Fifty-six

I went in for a routine physical this week..........how many horror stories start this way?  I went in for a routine physical and two days later I get a call from the doctor’s office that my cat scan is scheduled for 11:00 the next morning. 

My cat scan?  My cat scan for what? Apparently, my liver enzymes are too high and they need a closer look.  I have to drink something vile called Gastroview (my hand to God. What didn't make the cut? Pooperpeeper?) and not eat for the rest of the day. After hanging up, I open the mail and sure enough, there are the results in black and white, EXCEPT FOR THE GIANT YELLOW FLAGS PEPPERED ALL OVER THE PLACE.  In addition to my liver problems, it appears I have high cholesterol.  Me. Miss ‘nag my husband into an early grave’ because his family history is such that he's due to have his first heart attack in the next twenty minutes.  I have high cholesterol.  I don't drink, smoke, eat eggs, bacon, or any fried or fast food ever.  And yes, I am a rabid believer that baked goods made with anything other than real butter are an offense to God, but I tell you this, I'd rather die than not eat cookies.

Oh by the way.....did I mention that my liver is coasting on fumes?  What the hell is going on!  What do you mean my enzymes are too high?  I called my doctor to make him explain, and of course he's in the Bahamas. There's something scrawled at the bottom of my physical that looks like the words 'hepatitis profile'. WHAT!!? I've never even met Tommy Lee. If I'd known I was going to die this way I would've had a lot more fun.  All my clean living has gotten me are arteries full of bathtub grout and a liver the size of first base. 

But then I talked to my doctor's associate, who was eating his lunch into the phone, and he said it 'didn't sound right, I wouldn't be alarmed. Come back in and we'll re-draw your blood.'  Hooray! Let's make cookies and celebrate.

Mike and I saw Adaptation last night. Here's my review. Ha ha, I get it, you're really clever, and I’m really bored.

Fifty-seven

Got up at the crack this morning and ran a race.  Ran the first mile in 7:15. I realize you could probably do that on crutches, but I haven't run that fast since before Meg was born.  When I heard the split, I thought, "whoa, nelly, where's the fire?" and slowed down to ensure I'd complete the course.  So I was feeling all fat and sassy, what with my good time and everything, and took the kids to the park afterward.

We're having fun and minding our own business when some little punk picks a fight with Finbar.  Tells him he's gonna kick him in the nuts. (which made Finny laugh, a la Homer Simpson: He said 'nuts'.) I was standing right there! I said, "That's enough, now beat it." The kid won't stop, and now Finny wants to brawl. 

I bellowed, "THAT'S ENOUGH."  Back in my day, if a mom so much as looked at a kid, the kid would run scared.  Unless it was Larry Sauer, but he was the devil.  Anyway, the kid finally starts to walk away, but not without yelling "LOSER!" at Finbar and flipping me the bird. He was four or five.  I stood there in shock for a few minutes, then I marched across the park to where this hooligan had joined his mother, who had her fat, toothless ass parked in a lawn chair while she watched softball and smoked. 

Well, I started out marching, thinking to myself, "Don't mess with me, you little brat!  I RAN A 7:15 MILE THIS MORNING."  As I got closer, I could see that he wasn't just there with his mother, but a whole group of hell's angels types having some sort of day out at the ball field.  There was a sea of motorcycles in the parking lot, which I had not noticed before. The march turned into more of a tentative slink.  I could feel my innards rumbling. But I had to keep going, I mean Finbar was watching me. 

"Oh, hi, uh.....(she looks up at me, sort of annoyed, picks tobacco off her tongue)....nice day for softball......mmm......wow, that's a big tattoo....cool......hey, you know, if it was my kid I'd want to know, I mean after all, kids will be kids, right?"  (This gorilla is now looking at me like she'd love to break me in half. ) "But, uh, your son? Called my son a loser and gave me the finger.  Have a nice day!"   I then turned tail and race walked back to my kids. I can hear voices grumbling, "What was that all about?" and the kid going, "He started it!" (Liar.) I'm sure the only reason she didn't kill me on the spot was that she'd just popped open a cold one.  Thank you God, for inventing Budweiser. It gave us just enough time to scramble into our car and get out of there.  I hate the park.

Last night I watched It Happened One Night, which I'm embarrassed to say I'd never seen.  LOVED it.  In fact, I taped it and I'm gonna watch it again tonight. 

What a frustrating waste of a day.  My car broke down, so I had to cancel plans of bringing poor, morning-sickness plagued Liz some fried chicken, which made me feel like a rotter because I know how monumentally important fried chicken and a shoulder to cry on are when you feel like the grim reaper just took a dump on your upper lip.

So I brought my car in, and since they told me it would be several days, I went next door to Enterprise.   Why is everyone at car rental places the same? The girls are always overly made up, overly manicured to the point that you can't believe they can even type with their long sleazy fingernails, and are always named Shayna. Even if they're not, they change it to Shayna when they get the job.  The guy, whose name tag said 'branch manager' and oh, how he lorded that over Shayna, was typically overconfident and kept saying "I've got an Explorer" or "I've got a beautiful LeSabre", like the cars were actually his, and he had a headset on even though no one else who worked there did, so you know it was his idea, some sort of 'dress for the job you want ' kind of trick, and stood with his legs super far apart.  He didn't type so much as attack the keyboard, and don't think he didn't know it. 

