It's Not Like You Were Doing Anything With It

So, as I'm getting older, I find myself at the door of the doctor. I even make it into the office, which includes the dreaded scale. I don't want to go to the doctor or get on his evil, vile scale, but I'm pretty much made to go to the doctor where I believe they will pick you up and put you on that soulless fat counting machine if you refuse. Have you seen some of those nurses?! I don't like going to the doctor even though I always feel like my face is melting off and that I'm dying. The doctor proceeds to tell me that my face is not vaporizing and death is not imminent.

Irregardless, of my wanting to go to the doctor, I was made to make an appointment. So, I did. I love the husband and he seems to love me back, so when he tells me to go see the doctor over 100-times, I'm inclined to go.

Eventually.

Even though I am fine. Really. I am. And I will go only to be told that I am still living and breathing in which I will continue do so for many, many years to come. I already knew this. Apparently, my face is not melting off. But since I was there and I had to speak to the doctor, I did. I actually really, really like this doctor. In fact, I'm a huge fan of doctors in general. But most of you know this already. My wedding vows made that crystal clear.

So, because I like to share, here's a wee bit of one conversation I did have with my PCP this past Friday morning:

doctor: are you exercising?
me: yes. I'm actually in the middle of training for a marathon with Team in Training.
doctor: really?
me: yes. I absolutely love it!
doctor: so how is it that you're running all these miles and not losing any weight?
me: . . . . ? ? ? . . . . [blink, blink]

I think my face began to melt off.





That was a fun day.

What Do You Want An Adorable Pancreas?

This was my day today. . . 

I tried to make my cappuccino on three different occasions.  Not once did I complete this task.  

Not to be defeated, I continued to turn on the espresso machine three different times.  And was distracted three different times.  And I have to point out that the espresso machine stays on for 2 hours at a time before turning itself off. That's 6 hours.

Six hours that I could not get my cappuccino made on this day.

Seriously, who cannot find time to make a cup of coffee during normal hours?  

Shopping Is Not Cheaper Than A Psychologist

I talked the husband into running the grocery errand with me after I was done with work.  He picked me up as usual and we headed to Central Market.  I'm making dinner tonight - it's baking while I type.  But this is besides the point. . . . 

I was at the grocery with my husband.  MY husband.  The one and only husband.  When I was approached by crazy men who decided that they shall strike up conversations with me.  

The husband thought it would be hilarious to walk away.  

And while all y'all think that I should have followed, I could not.  I was waiting for my order to be picked and wrapped.  

I was stuck.  

By myself.  

With a crazy man* asking me all sorts of questions, such as, "are you a nurse?" (I was wearing scrubs - I have to for my work) as well as "what are you making tonight?" and the ever obvious, "did you notice how cold it is outside? It's supposed to snow!"  Blah, blah, blah. . . . . (please strike me down with thunder. . .I mean, lightening - now.)

I tried to be polite.  

Do you ever get that really uncomfortable gut feeling?  

M'kay.  Need I say more.  

I found the husband, of course, in the wine section.  He was picking and choosing like he doesn't have a wife-who-monitors-&-reigns-in-the-ever-wine-loving-man-who-I-deem-the-husband. He was practically dancing around the entire section grabbing this and that.  I relayed my crazy man story.  

The husband just laughed.  Laughed!  At moi.  Hmpf.  Men.  

And then. . . . . it happened again with a completely different man**.  In the cheese section. Again, I tried to be polite.  Again, the husband walked away laughing.  

The husband is fired.  

*****************************************

*/**I'd like to point out here that these men were old.  Well, older than me anyway.  They were not some young hot tasty whipper snapper of a Rob Pattinson.  'Cos then I don't think the husband would have been so quick to walk away.  

I'm just sayin'.  

Things Could Be Worse, You Could Be Ugly & Clean Septic Tanks

We seem to be getting a bit of wind and a little rain here in our Longhorn City. Hurricanes have not been a bother to us being so far north inland, but we do get residuals.

Speaking of leftovers. . .

Since the husband had yesterday off, but due to stoopid schedulers scheduling a full night beforehand he had to sleep all day, he took me out to dinner at one of our favorite local jaunts. A happy Texaconsin Diva I was! We actually got to sit down and enjoy our time, ordering sporadically the appetizers, the salads, the main courses and the desserts. Let us not forget the wine either. Of course there was wine, are you crazy? Four-and-a-half hours we got to eat, drink and take in awesome conversation with one another. It was all very European-like and super fantastic.

Tables came and went all around us. We were in our own world and occasionally, as it goes when you sit too close to someone, one might have occasion to "walk the dog" as the husband and I call it. So, here we are enjoying our time, when - for the sake of being polite, let's call them girls - came in for a table of eight. Already completely inappropriately dressed (a bit of Diva advice here: I realize you don't speak Prada and this is okay - it's not a common language, but and even more important is the fact that less is not necessarily more) and obnoxious, they ordered, they ate and they drank. Fine. Such is life at a restaurant.

In doing so; however, they must have a person who takes their orders. Our favorite guy was unfortunately assigned to this gaggle of wretchedness.

Some time later I heard, "So, like, do we get the hurricane refugee discount? Cause, I like, am a ref-you-geee." Which left our waiter man as well as myself completely and utterly flabbergasted. Composing himself, he replied in his perfectly delectable Italian accent, "I don't know. I'd have to check. Are you are a hurricane refugee?" Her friends chimed in with a resounding "yes!" Then she continued, "I can show you my I-Dee. It says I live in Tenness-eee, but I like live in Lou-eee-si-anaaah."

***blink, blink***

The girl did get out of paying her bill when clearly she was not a refugee of this current hurricane. Seriously. I would like to know why you seem to think that if you cannot pay your bill why you would eat out? And then, on top of that, play the whole "a hurricane ruined my life card" when you are not that person? I am overwhelmingly sure Beelzebub has a special place in his broken down palace waiting for you.

The husband and I left a couple hours later and we offered to pay her unpaid bill, but we were given complimentary port instead.