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Written by Melody Jones
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Wednesday, 20 October 2010 07:50 |
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I avoid doctors. I avoid needles. And I try to avoid doing anything that causes me to need either one, like breaking my leg or stepping on rusty nails or developing an IV drug habit.
 Unfortunately, there does come a time where one can be forced into the doctor’s office, at which point they inevitably discover that a) you have been avoiding medical attention for years; b) you have a list of ailments but don’t want to discuss them; and c) you have no idea when your last tetanus shot was. “Sometime in the 90’s” is not a valid answer.
A few weeks ago, I had occasion to visit the doc, but first I had to find one. My insurance had changed since last time I sought medical attention. If I’d had my psychic with me on this journey to find a doc, it may have been easier to pick out one that’s right for me, but I was forced to rely on criteria I just invented.
First criterion: is their office close by? I believe in decreasing stress by traveling the shortest distance possible.
Second criterion: are they female? No offense to male docs, but I don’t want to discuss females issues with you, like the fact that I might cry at a Hallmark commercial or how bad cramps can be because let’s face it – you don’t REALLY know, do you.
Third criterion: are they young? This is a tricky one. If you get an older one, they’ve been around the block, seen it all, and don’t get too excited if you carry a few extra pounds.
On the other hand, they die. Then you have to choose another one using your criteria.
If you go with a younger doctor, they know all the latest and greatest since they are more recently graduated. On the other hand, they tend to get a little excited over things like slightly elevated blood pressure (white coat syndrome, people!) and not excited enough that age has brought an enormous amount of hair growth on my, ahem, chin. Because let’s face it – they don’t REALLY know what’s that like, do they.
Also, I have reached an age where I am now older than the young ones. (what?).
Fourth criterion: there isn’t one. Now I just have to randomly choose from my list.
So I did and I met Dr. Lori. Not only did I get to discuss the weight issues I’ve been battling for as long as she’s been on this planet – yes I have tried it all, doc, except that whole “drink your own urine and lose weight” thing – I got to talk about things that involve needles, like tetanus shots that now come with a chaser of pertussis because whooping cough got tired of being invisible and has returned with a vengeance.
And then the talking stopped and the needling started.
A week later, when I went in for a follow-up visit, I pointed out to the doc that I still had a huge discolored red-hot bump on my arm from that damn shot. She says well, at least you have a good immune system heh heh heh.
I showed it to the phlebotomist. She said OMG it’s hot to the touch and hard as a rock. I can’t believe it a week later. That’s kind of weird heh heh heh. Put a compress on it.
I showed it to the other nurse. She said wow, I can’t believe it. Put a heating pad on it. Oh, and are you allergic to flu shots? Do you mean emotionally, because YES. YES I AM.
Okay, she says, now don’t tense up. We don’t want an enormous discolored flame-hot bump on your arm for five more weeks, do we heh heh heh.
No. We don’t.
Heh.
Heh.
Heh.
More musings by Melody...
How did Rice Krispies get under my kneecaps?
Home improvement vs. a sharp stick in the eye
What not to do at traffic lights
Copyright 2010 Melody Jones - for more copyright information, please see footer
All images public domain. |
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Last Updated on Wednesday, 20 October 2010 08:06 |
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Written by Melody Jones
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Thursday, 08 July 2010 13:55 |
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We all have DAYS. You know the kind I mean. And moments in days, and sometimes entire weeks.
There is one way to make your bad-day, bad-moment feelings known without causing harm to yourself, family members, coworkers, or that kid who plays trumpet loudly and badly every night for an hour.
Grrrr.
See what I mean? The letter G followed by some R’s is a simple and elegant statement, pregnant with meaning yet easily understood.
It’s the perfect response when irritation has you in its grip, and naming names is counterproductive to, say, your income. Think you might scream the next time your coworker uses the last drinkable coffee and doesn’t make more?
Don’t scream. Simply fire up your Facebook page and post a status that goes like this – Grrrr. Feel better?
