee shop.  Showing up on a bike would be so hipster, I decided.  I'm protecting the environment.  People who drive cars are melting the polar ice caps and clearly hate baby polar bears.  I am proving my love for baby polar bears by riding a bike instead of driving today.

Armed with that wonderfully hipster thought, I decided to continue my trend.  What else could I do to fit in?  I tried to find my husband's thick-rimmed square glasses so I could wear them while working.  I think thick-rimmed glasses always make people look suave and intelligent.  20/20 vision is for idiots.  I don't actually need glasses, but I could have worn them for a while to get the right "look."  Alas, I couldn't find them.

Then I decided to put on a temporary tattoo, because everyone here has tattoos.  I know I have some from an old bachelorette party somewhere.  They're mostly cheesy hearts or dice that say "lucky in love" or other weird things like that. I would have to hope people didn't look too closely at my tattoo.  Unfortunately, I couldn't find the tattoos.  My hipster look was not going as planned.

While looking for the tattoos, I found a great scarf that my grandma gave me a while ago.  It's made of 100% all natural materials, and I bet in a pinch I could probably eat it or smoke it.  It would be perfect for a place like this!  The problem with the scarf was that it's the middle of August (aka HOT), and I would be riding across town on my bike.  In retrospect, though, I regret not bringing the scarf.  I could have rocked it.

I finally decided on faded jeans, a neon green shirt, and a ponytail.  I was going to wear no makeup (because natural is beautiful, dude), but then I had to put on a little makeup.  I mean, you never know when you might run into an ex-boyfriend or the mayor or something.  I didn't want to look scary.  Me without any make-up is a little scary.

Now I'm sitting here writing this blog and drinking my iced tea.  I almost ordered my tea "on the rocks" to sound cool, but I wasn't sure if that would make me sound hipster or just vaguely alcoholic.  I decided I'm still a Level 1 hipster.  I might even be below Level 1 if that's an option.  It's a while before I will be advanced enough to try zippy lingo and wear no makeup.

Once I'm finished writing this blog post I'll go back to working on my novel.  When people ask why I go to this shop so much and I say, "to work on my book," they get all judgy.  They give me the sympathetically amused glance that adults give to high schoolers who say that they're "in a band" and they're "going to make it someday."  You know what I think?  I think that for every garage band that didn't make it, they had countless hours of fun banging away on keyboards and feasting on dreams.  What's wrong with that?  It's better than binge-watching Netflix or smoking crack, amirite? (That's "am I right," but a hip and fun way to write it.  You'd understand if you were cool).  Anyway,  I like writing.  Even if my novels never see a bookshelf, I won't stop writing them.  Let me enjoy banging away on my keyboard and feasting on my dreams.  Different type of keyboard, same principle.

Gotta go.  My favorite indie rock song just came on (kidding.  I don't listen to indie rock.  I'm not even exactly sure what it is).

Going Native

“Going native” is a term anthropologists use when, while studying a group or culture, they end up becoming assimilated into the group itself.  They’re no longer outsiders, but truly become “one of them” with the group they’re studying.

I think I might be going native.

I wish I had before and after pictures of my trip to Key Biscayne.  When I arrived at my grandma’s house almost a week ago, I was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, sneakers, and very little make-up.  My hair was in a ponytail.  That night when I got ready for bed, I wore leggings and a tank top.  Pretty standard Michigan attire, right?

Well.  This morning I woke up wearing a long silky nightgown (because why would I wear a T-SHIRT to bed??  How terribly boring).  I went into my bathroom and changed into a flirty, sparkling pink sundress.  It is pale pink and sparkles wherever the light hits it.  It doesn’t have sequins on it or anything (because that would be terribly gauche, which is a new word I learned and now use a lot), but it has almost microscopic glitter pieces that basically make me look like a movie star.  I slipped on my strappy nude high-heeled sandals, and I smiled at the fact that my pearlescent pink toenails matched my dress perfectly.  I used my French-manicured fingers to apply a full face of makeup and sweep my hair into a horizontal French twist.  Nana taught me this hairdo, and it looks awesome.  Finally, I smiled at myself in the mirror, and I decided I was ready for breakfast.

FOR BREAKFAST.

