Monday, April 14, 2014

SOME PEOPLE ARE IN PAIN. SOME CAUSE PAIN. AND SOME ARE JUST CARRIERS.


I'll start off by saying I have become a person you do NOT want to be around when I'm hitting my head against the proverbial wall.  I've invented more cuss words than a sailor with erectile dysfunction in a whorehouse.

Last Friday, another part of my liver ripped away from old scar tissue that formed after prior surgery.  IT HURT.

HOW BAD WAS IT?  I called the surgeon's office to get an appointment and found out his office is closed on Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

HOW BAD WAS IT?  I called him at home!  He literally said  "Take ibuprofen and call me on Monday.

HOW BAD WAS IT?  I called my sister to get "permission" to take an oxycodone.  I'm just one of those people who cannot make decisions on her own, and needed advice from over 800 miles away.

HOW BAD WAS IT?  I wrote Jane immediately.  Because she's the next best thing to being there.

Let's just say I will NEVER take oxycodone again.   Within 45 minutes I became quite the cussing, blaspheming terrorist.  Whether from the drug, or the pain, I have no idea, but the oxy was eleven years old (from Indiana) so I figured it would be weak.

But I have learned how the system works down here, and it might be quite common for most folks, but not the ones from Indiana/Kentucky.

NO DOCTORS down here have hospital privileges by choice.  This way, they don't get stuck with Dirty Dingus McGee who ain't gonna pay his bill anyway, and they get to view their practice as a hobby that pays well.

I found out that if I choose the non-indigent hospital - and if their 40 rooms aren't filled, I will be seen by hospitalists.

So it seems that I don't need no friggin badges doctor!

Then, lo and behold, the surgeon called me today and asked if I'd care to see him at 2pm.

Here comes the "you do NOT want to be around when I'm hitting my head against the proverbial wall" action I was referring to at the start of this post.

I said, and I quote:   "WHY?  You already said to take some ibuprofen and call you.  If that's your medical assistance, I can do that on my own.  

So, to answer your question, I see no reason to come in TODAY.  I needed you FRIDAY."

Then I handed the phone to Joe and HE said  "That was a half-assed way to treat my wife who looked to you for help."

Shot in the foot much? 

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

WEARING MY HAPPY PANTS AND GETTING DEPRESSED ANYWAY



IF I wanted to scare you-all, I'd post the photo of me in my happy pants.  My abdomen has a tendency to swell and, swell it did.  Swelled me right out of my regular britches, so I plopped on my "I LOVE DARYL" shirt and some stretchy....(balloon) shorts.

Then I decided to look through some old DVD's (or are they called CDs) I found.

Bad move, Miss Happy Pants.  

Kinda depressing.

DO ANY OF YOU REMEMBER THE BANNER ON MY OLD BLOG?  I know coffeypot will.  Most of you are too new to remember this:


This was the blog that would have been TWENTY YEARS OLD next year!  And this is the blog that got hacked.  And that's my Indiana yard, and my outhouse that I duplicated for the banner.

This was the blog that got honored for being one of the best, official,  HUMOR BLOG on the internet.

How depressing is that?  For me, terribly. 

Then I found - by accident - photos of what I used to do.  Woodworking.  Tables.  Gates.  etc., and my sidebar hobby, 

making decorative boxes.







I think I like the me I used to be, a lot better than the me I ended up being.

That is so profound and, sadly, so true.

Monday, April 7, 2014

SO THAT'S HOW IT'S GONNA BE, HUH.


After months of blood sugar in the 350's, and me sleeping 24/7, I had to see my doctor because Joe believes in miracles.

As usual, I reintroduced myself.  She asked who has been seeing me and ordering my prescriptions.  I always say  "You."  

She always says  "Not ME.

I told the pharmacist.  After laughing, he printed out a year's worth of prescriptions with MY DOCTOR'S signature on them.  He was nice enough to highlight them so I can shove the pages in her face the next time she says "Not ME."

Joe has a lot of faith in the P.A. he sees.  I think I'm beginning to foresee Joe's P.A. in my future.  

The medical "professionals" down here make fun of Physician Assistants and call them "nothing more than a nurse".

I've knows lots of nurses who can outclass ALL the medical "professionals" down here.

I went to google for my healthcare and added Chromium Picolonate and Biotin to my diet and my blood sugar now drops to 150 instead of staying at 350.

Chromium is what it sounds like, when made by a company instead of the body.

It's METAL.  

Who knew that I could have been sucking the chrome off Joe's bumper all these years and feeling a lot better!



Friday, April 4, 2014

BEAU AND THE VET = STANDOFF


Whenever Beau goes to the groomer or the veterinarian, I'm stuck sitting in the front of the car with a wild dog clawing the skin off my legs.  

With a touch of sneakiness and self-preservation, I decided that Beau and I would sit in the backseat while Joe drove us to the vet's today.  

The backseat is where Beau sits when we head to Indiana, so he relaxed.  

All comfy, things were peaceful until we passed Wendy's and Sonic's.  Why?  Because Beau knows his geography.  The vet is one block away from Sonic's and Beau went into tailspins, tossing his cigarette and yowling in my ear.  

When the vet (whom I adore) stepped into the exam room, Beau hightailed it under Joe's chair, followed by the vet.  By the time Beau rounded the corner of my chair, the vet tech was in high pursuit too.

What ended up was vet and tech sitting on the floor, where the exam took place.  

Beau finally sat upright in the vet's lap and allowed a full examination to the accompanying "Awwwwwwww.  He's SO SWEET!" sounds coming from his doctor.