Your Facebook friends will proceed to “like” your status. They don’t have to know the details. They understand you are having a DAY.
Tired of the neighbor’s faulty car alarm going off with the slightest breeze or when a loud and rumbling moped drives by? Still in disbelief that “you-need-Viagra-right-now” and “send me money, I’m a poor Nigerian” pleas continue to make it past your spam filter?
A Facebook posting of one G and four R’s should suffice.
Has your brother not returned the last three messages you left asking for help moving your new 9 foot couch up two flights of stairs?
One G and five R’s.
Did you get a ticket on your way to 7-11 to get a Coke Slurpee?
That requires one G and six R’s, possibly seven. After all, that was a $150 dollar slurpee. I hope you mixed some cherry into your coke flavor.
Car getting repossessed? Okay, so it doesn’t work in every situation. But it works wonders for everyday stressors, your own or others’ stupidity, and the general ridiculousness of the human condition.
Try it and see.
Grrrr. It’s the perfect stress-reducing Facebook status.
And the musings continue...
You might be a crafter if...
How did Rice Krispies get under my kneecaps?
Slurpee photo by Nehrams2020 via Wikimedia Commons
Copyright 2010 Melody Jones - see footer for more information or if you would like to use this or any material on www.melodyjonesonline.com
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Last Updated on Saturday, 23 October 2010 18:05 |
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Written by Melody Jones
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Thursday, 24 June 2010 08:04 |
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In the adult world, you are expected to act with a certain amount of decorum.
You don’t make fun of people on the playground (think eccentric office mates who’ve just had a tough life and only need our compassion).
You don’t pull little Susie’s hair and then run away all because you like her a lot and can’t admit it (think casual conversation in the lunchroom leading up to a coffee date).
And you don’t have belching contests in the hallway after gulping two cans of Pepsi (think vitamin water and hallway discussions on the merits of healthy beverages).
Next time the office whiner interrupts your day with her 29th account of why she thinks the company is screwing her over because they won’t allow her to burn candles in her office, just say “I know you are, but what am I.” Say it several times in a row. See what happens.
When the office know-it-all starts telling you yet again that you aren’t doing your job right and offers numerous helpful hints on ways to improve, recite the alphabet. Mess up on J and start over. Then try to recite it backwards. See what happens.
If the resident doom-and-gloom office colleague stops by to rattle off the latest reason why their life sucks and your life sucks and the world sucks, show them the huge scab on your shin. Concentrate on it. Pick at it. Become engrossed in it. See what happens.
When the boss calls you in to discuss your progress on the Stevens account, watch for key phrases. He says “What’s the deal” - you say “banana peel”. He says “What’s up” - you say “buttercup”.
Guess what – chicken butt. I’m the boss – apple sauce.
See what happens.
 HEY!! Don't look at my butt...
I have other thoughts. I call them musings.
Dear drivers other than me and my wonderful 91 year old grandmother,
Cheese. If you move mine, I'll hunt you down.
We DID go to all that trouble to steal these two credit cards…what to do, what to do…
Copyright 2010 Melody Jones - see footer for more information or if you want to use any material on www.melodyjonesonline.com
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Last Updated on Sunday, 03 October 2010 16:12 |
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Written by Melody Jones
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Sunday, 16 May 2010 19:25 |
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Apparently, the clean-and-organized-do-it-right-now gene present in most of my family members was not passed on to me either by birth or through osmosis. You can tell by the 2 feet of dust on most surfaces in my house. Other clues include the numerous stacks of reading material scattered about and that jacket still hanging on the back of the chair since January.
One of the cleanest, most organized and uncluttered amongst my family members is my dear 91 year old grandmother. She lives on her own in a cute town home that I daresay has never been cluttered nor suffered dust more than a day since it was built and she moved in.
Letting something go is not her nature. I'm guessing that in 91 years, she has rarely suffered procrastination. I’m not sure she knows what that is.