We weren’t even going out.  I was eating breakfast with my grandma in the dining room off of her kitchen, and I was dressed for an A-list cocktail party.  Oh well.  Such is life here.  When I came out to breakfast, Nana smiled her approval and told me I looked great.  Yay!  We ended up spending the day at a botanical garden and then going to a bookstore.  At one point, Nana said, “It’s appalling how people don’t take the time to look nice when they go out anymore.”  I nodded my approval while daintily enjoying an expensive chocolate mousse with Fiji water (I PAID for water, people.  I’ve got it bad).  We also valet parked at a Barnes and Noble.  Why would I want to find a parking space and then walk all the way to a store?  That’s ridiculous!  Oh boy.  I think I'm getting a bit spoiled.

Stop judging me.  It wouldn’t take you long to go native here either.  It’s like you magically get everything you want, sometimes even before you know you want it.  I know that life isn’t always rainbows and butterflies, but today literally was.  I saw hundreds of butterflies at the gardens, and then while swimming in the ocean I saw a vibrant rainbow arch across the sky.  It was amazing.

I’ll be honest; I’m not really ready to go home.  At home, I have to actually cook my own food.  I don’t valet park.  If I wore today’s outfit to Barnes and Noble, people would ask me why I’m so dressed up.  I like living like a princess!  Is that so bad!?

Alas, the carriage always turns back into a pumpkin.  Magic doesn’t last forever.  I should just be thankful that I have an honest-to-goodness prince charming at home, and he’s never turned into a frog.  If I get to keep one piece of magic, I guess I’ll pick that one.  I’ll leave the rainbows and butterflies here for now, but I hope I’m going to come back again soon!

The End of World War II

Last night I sat chatting with my grandma, and I randomly asked what it was like growing up in England during World War II.  I'm not really sure why I asked...I guess because I did a lot of study on World War II last year in Japan and Germany, and I realized that there aren't that many eyewitness accounts left.

Anyway, I thought her answer was super interesting, so I'm blogging it here because I don't want to forget it.  If I ever teach history again, or if some future generation wants to hear this story, I don't have to try to remember back to this week and figure out what exactly she said.  I'm going to do my best to replicate the story, so here goes:

"I was three when the war started and nine when the war ended.  You might think it was an unhappy childhood, but it really wasn't.  You'd be amazed how much abnormal things can become completely normal over time.  Almost every night we would gather up our pillows and blankets, and amid the sounds of sirens we would walk across the yard and go into the bomb shelter behind our house.  I had a Mickey Mouse gas mask that I always brought with me.  Then we would climb into our little bunks in the bomb shelter and sleep there until morning.  Our area got bombed a lot because we lived near a large port, and Hitler didn't want resources to be imported or exported from England for obvious reasons.  We didn't get any food from overseas.  I didn't see a banana or a tangerine until after the war was over.  You could only eat the things you grew yourself...every family had a victory garden.  My dad knew a local doctor, so we got some treats like butter.  We were happy.  We had what we needed, you know?  But I will never forget the night the war ended.  I couldn't believe it: we had the biggest bonfire, and it was OUTSIDE AT NIGHT.  That was so crazy because we were never allowed to have any lights on at night.  Not even a flashlight or a candle.  We didn't want the bomb planes to find us, you know?  So every night was completely black for years and years, and suddenly we had this huge bonfire.  It was the craziest thing.  The entire neighborhood came to the bonfire; everyone was laughing and dancing.  Even the neighbors who didn't like each other or used to gossip about each other didn't care about anything except celebrating.  My parents said my siblings and I could stay up all night long if we wanted.  We said we definitely would!  Of course, we didn't actually do that because we were kids and kids get too tired, but I wanted to for sure.  The next day there was a huge block party because everyone wanted to continue celebrating, so we had a big potluck and spent all day outside with our neighbors again.  Everyone was so happy - you wouldn't believe all the joy and happiness."

I guess war stories are always so sad that it was nice to hear one that was pretty happy.  I wish I could have been there on the night of that bonfire.  I wish they all had smartphones back then and Nana could show me the YouTube videos of that night,  I guess all I can do to get information about her life is to spend a lot more time asking and listening.  I'm lucky that my grandma is so healthy that I still have the chance to do this!  If you have living grandparents, don't miss these opportunities.  Think of all of the stories that could be lost if you don't take the time to ask.

Not Your Average Visit to Grandma's

Visiting grandparents can be a real treat.  I love my grandma.  If you have a grandma, you probably love her too.  Everyone loves grandmas!  It's not until I visit mine, however, that I remember how much my grandma is unlike most grandmas.  She's a little...outside the box.  Like, if "the box" is the size of a hopscotch square, my grandma is on the other side of the entire frickin' playground.

And she's fabulous.