While I was standing there waiting for him to help me, he answered two calls: "Thank you for calling Enterprise, home of the weekend special, this is Dan, may I ask how you heard about Enterprise?" (How did I hear about Enterprise??  Um..........I reside on planet Earth.) "Can you hold please?  Thank you for calling Enterprise, home of the week-oh hi Chris.  Yeah…I'll call you later."  That made me laugh, and Shayna saw me and she sort of laughed, but then looked at Dan all nervously and stopped.  I'm just sayin', I almost started a revolution.

I get the car seats situated, go home, clean up and do my normal daily chores, and four hours later, the mechanic calls and says, your car's done.  But there's a part they ordered that won't be in for ten days.  What! I spent sixty bucks on a rental to drive home?!  So I drive all the way back to Enterprise, and I realize my purse feels really light.  Look inside, one diaper and a piece of gum. No kind of money or method of payment at all.  Visions of curly haired blond demon pixies going through my purse this morning fill my head.  I muttered "Molly!" much like Jerry used to say "Newman!"

Drive all the way back home, find  my wallet in a clothes basket under a giant stuffed Clifford dog, get back in the car and drive like a bat out of hell since it's now five forty-five pm. I return the car, go across the street to the mechanic, and the guy says, "The part I ordered is on the invoice, it'll be in tomorrow." Tomorrow? I RETURNED THE DAMN RENTAL CAR!! WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME THIS ON THE PHONE?

I was so road-ragey driving home, I almost plowed into someone's yard because they had too many signs in it.  Minnesota:  Land of the yard sign!  'Happy to Pay for a Better Minnesota!'  'Support Our Troops! Bring them Home!' ' No Parking, No Business, No Neighborhood!' 'Say Yes to Peace!'  ' Liberate Iraq!'  SHUT UP.  How about 'Take your stupid yard sign and plow it right up your pooper!' 

I have to go to bed.

Fifty-nine

Molly had her second birthday this week.  I can't believe it's been two years.  Two years ago, Fairview Southdale Hospital, in the midst of a nurse's strike. The doctor asked Mike if he wanted to watch, and he didn't even look up from his cell phone to say, "No thanks, I've seen this twice." His attitude was not shared by the fellow washing the windows.  The fake imported nurse kept calling me Justine. 

So, Molly came into the world with no one really paying attention, (except the window washer) and she's been making up for lost time ever since.  When Meg was two, she was knee deep in a Madeline obsession. She had every  book, videotape, (videotapes…so mid nineties!) doll, lunchbox, game, hair accessory, sticker and any other reason there was to part with a buck in the name of Madeline.  Molly's just not into that stuff.  The only thing she really wants is to get the best of her big brother. It's like living with Inspector Clouseau and Kato.  They're upstairs right now wrestling.  I went to Toys-R-Us and wandered through the jam-packed aisles completely stumped. "Can I help you find something?" the fictional salesperson asked.  I say that because obviously no one offered me help, as that would mean anyone was helpful anywhere ever. But if that had happened, I would've said, "Do you have any dart boards with a picture of my five year old son on them?" And that would've been perfect for her.  But they were fresh out of those, so I got her a doll bed for the baby she's pulled all of the limbs off of (and clubbed her brother with) and a tea set, figuring she could at least throw the pieces at him. 

She actually likes the bed, but for her, not her doll. She squishes herself into it and pretends to sleep. When we held her baby out to her and said, "Molly, put the baby in the bed!" She smacked the thing down and yelled, "No!  Molly's bed!" Meg took the tea set. I found her sound asleep with it all set up in her bed.  I almost cried with happiness that she's not too old to want to play with one.  Gramma gave Molly a giant Hershey bar, which she went after like a rabid dog. Didn't even offer to share.  I just found her with my visa card, shrieking "Molly's money!" Jokes on her, that thing's completely maxed out.

It's freezing and pouring buckets. Summer in Minnesota. Just like winter, only with bugs.  It's also the last day of school.  Meg starts sailing camp next week and Finbar starts t-ball.  This letter is dull.

Sixty

Ahhh, summer.  I count today as the first official day because after two solid weeks of freezing and wet, it was 85 degrees and sunny. I took the kids swimming at the local pool….so fun to see all the fat, pasty bodies finally come out of hiding. I felt such a deep solidarity with all the other moms who've spent the first week of summer chain-eating brownies because they've been locked indoors with their children.  My butt looks like a bag of soup.

Two kinds of moms at the pool: The brownie eaters and the over-aerobicsized ones who stand around looking miserable because they're counting the minutes until their next workout and can't believe they're being forced to play with their brats.......... of course, I'm being mean about them because they are horrible people, not because I'm jealous.

I just had to rush upstairs because that top twelve greatest country songs concert is on and I knew Amarillo by Morning was number twelve so would be on first AND AS WE ALL  KNOW, I LOVE THAT SONG so I rush up and it's not? George? Strait? Singing? WHA HAPPENED! Kenny flipping Chesney???????? UUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. (That's air rushing out of a balloon.) I don't understand. I don't get it. Why, WHY? At least now I can stop wondering why Whitney Houston thinks Isreal is home. Plus, while he-whose-name-shall-not-be-spoken sang, pictures of George flashed in the back-round as though in a tribute to a dead person. Well if that's the way it's gonna be, I'm goin' back downstairs. 

© Katie McCollow, 2004 • katie.mccollow@mac.com