All clean and clear, we made it home where Beau collapsed in the middle of the floor and remained unconscious and snoring for the rest of the night.

His mom and dad, armed with a pitcher of Bloody Marys, did our own brand of decompressing on the lanai.  




Monday, March 31, 2014

Dirty Dancing





At my age, if I did ONE of these moves, I'd break every bone in my body......

But I never get tired of watching Patrick Swayze do his famous hip. grind. move. (1:56)  "Ooooooh, YES!  YES! Spank me!"


*this post has been momentarily paused*

There.  I feel much better, but the neighbors look distraught.


oh.....ahem.......and Jennifer Grey is in there too.   


Sunday, March 30, 2014

WHEN LIKE BEGETS LIKE



That's another way of saying "What goes around comes around."  When a person says that, it's usually in reference to something bad that was done.

It rarely - if ever, is said in conjunction with something good.

Maybe being good, kind, or doing favors for others is something long gone in this world, and the opposite is more available for half-assed condemnations like "YOU'LL GET YOURS!"

Followed by "Oh yeah?"

I love sending my handmade cards, or handmade 'not' cards.  Just things that get created when my brain is in hyper-mode.

I always imagine the person on the receiving end enjoying it more-so because it took hours and is never as cost effective as Hallmark. Whether they do or not, I have no idea.

So imagine my surprise when the mailman delivered unto ME a handmade card from another blogger!

"YOWZA!" went my brain and "PING!" went my heart strings.

I don't know where she got the idea that I'm a worrier, because she included a worry stone since my last one fell through a hole in my pocket.

AND she listed my most endearing qualities.  Or so Joe said....especially the Crankypants part.

Thank you, my lil' furry bottoms gal.  It meant a LOT because I know it took effort and kindness.





Tuesday, March 25, 2014

ALL THIS WORK AND NO PAY = RETIREMENT



I don't know if it's the meds, the combo, or lack of MORE meds that have filled me with so much angst and anxiety that I'm no longer a functioning member of society.

"Were you ever?"

Hey, it ain't funny being pissed off AND paranoid.

"Whaaaaa?"  You ask.

"Nevermind. You may continue."

"But, you're so talented and good lookin'!  You're serving a purpose just by allowing us to read your delightful blog. We don't even mind that you're a little manic."

"Yes."  I agree, as I stare at a spot above your head and mumble "Oh, the horror."  

But there's just something a little off kilter in fantasy land.  High blood sugar knocks me out, then agitation makes me rise and start doing things that someone of my extremely high I.Q. should know better than to undertake."

"Like what?"  You ask.  


You DID ask, right?  If I were you, I'd ask.

"Well, I spent three hours making a card for a woman who likes things that sparkle.  














Then my guilty conscience said to make 
something for another friend who
 doesn't like sparkly things.



Then Joe said something about how he loves my chicken pot pies, and did we have any of that beer bread left."

*chi-chik*  The sound of a sig sauer slide being engaged.

So while he was at the HOA Board Meeting, (cuz he's a board member) I spent the next three hours relaxing by making a chicken pot pie and two damn loaves of regular white bread."



I drank the beer.  I needed it.

I know it doesn't look browned enough, but that's due to the intensity of the flash on my camera.  

And I must say, I have finally perfected my bread.  I decided to return to my old ways of NOT following directions, and allowed my rebellious brain to take me in directions Betty Crocker never intended.

And the texture of a slice is perfect.


DANA'S NON-CONFORMIST BREAD RECIPE

dry stuff

6 1/2 cups of SELF-RISING FLOUR  (a no-no)
1/2 cup of sugar.  I used Splenda. (a no-no)
1 teaspoon of salt
2 packages of active dry yeast
(a big no-no for self rising flour)  so, bite me, Betty.

Throw it all together.  

wet stuff

3 tablespoons of melted REAL butter
2 cups of very warm water (130 degrees)

Get yer electric mixer plugged in.  
(another no-no)  chew off a leg, Betty.

Using a cup at a time, (or 2 cups at a time, cuz I don't give a crap), use your mixer in the wet stuff to combine the dry stuff.

At some point, the motor is going to start heating up and making orgasmic noises. 

This is when I want you to pull the beaters out of the dough and hold them up to stare at them.....as they flip wet dough all over your kitchen.

Hey, it worked for me.

Heat yer oven to 130, then turn it off.  

Grease up a humongous bowl and plop the blob of sticky stuff into the bowl.  Turn it over, so it gets oil all over itself.

Cover it, pat it on its ass, and shove it in the warm oven for 1 hour while you get out a beer.

In an hour, take it out, (the dough, coffeypot. not your stick-o-love).

Shove your fist in the dough and watch it deflate. Pretend it's your significant other's face.

Place the empty beer bottles in your significant other's car.  Next time he drives off, call the police and say he's driving erratically and has a loaded sig sauer.

Grab half the dough and throw it onto something that's got some flour sprinkled on it and KNEAD it for a few minutes.

Do the same with the other half.

Gettin' pissed off yet?  Remember to put the empty bottles in the car.

Now step back and throw the dough into two greased loaf pans and slather butter on the top.

Shove both of them into a pre-heated 425 degree oven.

Oh, did I neglect to tell you that?  Well na na na on you.  

Have another beer.  Bite my ass, Cetty Brocker.

In fact, dink until yer a muckin' fess.

In 30 minutes, your bed will be breaked and you kin shove it in your fignificant other's sace.