Let me break this down for you in a few different categories:

Category 1: Arriving at Grandma's house

AVERAGE VISIT TO GRANDMA'S:  You drive across town, maybe a couple hours at most.  You show up at your grandma's house, and she answers the door with a "Hello, dearie!"  You see the thready couches in ridiculous patterns that were in style back when Grandma got married.  Perhaps she just made fresh cookies.

MY GRANDMA:  First of all, I fly to the southern tip of Florida.  Then I give the cab driver my grandma's address.  He looks surprised, and in his thick Latin American accent he says, "Your grandma - she live in a very nice place."  Cool.  Go Nana.  He drives me to her complex, and he has to stop at the guard house to see if I'm on the guest list (I am - phew!).  When I finally get to Nana's apartment, she gives me a hug and turns off the TV show she's been watching...in French.  I step into the pages of Vogue (if they made a Vogue for interior decorating, that is).  Everything is so...white.  The couches, the floors, the curtains, the lilies on either side of the couch, the desk, the desk chair I'm sitting in...it's all so clean.  I have no idea how she keeps it that clean.  I compliment her new crystal chandelier (because it's beautiful like whoa), and she says that it's Swarovski.  Of course it is.  She says she would have rather picked something more unique, though, because it's so common to have Swarovski chandeliers nowadays, isn't it?  I guess the fad hasn't hit my neighborhood.

Category 2: Dinner at Grandma's

AVERAGE VISIT TO GRANDMA'S:  You probably sit down to some homemade meal that is her "special recipe."  Perhaps it's been passed down from her grandma.  If she doesn't feel like cooking, maybe you order a pizza.

MY GRANDMA:  I get dressed up to go to dinner at the Yacht Club with some board members from NYC's Museum of Modern Art, and I freak out that I'm not going to remember what fork to use or how to butter my roll correctly or something.  Then I remember that my Grandma has been teaching me these manners since I was five, so I'm probably fine.  At dinner, one of the ladies says, "Did you hear about the first lady of Mexico?"  I think she's going to follow this up with some interesting news tidbit, and I take a sip of water,  Then I almost spit out the water when another lady says, "the president's wife?  I forgot...does she live in our building or the next one over?"  They aren't talking about news...they are talking about their neighbors!  Ahhh!  What is this world??  I feel like Jack when he ate with the first class passengers of the Titanic.

Category 3: Grandma's Clothes

AVERAGE VISIT TO GRANDMA'S: She's probably wearing a cotten crewneck sweatshirt with embroidered kittens on it.  Maybe something that says "Grandkids are gifts from the heart."  Also, she's wearing extreme mom jeans, because - after all - doesn't being a grandma make you an extreme mom?  If she ever gets rid of clothes, you think "You probably should have gotten rid of those decades ago."

MY GRANDMA: Soon after I arrive at my Grandma's house, she says, "I'm getting rid of some clothes...would you like to take a look at them before I do?"  I immediately think "YES!" because when my Nana gets rid of clothes, they are usually designer and fabulous.  I am not let down this time.  We shop in her walk-in closet, and I come out with three new pairs of shoes, shirts, pants, dresses, and jackets...all designer, many with tags still on (which is strange to me, but she says she orders things and then never gets around to taking them back.  Works for me).  I briefly look at a tag and worry about wearing a gold shimmery suit-like jacket that cost a couple hundred dollars - what if I spill on it or something?? How on earth would I wash it? - but then I remember that she was getting rid of it anyway, and I start dreaming of date locations where I can wear this jacket.  Rex, if you're reading this - can we start saving for a night at Zazios?  This jacket would look PHENOM at Zazios.

Category 4: Grandma's gifts

AVERAGE VISIT TO GRANDMA'S: Grandmas love to give gifts!  She probably gives you a plate of cookies, some cash in a birthday card, maybe an awesome trinket she found at a garage sale (that's what my grandkids would get if I was ever a grandma...I love garage sales).

MY GRANDMA:  We go shopping at Macy's to look for a dress I need for an upcoming wedding.  It has to be a floor-length gown, red-carpet style dress (if you knew my friend Carly, the bride, you would understand).  I try on a couple gowns, then get a bit distracted by some work-style dresses...then - oh look! - sundresses are on sale.  Nana offers to go put the dresses on hold with a worker until I can finish shopping and decide which ones I want.  Awersome, thanks Nana.  Then she comes back and says, "Actually, I just bought all of them.  It's easier that way.  They're being shipped to your house in Michigan."  WHAT?!?!?!  I try to insist that I don't need the whole pile of dresses, especially multiple EVENING GOWNS, but she says they are already purchased so I might as well stop whining about it.  Wow...ummm...thanks Nana.  Gulp.  Also, prior to this dress incident, she gifted me with some beautiful silk and lace lingerie.  Definitely not your average grandma gift.  She chose it and said, "I think Rex will probably like this."  I mean, yeah, probably, but for me to get that gift from my grandma???  What grandma thinks of that (and chooses something so beautiful)?  Mine, that's who.