And then there’s me.
Perhaps I should make a list of what I would rather be doing instead of cleaning:
- Grappling with a hangnail
- Looking for craft websites
- Looking for my husband’s keys the 120th day in a row
- Listening to the neighbor kid’s trumpet lessons
- Going to the dentist (okay…no)
I have discovered, however, that when I am in the throes of writer’s procrastination, cleaning and organizing can and does happen. If it’s bad enough (the throes, that is), my whole craft room/office gets a much-needed once over. Every now and then, other parts of the house benefit too.
I don’t think I can justify that to my grandma. It may be a good thing that she lives a distance from me and cannot simply just pop over to my house. If that were the case, well…she would discover that this apple fell far, far from the tree. This apple was scooped up mid-flight by a tornado and whisked to a place far, far away, where it gets really dusty on a regular basis.
Hey, look. My desk is more organized than it’s been in awhile. Apparently it got cleaned, Melody style.
I’m lucky I got this much written what with all the cleaning I suddenly had to do...
Ewwwww! A house dust mite...uh, maybe I SHOULD dust more often.
Copyright 2010 Melody Jones - see footer for more details....don't steal my stuff!
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Last Updated on Sunday, 03 October 2010 16:11 |
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Written by Melody Jones
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Tuesday, 04 May 2010 18:31 |
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Years ago prior to the advent of cell phones, remote control multi-CD players and magical satellite radio bringing the musical stylings of Paddy from Ireland straight to your car, drivers had to find something else to stay entertained during tedious traffic light stops.
We had to make do with pocketed quarters designated for pay phones that could not be used while driving, cassette tapes and the players that ate them on a regular basis, and local radio featuring the musical stylings of Jimmy Bob from down the way.
Other traffic light distractions included attempting to reach the passenger side door located 6 feet away to manually roll down the window before the light turned green, winding cassette tape back into the cassette casing, and the time-honored tradition of surreptitiously picking one’s nose.
This brings me to my own long-held traffic light tradition of examining my face in minute detail in the visor mirror, thereby smartly utilizing traffic light time as well as all that natural light. I developed my face-gazing technique back in my cassette-and-manual-window days because I was deprived of my cell phone even though I didn’t know it yet.
This is how I discovered that under-eye wrinkles grow at an incremental rate once noticed and that my eyes really are a gorgeous fabulous heart-melting blue (eat your heart out). I became intimately acquainted with the fact that the forehead furrow so lovingly established during my eyebrow-raising childhood deepened at a terribly young age, to such a degree that I could plant corn in there if I wanted.
And then I noticed facial hair one day. Oh, it WILL happen to you too, ladies.
Which brings me to my whole point: perhaps next time I feel the urge to examine my new crop of terribly attractive facial hair in minute detail while waiting at a traffic light, I should first examine the world directly outside of my vehicle.
Several things must quickly be ascertained: 1A) are there lanes next to me or 1B) am I on a one lane road; 2) is the light outside mid-day-sun bright; 3) and are there any cars full of jackass teenage boys idling right next to the driver’s side door.
If any combination of 1A, 1B and number 2 are present, all is well.
If 1A and numbers 2 and 3 are present, do NOT - repeat do NOT - commence to examine your facial hair in minute detail while gazing, transfixed, into the visor mirror.
Trust me. No? Reread #3. Now reread #2. Review #3. Use your imagination.
If I end up going some place other than heaven, I assume my particular hell will be permanent imprisonment in a brightly lit car while idling at a stop light next to two other car lanes, facial hair appearing whenever and wherever it wants to, all the while being pointed at and laughed at to such a degree that spittle flies toward my window by a never ending stream of cars full of jackass teenage boys.
Don't you wish you were me?
Remember these? Admit it. (Photo Wikimedia Commons)
Copyright 2010 Melody Jones - see footer for more details (don't steal my stuff!)
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Last Updated on Monday, 04 October 2010 13:35 |
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More funny stuff. No, really.