Catergory 5: What have you been up to lately, Grandma?

AVERAGE VISIT TO GRANDMA'S:  Your grandma has probably been very busy lately.  She goes to her knitting club, maybe grabs lunch with some friends, or goes to doctor's appointments (no judgement, grandmas of the world...this is a begrudging hobby of mine as well).  She reads the obituaries every day to see who died recently (oops, wait, that habit was just Rex's grandma - haha!  It always made me laugh).

MY GRANDMA:  She shows me some pictures from her recent trip to England, where she stayed with the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire in their castle.  Nana's sister-in-law was donating a fantastic piece of art, so they were all there for the installation.  At first I think she might be exaggerating a little bit about this trip, but then I see the pictures and realize she's not.  I wonder what it would be like to meet a duchess.  Then I wonder if Nana can also knit.  I feel like all grandmas should knit, royalty or no royalty.  Note to self: ask her about this.

My grandma lives in a different world than me...one that includes guard houses, the first lady of Mexico, designer clothes, and put-it-all-on-my-card shopping sprees.  You know what, though?  At the heart of it all, she really is like other grandmas.  She's so proud of me no matter what I do, and she loves me with the rosy glasses that don't see my failures.  She loves to talk about "the good old days" and how today's youth is all messed up. She's a pleasant person.  There are not too many curmudgeonly grandmas out there, and mine is no exception.  She's so much fun!  I'm really blessed to have her in my life, and I'm so glad that I flew down for a visit.  I hope I'll be back soon.

Now We've Got Bad Blood

The title of this post is an obvious reference to a Talyor Swift song, except I’m pretty sure she was writing about a guy. I’m using the title to write about my brain tumor. Despite that difference, Ms. Swift and I have a lot in common. By “a lot,” I mean we both know what it’s like to get unfortunate phone calls from men. A Jonas brother broke up with her in a twenty-seven second phone call, and I got a call from my endocrinologist last night in which he told me my blood work came back with bad news. Her bad blood was metaphorical, but mine’s literal. Let’s not compare our pain.

He was, after all, a Jonas brother.

The doctor called at almost ten o’clock last night, which should have tipped me off immediately that it was bad news. Doctors never call that late. If they do, it’s never to say something like, “Just thought I’d let you know – you’re totally and mysteriously cured!” or “I found a stray puppy and thought it might cheer you up; I’ll be dropping him off in ten minutes.” Nope. They always do that sigh where they don’t want to say what they’re about to say, but they can’t pass the unpleasant task off to a lesser minion. Then your heart sinks and you wonder, “Oh no, how bad is it this time?”

Is it bad that I am familiar with this process? That I’ve gotten enough of these calls to know exactly how they go? I could probably do them myself. I should tell the doctor, “Next time just e-mail me the numbers and save us both the trouble. I’ll call myself and break the news gently.” I might put my husband’s lab coat and square-rimmed glasses on my dog and pretend he’s the one telling me. Bad news would be less scary if it came from a beagle.

The bad news is that my blood results showed certain hormone levels four times above normal adult levels, which probably means that my tumor is growing. There’s a bit of irony there: I can’t keep plants alive (at all), there’s a good shot I can’t ever get pregnant, but my body apparently does a darn good job at nurturing a tumor. Thanks, body. You’re a gem. I’d rather you had the ability to grow some healthy cilantro, but I don’t get to choose these things.

Anyway, the doctor’s trying to devise our next plan of attack on this little dude. It’s not cancerous, it shouldn’t kill me, but it does a pretty fabulous job of messing up my life. It’s like I’m in a dysfunctional relationship. “It’s not you, tumor, it’s me. Actually, no it’s you. I think it’s time for us to break up.” Then, just when I think my brain is rid of him for good, the tumor comes crawling back and my brain is all, “Come here, ya knucklehead. Let’s give this thing another shot.” Because my brain is frickin crazy, that’s why.

I have to go back on a med I was on a while ago, and I need to double the dose. I told the doctor that last time I was on that pill (taken once a week), I would be sick for the entire day after I took it. It was pretty bad, stuck-on-the-couch-waiting-for-it-to-end sick. I usually took the pill on Friday nights, spent my Saturday on the couch, and then recovered on Sunday to get ready for another week. The doctor says I have to take it anyway because we want to be “aggressive” on getting my numbers back to healthy levels. Now I’m supposed to take that same pill, and I have to take it twice a week. I’m supposed to torch two days a week for at least the next six months?! How am I supposed to do that? I think I’ll torch Mondays. Everyone hates Mondays. Imagine a wonderful pill that lets you skip Mondays! This is going to get complicated with work and everything, but we’ll figure that out later. Right now I’m dreaming of a Monday-less life. Who knows? Maybe this drug won’t make me sick this time. That was years ago. I’m practically a new woman now. Since that time in my life I’ve traveled the world, I’ve voted for a Democrat, I’ve learned how to make the perfect apple pie, I’ve dyed my hair purple, and…I’ve trained my body to better metabolize drugs?! (something like that…)

So. I’ve got bad blood results, but at least we have a plan. I lamented to Rex last night that with all of my health issues, my life expectancy has to be quickly dropping. I sighed and said I’m probably not going to live to see forty. “Don’t worry about it,” he told me. “Neither of us are even going to live to see thirty if Trump becomes president. The rest of the world will nuke us off the map.” And that’s why I love Rex – because he can make me laugh when I would prefer to kick a wall.

Keep your fingers crossed for me. New pills start soon.

Waiting...get me out of here...

I’m sitting in my endocrinologist’s office, and the doctor is running incredibly late.  I've been sitting in here for an hour.

This room is so….white. Why do medical offices have to be aggressively white? I understand that they’re supposed to look sterile, but they end up looking stark and scary. I’m in an albino room. It’s not natural. There’s a slightly peach model of a swollen thyroid on the counter, but I’m trying not to look at it. It’s disgusting.

I’m here to get a checkup on my brain tumor, and you would think that after nine years of various endocrinologists, this process would be old hat. Nope. Always scary. It doesn’t help when the receptionists are extremely mean, the other patients look just as scared as I am, and the only friendly person around is the lady on the waiting room TV smiling while she talks about genital yeast infections.

If I ever ruled the world, I would make the word “genital” an expletive. It’s so clinical and just…ew, but the lady on the TV was awfully cheery about it. Why can’t they show something nice and calming on a waiting room TV? Or stand-up comedy? THAT’S a great idea. Let people laugh so they won’t cry. Instead, we have to watch creepy health shows. Or we can read totally obscure magazines like Osteoporosis and You.

The doctor is still not here, so I will take this opportunity to tell you about the meanie receptionists. The first receptionist totally ignored me when I got here. I stood there in front of her window awkwardly for a minute until she finally snapped, “Can I HELP you?” in a way that meant that was the last thing on earth that she wanted to do. I said I was here to see Dr. H. She rolled her eyes and said, “then you need to check in with the endocrine center.” I think it took all of her willpower not to add “duh” at the end of that. I looked up at the glass window that clearly said “Endocrine Center.” There was another lady sitting to the right of that sign, but there was no partition between the lady I was talking to and the lady I apparently needed to talk to. They could have shaken hands. I’m sure they’ve borrowed pencils from other. Yet CLEARLY I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN to talk to the lady on the right instead of the left. Oops.

I finally talked to the correct lady, and she was wearing a pin that said “Miracles happen!” I’m pretty sure she meant that to be encouraging, but I found it annoying. For those of us on my side of the counter, no miracles have happened. We’re there because we still have our tumors, our diabetes, our whatevers, and the trite encouragement from a piece of plastic felt less than genuine.

I have to go to the bathroom. What if you have to go to the bathroom while in a doctor’s office? I’d better hold it. I don’t want them to think I left. The nurse outside my door is calling patients and saying things such as, “Hi, is this Jane Smith? Hi, I’m calling to give you the new dosage of ______ drug that you’re taking. Take two tablets once a day with meals, okay? Okay.”

I can clearly hear all of this from my room. I could type you a list of a bunch of local residents and the drugs they’re on. Isn’t this some sort of HIPAA issue? It seems like it to me, but hey – I’m no doctor. I’m the invisible patient with a brain tumor. Don’t mind me.

So here I am, an hour and a half after my scheduled appointment time, chilling out in an albino room with a plastic inflamed thyroid. I really have to go to the bathroom. I’ve spent hours more pointless ways than this…probably. I’m struggling to think of one at the moment, but I’m sure it’s happened.

Doctor’s here. Gotta go.